• Timeworn footprints in the sand

    My ancient limbs are wearyTimewornFrom trying to walk on waterBut I am able enoughTo leave a footprint in the sandBefore the tide returns again I am not deaf or blindMy eyes can hear the soundOf a merciless warShredding families apartThe nation’s folks areCrying rivers of tearsWhich are spirituallyFlooding their sacred towns
  • woman walking through forest alone

    Do you know how to survive life as a woman? This poem can help.
  • black and gray striped cat walking on pages of a book

    “Tell me about your book.” These are the words that many authors dread. I know this because I’ve written over a dozen book blurbs for fiction titles, many of which have become award-winning and Amazon bestselling books. As an author myself, I know that back blurbs always seem to stump us writers. It’s not because ...
  • Halloween Picture

    The house vibrates with laughter, rocking the walls. Mom looks like she is about to lose it, so I place my hand over hers to calm her. I’ve been researching on Google, trying to learn what we’re facing. The last thing we need is for her to add to its power again. What I gleaned ...
  • Schism in the family of elephants

    Three generations lived together under one roof as one. Then the youngest challenged the ways of the oldest. They reached no reconciliation. So, they separated – with torn hearts. A death brought them together again. At the funeral, the mind of the oldest and youngest recognized how it was, too late to live as ‘One’. ...
  • woman hiding in tree

    A silent meditative retreat was mandatory. And for this woman, it was welcomed. The year had been stressful; holding down the fort for a sick colleague, international travel to distant and primitive countries, financial challenges, milestone birthdays—and a teenage daughter. Five days of quiet reflection and meditation, with almost no external communication, was a breath ...
  • Trees

    As rain drip drops in the woods, it fills my vessel. Nourishing leaves and roots, the pitter patter talks to me. And arouses sweet memories of MartaDi- my American born sister from another mother. She and I, swung this swing together. We crackled, rejoiced, and felt free to share our fondest little truths. She described ...
  • a young woman working on her laptop

    I have written nothing for any of my stories in a while. Writing took a slight backseat while I started learning about my mental health. My characters have still been wreaking havoc in my brain, but the doubts prevented me from writing my ideas on paper. Next, came the inevitable thoughts about not being a ...
  • Mirror

    At the local veil sales You will hear me ask “Are you wearing a mask” You, lurking in the back pews Beyond your mirror’s view Waiting to be rescued  When you return home If you roll away your mirror of stone You will no longer be alone 
  • Digital art of a dead blackbird

    Confused, Roslynd looked at Mr. Haggleman and pointed towards the field where the scarecrow once waved at her. “It was there! I swear, Mr. Haggleman!” “Oh, I guess your mind is playin’ tricks on ya, that’s all.” The old truck bounced down the road as it passed the last restored fields and turned right at ...