Photo by Jessica F on Unsplash

Why does time just drift away?
Carpe diem,
seize the sunset,
hug the moonlight and the moment,
be the sun,
the chimes of wind,
the impending dawn.

Hope and unexpired dreams will follow,
like fresh tracks on old trails, they will find a new path,
and the dandelions will feel the welcome of your warm embrace.

© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry Sunday

photo credit by Erick Zajac on Unsplash

It seems like a lifetime ago,
I felt like a girl lost on a bridge,
enthralled and empowered
by what I thought was on the other side.

It just might take two lifetimes
to understand the connections
and paths that bring us closer to a destination.

To see past Oz and the trolls
that hem and haw and judge the world,
the vulnerable and the weak,
and the ones with no resounding voice left to speak.

Maybe time is the bridge
between stolen dreams and hijacked hearts,
leaving us smart or dumb enough to know
which ones to cross
and which to burn.

© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Short Story


photo credit by Jackson David on Unsplash.com

Adam saw the sun peeking out, as he bent down to tie his loosened shoe lace.

He stood in front of the faded yellow house with brown shutters — Amanda’s family residence. Adam hadn’t seen that house or Amanda for over seven months now. He wondered if he should sidle up to the alleyway and toss pebbles lightly against her bedroom window, like he had seen in at least a dozen romantic comedies. He remembered how she would laugh every time they watched those movies together.

Sometimes his thoughts were so cliché. …


An Essay

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

I would shovel the oatmeal robotically into my mouth, while reading from a book sprawled on the kitchen table. My insouciant family was quite accustomed to seeing me in this position — an almost meditative state, especially since enrolling in courses with a professor well-known for his random spot quizzes and essays to test if we had read the previous night’s assignments.

I was careful not to get milky stains or traces of yellow highlighter on mama’s Victorian lace tablecloth, but I was unmercifully brutal on my dog-eared, folded pages of The Great Gatsby or The Scarlett Pimpernel. I used…


Photo by South of France Photos on Unsplash

Creativity impatiently waits
to be imprinted and inscribed
on blank screens
and burlap canvas, woven like cashmere,
on flaxen lips spewing words
inspired and unspoken.

A new day breaks,
the soul sets sail and reflects the mirrored light
that harbors endless, sleepless, tortured nights,
until the stars unravel their peaceful, tranquil aura,
and creativity dreams, all the while it impatiently waits.

© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.


Impressionistic painting: July Night 1898 by Childe Hassam on WikiArt.public domain

How I miss the magic of the night.
Its lure comes back to haunt me,
like sharp paper cuts that slash the soul
and gnaw at sleepless shadows.

There is no fiction stronger than the truth,
no paradox more resilient than the crumbling infrastructure
of the pristine heart now filled with the darkness
of venomous snakes and devious sewer rats,
the scabs of anachronistic bitterness.

Once burned, a broken bridge becomes impossible to cross,
doused and destroyed by incendiary devices
inflamed and ignited by the arsonists’ tools.

Once trust dissipates into ashes
that flow through ruptured veins
and all perspective becomes distorted,
there remain the scars,
the paper cuts that slash the soul,
and the poetry that gnaws at the shadows
of endless, sleepless, tortured nights.

© Connie Acoustic 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry Sunday

Photo by Alejandra Quiroz on Unsplash

Rules bent to nearly broken,
we were fearless of the dark,
who can explain how two strangers
became more than just friends?

Is it a magnetic attraction,
a torn chemical imbalance,
destiny, fate,
that curates two souls
to ignite a flame?

I clearly remember the night we met,
let’s tell the moon lies
about our love
and not blame it
on sparkling champagne,
and the gravitational pull of our hearts.

© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.


Photo by Mimipic Photography on Unsplash

My world once danced with plans, projects, picnics and jasmine;
today I swallow memories.

Another casualty of pandemic fatigue;
I am chaos, I am a pent-up storm,
a cloud in a dirty, expired, ebony sky
with arms pinned back,
staring at the space between the stars.

When I think of time invested,
there are no easy answers,
only more questions fill my head.
I’m at a standstill, a frozen landfill.
You tell me better days lie ahead:
I want to believe you.

I want to unplug everything,
the sky, the world, me and you,
and see what happens with a mind recharged.

© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.


Photo by Kelli McClintock on Unsplash

Stitched in time
is every love letter I never sent,
scars that never fully healed,
the times I told myself that I was just
a speck of dust
in an overshadowed universe,

only to discover that a single pinch of pepper,
each speckled blade of grass,
every star in a wrinkled sky
had unraveled to bring me closer
to this moment of enlightenment,
to this particular stitch in time.

© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.


Artwork credit, Spring in the Country, 1941 by Grant Wood on WikiArt.Public Domain

Calloused hands
like sandpaper
on soft skin,
sunshine spilling
after buckets of pouring rain.

Wishes whispered,
the silence stutters
to hide tomorrow’s tumbled weeds
clenched within a cloud
of jasmine and baby’s breath.

Near shaded shadows
of hawthorn and dogwood,
let’s bury seeds
and tend a garden
nurtured with water, sunshine, and fertile soil.

Weeded dreams, patched and plowed,
landscaped, lichened, and legumed,
cultivated, rooted, conquered
with precision loppers pruned.

I find there is an acquired peace that comes with tilling the soil,
fingers dirty and earth renewing,
perhaps a zen garden of nature’s symmetry
and brutality simply mirrors the landscape of my internal poetry.

© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved

Connie Song

Writing to better understand the chaos and beauty of life. Aesop enthusiast. Marie Kondo devotee.

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