Poetry — As twigs break beneath my feet, no longer will I waste another moment of dawn or dusk, the green of sage and golden willow stretch the wayward slope and line the distracted mind with wildflowers and husks of sweetbriar vellum, my thoughts unchaperoned dancing with nature’s wild abandon, like tawny flattened leaves…

Poetry — Alone, in the amethyst of the night, you may find me in intimate conversation with myself. In my own head space. Call it my gut. My soul. Oftentimes, with pillow beneath my head, it is time for me to reflect, to listen to flooding, streaming thoughts. Thoughts that fuel the…

Poetry — Almost accidentally, he incidentally drowns our lunch in crushed red pepper flakes just to spice up my bland straw tongue until I blanche. The fire is hot. He knows toxic words and how to cheat at cards. I echo sheepishly, like the day follows the night. He never lets me win. Who decides who we fall in love with? If we lined up all the bad boys would my soul feel more alive, or am I craving something bland, knowing he will not stay for long. His wild soul needs to be set free. He sets his sights on the north star as I kiss the silver moon good night.

Prompt Response to Scrittura’s Wry Welwood - how I deal with writer’s block — “To be or not to be, that is the question.” — William Shakespeare “Toupee or not toupee. Better to pay, lest you end up in the slammer.” — Homer Simpson I suffer from writer’s block. That much is true. It’s not that uncommon for a writer. Yet, I would say…

A Poem — Free falling. The day is damp. My shredded thoughts not lost in the crimson of the sunset, nor the amber of fallen leaves from tawny molted trees that seemingly stretch like snakes to the hypotenuse of the sky. My brain — a runaway train, a tarnished refrain, a gust of wind on a gentle autumn day — knows grey lies in wait, like the truth, like distilled ashen embers of a fire that just won’t die, forever burning in the soul, today I bask in the poetry of grey.

Sunday’s Blog — It’s a grey Sunday in September. The guys are watching jets vs patriots and somehow, I got a sweet spot on the brown plush recliner, but I’m really on the sidelines because I’m in and out of the kitchen, making sauce. Yesterday was the first chilly day that inspired me…

Things I tried after I dropped out of culinary school — ApparentIy, I need to state the obvious that laughter, even jokes are good for the soul. Those of you who’ve been on Medium for a while might remember that my sister-in-law told me to get a life and my workaholic fiancé told me to get a hobby. I suppose I…

Poetry — I was a child created and conceived — with nothing but a loving cradle and the sun, the moon and the stars — my mother carving sweet syllables and lullabies into my earbud, planting seeds into the crevices of my infantile brain. …

Poetry — I remember standing on the edge of the universe waiting for the morning train exhausted from the climb — soaked from the rain deafened by the noise — scuffed from the wear and tear of time and from being alone in a stifling crowd. I remember thinking you were not…