Category: creative writing
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Wednesday night is writing circle night for me. I write with some amazing, inspiring women, and look forward to it all week. In tonight’s fastwrite, we were invited to take a line from the poem, “Hunger” by Gunilla Norris, and write for 12 minutes to see where the line might lead us. The title is…
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To the pond Yes, I’m boiling over I’m stirring the pot, I walk, listening for the howler monkeys their silence echoes across the silver sky A red-tailed hawk and a flock of sparrows whisper in my muffled ears: to the pond, to the pond, to the pond words skipping like stones across water like a…
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Alive like a stream When I was Lainey I played with iron shavings— scattered them all across the Formica countertop Mama handed me the big magnet, lucky horseshoe-shaped. I gasped as the slivers danced, alive like a stream, drawn to me I felt magical God-like, even. Delighted, oh so powerful, but then: I developed a…
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Influence Early stargazers coined the word influence to describe how ethereal fluid ‘into us flowed’ changing destiny: starlight, steering us think of starlight flowing, think of it with me: a glimmering river of it flowing, washing into black velvet voids filling the endless emptiness changing darkness to insight— pixie dust of healing invisible oftentimes but—…
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I lie on my belly on the asphalt sidewalk. It feels cold, even through my down jacket, but the pond has frozen overnight into such beautiful swirls and filigrees of ice, and the morning sun is skimming the frosty patterns in…
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Singing to the sky On Christmas, I give Annalee flowers, and she tells me how her friend’s husband shot himself, how she found his body— she tells me how it looked, but I won’t say At the nursing home, Jo Marie tells me her son doesn’t visit anymore her eyes shine like marbles when she…
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Shavasana at noon Feel the golden light, he said and I felt it, spilling over me golden as sunlight through the honeybear on the kitchen windowsill on a bright October morning You are held, he said. Let yourself go. I let go— sink into the waiting arms of my mother, who sinks into warm earth…
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Howler monkeys howl sing lonesome songs in the rain— carry me away
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High tide in yoga class Now it’s time to let go of anything that does not serve you, she says I sink into the stretch Breathe in peace Breathe out pain Harp music: a lullaby melody Hush a bye, don’t you cry… I hear my long-ago self crooning, round baby latched to my breast Blacks and bays, dapples…
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It is the last day of Autumn, a cold, thick-oatmeal gray day, and finally: I put on my rubber boots, and I’m raking leaves. It’s the first time since mid-October that the sleeping leaves have been disturbed, and I quickly realize it’s a bigger job than I thought it would be. I live on a…
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