Tag: #iphone photos
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My phone case is shiny plastic, scarred now from use. It is the color of a cartoon character’s eyes, the mischievous female sidekick with a heart of gold’s eyes, eyes that sparkle and pop out from the screen a bright teal-y blue not found in nature. The edges surrounding the black glass face of the…
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It’s high time. I have to have a talk with my Self. I jump right in. It’s going to be awkward, what I have to say. And Self can be very—fragile and defensive. No sense in beating around the bush. “Self,” I begin (because it’s always good to call people by name, to personalize it,…
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conversation I wondered what they find to talk about now after all those summers, baking hot all those winters, pelted with sleet still standing, side by side, steadfast together do they ever wish they could escape, be alone? or do they both secretly dream of deeper connection, a current shared energy transcending their important jobs,…
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A very dear friend asked how I liked my new place. “It’s like I’m on vacation,” I wrote back. “But underneath it all seems wrong. I’m a little afraid. It’s like the vacation will end soon, and I have no home to return to.” “Give it time,” he messaged back. “I’ve come to believe home…
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casting stones For Maribel Trujillo-Diaz, deported last week to Mexico In the dark before dawn the birds sang as Maribel was snatched off the streets by ICE agents— her four American-born children, ages 3, 10, 12, and 14, never got to say goodbye to their mother In Fairfield she worked processing chicken parts primary breadwinner…
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Warm up! Write eleven three-line poems about things you see right where you are, right now. Eleven Miniature Poems, March 25, 2017 1 |Roots The cutting in the windowsill vase is shooting out roots but it cannot grow there forever 2 | Fur Cordelia is striped, like a tyger burning bright descendant of some fierce…
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What I did not know, in my greenness, was that you cannot shed your wildness like a snake sheds her skin. The wildness is inside, part of you.
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It′s a day to remember America was not great back when you were a white child in the white suburbs outside Toledo, in a brand-new tract home in a place called Sylvania.
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I’m going to say it straight out. Somebody’s going to die tomorrow. Actually, I’m sure, lots of somebodies will die, but there’s one in particular that I’m thinking of tonight. Nothing lasts forever. Joy comes, and goes. Seasons come, and go. Grief comes and goes, too. Whole countries, entire species, blazing stars in the sky—…
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