I’m a published poet. Words I never thought I’d type. Because seriously, I can’t rhyme. Or observe the rules of iambic pentameter.
But last week, I debuted in my first-ever literary journal appearance.
With a poem.Continue Reading
Writer Laren Stover made a case for melancholy in Sunday’s New York Times. She exalted every excuse to be blue and extolled every morbid thought. She even imagined a world where she could retreat with her own darkness and despair.
I closed my eyes and conjured the last time my world was truly black. Hopelessly hopeless. Months and months and months of downright morbidity.
I was thirty-one and dumped by a man I wanted to marry.Continue Reading
I came to the Land Between the Rivers. Walked in the steps of shades. Waded in mud and ooze and wet. Remembered.
Perhaps.
I fly to the Land Among Waters. Walk in the footprints of Time. Wade through rain-soaked green. Birth experiences to remember.Continue Reading