I have learned to wear solitude quietly an old quilt draped over sharp shoulder blades engulfed in threadbare patches of memory that I worry with lonely fingertips

Reclaiming my inner badass at 50
I have learned to wear solitude quietly an old quilt draped over sharp shoulder blades engulfed in threadbare patches of memory that I worry with lonely fingertips
In memory of Lieselotte Porter 1925-2018 another empty chair another empty corner only resurrection assured this Easter morn are my ghosts who brokers the introductions?
my memory is not a reliable narrator of my youth that imagined golden season of whom I used to be vibrant alive whole © 2016
My response to this week’s Go Dog Go Cafe’s writing prompt. My mother hovers above the 55 miles per hour speed limit, cigarette casually in
Several years ago I had the pleasure of taking my first and only Creative Writing Class. One of our short in-class assignments was to take
your eyes are sometimes all I can think of when I lie here alone at night in the bed we used to share I remember
speak to me of summers past when cool, damp grass reached for bare feet with long grasping fingers as we ran through the night quicksilver
I am but a wanderer passing through slivers of place of time unconsciously dropping pieces of my heart like late summer berries like seed pods
memories of summer nights sky midnight silk studded with diamonds my heart beating fast with you sitting next to me on a scratchy plaid blanket