Play It Forward, a Tweetspeak Poetry writing workshop, encourages us to incorporate play into our writing and personal life. My recent visit near a wooded area resulted in photos and some writing fun.
For years, I strived to host perfect holiday parties, as if they were an exam to pass. Hours before guests arrived, I dressed the table with my porcelain best, each item set precisely in its place.
One evening a few years ago, my husband and I hosted our first church small group. A warm plate of banana-oat chocolate chip muffins tempted us from the kitchen counter;
One morning last week as I drove down a familiar country road and the chalky sky dulled the day’s light, I yielded to my yearnings and stopped to snap a photo.
In a recent poetry workshop, we were asked to write a poem from a memory about Grief. The memory of a few trees had the power to remind me of a special person and the realities of life.
My little terrier tenderly nudged his nose toward something behind me as I brought him back into the house. I unhooked his leash, not realizing his curiosity and concern were grounded on an injured chickadee lying belly-up—just a foot from us.
Wings of Grace We caught glimpses of gold on our Sunday walk. The glow was as though we were listening to brass— as if nature’s baritones commingled with the horn of the high-pitched piccolo.
An Unexpected Comfort October skies thin. Carnal colors fall at my feet. Nature’s busy needles knit glowing cloaks of color, embroidered in piercing reds.
October Rose I sauntered along the border of the shimmering parking lot, past shiny-leafed plants laden with day-long drizzle. I lingered in October rain, admired the quench of leaves surrounding a show of pink roses.
Twenty-four nurses trailed into the room. They found seats within the circular configuration of chairs, where I sat. A mound of rocks rested in the middle of the circle.
I reached over the Suburban’s front seat, rummaging through our sweatshirts in the back, my butt in the air. My husband rolled the SUV to an incomplete stop at the end of our quarter-mile long driveway, ready to turn onto Russell Road and make the two-hour drive to Cape Elizabeth for our sons’ high school state track meet.
When I was a high school freshman, I approached my English teacher, Mrs. Richard. My appetite for words urged me to ask her where I could buy one of the books we used in class—The American Heritage Dictionary.