My Writing
My collection of poetry, prose, and short stories
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Coffee in the morning sitting at my desk. Tea after lunchtime- while I take a little rest. A Glass of wine with dinner, with a fruity plume. An herbal drink at night time, a nightcap in my room. My day measured in beverages, drank at their appointed time. A mug, a teacup, and a stemmed…
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I knew our relationship would end when I didn’t delete my breakup playlist. I stared at the lineup of songs That nursed me through our first and second love affair. I read through the titles with my thumb hovering over delete, But I couldn’t erase that playlist, Because I knew I’d need those songs again.
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Every winter I seclude myself in my hobbit hole of a home. I surround myself with hot beverage, warm blankets, and fuzzy sweaters so I can pretend that the cold doesn’t exist. The short days drag into never-ending weeks of self-isolation and hibernation. All the hours pass by in a gray smog of monotony, fatigue,…
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Has the night always encroached so quickly, after the leaves have turned? Has the dark always fallen so surely after the first season’s snow? Have the days always been so short? Have hours always felt so long? Has winter always entered so suddenly? Where has the autumn gone?
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“Sit with me” the wind howls through my window. “Come run with me” it beckons in the night. “Hear me!” It screams through the branches. “Follow me” It’s shadowless presence invites. “I will bring you clarity” “I will bring you truth” In a voice made to disturb, soothe, and seduce as I shiver in my…
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I take the half-filled journal from my bedside; The leather cover is warm in my hands. The broken spine falls open on the table, displaying parchment pages the color of sand. My quill tip pen is newly filled after several month of sparing use. It hovers over the empty pages as I await my writing…
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I walk down empty streets under a gray sky. A crow caws overheard- answered by its murder’s calls. The brisk east wind blasts across the lake racing toward the mountains. It pushes back my black hood, and tangles my long hair. My nose reddens with the cold’s sting. New buds grow on the bare trees,…
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Being inside your car is like being in your own separate world. It’s a small, temporary, transitional space. It’s even more intimate that someone’s home. In a car you go to work, school, date nights, and home. You use it to escape, to come back, to leave and to return. It is how we get…
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I walked outside and everything was grey scale. Devoid of color, devoid of time the world was neither dark nor bright, but somewhere in-between. Silver sky reflected in white snow- contrasted by the charcoal shadows and black-tar roads. There was no color. There was no sound. No children laughing, talking, shouting- They are all at…
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Brown Christmas: A Poem About Growing-up Southern It never snowed on Christmas in Houston. Growing up, the December was nippy- and browning grass was crisp with frost. Our breath rose in puffs before our faces- but snow never fell on Christmas day. I didn’t mind that Christmas’s weren’t snowy. We had everything we…
Bringing Mae Flowers 