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When did humanity become so inhumane? Archaeologist Margaret Mead once famously said “The first sign of civilization is a healed femur”. In a time agriculture, when humans survived by hunting and gathering in a nomadic lifestyle, a broken leg would be a death sentence to someone trying to survive on their own. Someone with a
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No savior No messiah No king of mine. No praising No praying No bowing to thine. I cannot, I should not, I will not resign My humanity for his glory. Your god-king is not my lord.
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If I were a season I’d be winter. Not just because I was born in December, and not because physical appearance can only be described as “snowy”. It’s not anything so obvious and concrete. The connection is more of a feeling beyond reason. I don’t know if I can say that winter is my favorite
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The sunrise looked like a landscape. My windowshield, its frame. The white mountains a masterpiece Under the sky’s orange flame. The sunrise looked like a landscape. Each moment a new image unfolds. With fields of frost sparkling silver In the dawn’s sunlight of gold. The sunrise looked like a landscape, Painted by a master’s hand.
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My great-great Grandmother lived to be 103. She was a remarkable and resilient woman who taught school in a one-room school house until she went blind at the age of 40. She raised her children mostly on her own, and she lived independently into her 90s when she put herself in a care home. The
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Between midnight and dawn, When the 13th hour strikes, Before the hourglass turns, When the calendar sits empty, Before the old year has gone, Time loses its meaning.
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When she first say him, he was sleeping under and ancient pine tree. Intrigued by his silver fur and powerful form she ached to move closer, to become a part of him. Enveloping him in an armless embrace, he felt nothing but the caresses of a strong breeze. His eyes opened, golden and alert
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You fell first. Open and trusting, You never doubted if you could love me. You patiently waited for my closed heart to alter, Now, you fell first But I’ve fallen harder.
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The morning of the death of democracy, Fresh snow glowed on the mountain tops. The sun rose bright in a pastel sky As birds and geese flew peacefully by, The beautiful day was a cruelly-felt lie– A mockery of our mourning. On the morning of the death of democracy, Heaven and Earth kept on turning.
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I’ve been told I’m intimidating. This is a comment I’ve always found amusing because I am barely 5 feet tall, and only recently met the weight limit to donate blood. Perhaps this perception of my intimidating presence comes from my refusal to be intimidated by others. I’ve been afraid for my safety on several occasions,
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Bringing Mae Flowers 