Waking At Sunrise

Every day I wake to the sunrise, to the sun’s sleepy glow in the hazy sky.

The sky is pink and the hills are blue. Fog banks roll over the hills’ edges like ocean foam. The trees are only dark silhouettes. Their green shades will lighten as the sunlight brightens.

It’s a beautiful sight.

It’s a beautiful sunrise. Every morning that I wake to it, I am grateful. I marvel at its beauty every morning.

And the first bird of the morning begins to sing.

Sunrise at Nurali Ridge South Ural | The Daily Spur (wordpress.com)

A Bottle Of Hope

A bottle of hope sat on the old wooden shelf. It was made out of black glass. Yet, every now and then small hints of silver and gold shimmered and glinted inside the darkness.

It wasn’t something that could be bought or sold. Nor could it be stolen away.

It could be held.

It could be borrowed.

It could be freely given away.

The little orphan girl took it off the shelf and hugged it close to her chest. She held it until she could feel hope’s warm, shimmering glow inside of her. She returned it to the shelf for whoever needed it more than she did.

There was always someone who needed it. Some needed it more. Some needed it less.

Some found it hard to let go. They were the ones who held it the longest with a fierce desperation until it had to be pried out of their fingers.

Because there was always someone who needed that hope. Always someone else.

The orphan girl stepped outside with a smile on her face and hope in her heart.

July 2021 Writing Prompts – Putting My Feet in the Dirt

The Perfect Bride

The bride was beautiful, to no one’s surprise. After all, she had been carefully created and designed to be the epitome of womanly beauty. Her features were arranged in the ideal alignment. Her eyes were large and the perfect shade of blue. Her eyelashes were long and black and thick. Her skin, her hair, her lips, everything about her was beyond insult or reproach.

But there was one small flaw that nothing could eradicate. Her eyes had an emptiness inside of them. Even when she smiled her perfect smile, the emptiness was still there. It was a manufacturing defect.

The bride’s creator told the groom that he could exchange her for a better model.

The groom looked into his bride’s perfect yet imperfect eyes and smiled. “No. I will keep her.”

So, he did.

The groom kept her for all of the days of his life. And, even though her eyes never lost that emptiness, he loved her. To him, she was perfect.

Personal portraits Ms.Putri Rahmania | The Daily Spur (wordpress.com)

Tales And Time

Do you have time to sit a while?
Do you have time to hear a tale or two?
Would you mind if we spoke of crocodiles
And maybe a fairy queen too?

Do you have time to imagine?
Do you have time to dream?
Would you want to hear of magic
In a world where all is not as it may seem?

Do you want to dine on stardust?
Do you want to fly on wings of gold to the moon?
Would you want to do it today or tomorrow
Or sometime very soon?

When you choose to do so
And when you make up your mind,
Come and find me.
I have tales to tell and a great deal of time.

June 2021 Writing Prompts – Putting My Feet in the Dirt


Moondust and magic
Opals and onyx
Silver and satin
Golden and glimmering

That was her.
That’s who she was.

Ice and wind in winter
Tear tracks and overgrown train tracks
Abandoned buildings and broken windows.

That was me.
That’s who I was with her.

Illusions and mystery
Always out of reach and not to be touched

Such a lovely her.
Such a bewitching her.
Perfect and inaccessible her.

Leaving me behind
Leaving me hopeless and reaching
Even as she lightens her light on someone else.

June 2021 Writing Prompts – Putting My Feet in the Dirt

Sounds Of Summer And Memories Of Then

Abigail sat in her wheelchair with a knitted afghan smoothed over her lap. She turned her head. The movement wasn’t nearly as smooth as it used to be.

She looked at the long gauzy curtains. They were butter yellow, even on the grayest of days. Always like a bit of sunshine in her room. She liked that.

She wanted to move closer to the window, but this was not a good day for her. Her arms were too tired to make the necessary movements to inch the wheelchair forward. The nurse’s call button sat alongside her leg. Abigail could have pressed it to have the nurse move her, but no. She chose to stay put.

The curtains were like sunshine. Abigail still remembered sunshine. The warmth of it. The wind-chime feel and sound of it in spring. The melted ice cream taste of it in summer. The crunchy dry leaf sound of it in fall. The gravestone grit of it in winter. But the gravestone always gave way to the wind-chimes. It was something that was always. It would forever be.

She closed her eyes and remembered barefoot running to the running waves. Coarse! Hot! Ahh, cold! She smiled at the splashing cold. Squeals and shrieks of laughter. Laughter that lived always in her mind. Laughter that existed in her memories.

Memories of sunshine.

Memories of cotton candy and flying! Flying on a swing. Bubble gum pops. Cotton candy fuzz. Badly made braids. Tank tops and sandals. Roughed up knees and riding a bike. Pedals moving under her feet. Remembering how they felt under her feet. Metal. Remembering the motion. Rolling constant motion. Not walking. Not running. Legs rising. Legs falling. And it tasted like chocolate ice cream melting on her hand. Waffle cone getting saturated. Waffle cone going soft.

Always going so soft.

It whirred. The pedals whirred and the spokes twirled. Chains clanked. Brakes stopped. And it was summertime inside her mind.

Ice cream and fireworks. Holding someone’s hand. Sharing someone’s memory. Being a part of someone’s memory. Being a part of someone’s life story. They met. They fell in love. They married. Rice and cake and confetti. Buttercream frosting. So sweet and tangy. The cake, delicate and spongy. They married for so many summers and springs and winters and falls and back to springs. Oh, with him it always returned to spring!

Until winter came on ravened wings.

Her bedroom door opened. “Abigail sweetie?” The nurse. Not him. Not him ever. Only in her dreams and memories did he come and it returned to spring. “Your daughter is here to see you. Are you up for visitors today? Hmm?”

She opened her eyes.

The curtains were the color of sunshine and spring and summer.

She could almost taste the chocolate ice cream and hear the fireworks’ pop and sizzle. “Yes.”

Her daughter entered the room. “Mom?”

Abigail smiled as spring arrived again.

May 2021 Writing Prompts – Putting My Feet in the Dirt