Paint a portrait. A sunflower splash. No azaleas for the spring. Daisy do, I dream of you. No where to go to play when the sickness is here to stay, so I color my pods’ chords, in fresh foray in the summer time, too, when…

You could barely tell that the periwinkle blue sky was dotted with clouds as the sun started to rise when the Forest Ranger stepped his gumboots past the storefront of Cottage Teas. This wasn’t his normal beat, yet the aroma of baking sourdough lured him…

Periwinkle is the flower of death they say but I have not seen them at the cemetery or perhaps I pass them unnoticed so seamlessly they fit the landscape of loss.   From a high point, you can see the city’s skyscrapers in the distance…

The people are hungry for the end of the world Eager for revolution and rapture Like a culture of craven, ravenous wolves Ever poised on the brink of disaster Perhaps its a remnant of some darker time Which calls to us from across the ages…

twenty minutes to walk to work I pass by the skyscraper on the corner not quite my destination just yet no cloud in the sky hoping my day is also clear skipping the storefront I head straight for the back greet some coworkers exchange a…

I disappear into and endless expanse sometimes. Abstract Formless Endless Connected The ghosts of my past erased for a moment. Casually Fluidly Absentmindedly Fluently At witnessing the small reflection of light in her eyes Color Motion Strength Soul I dive deep in to luminous pools…

What I See   Behind the fluffy clouds Stands the tallest ever skyscraper Its needle shines brightly Spreading the suns light across the sky A vision so beautiful and Hard to Beat

No crisps, no cookies, and, most certainly, no mobile devices. Nothing like a cranky conservative recluse to pry out the raisins before devouring the bread. But this keeps me alive, and unhampered, weird but so utterly, utterly free.

The mountain range sat solidly, spread out under the periwinkle sky, the clouds sitting causally like sourdough bread on the countertop, warm from the oven, both healing hearts, like a spiritual storefront offering options for the lost and weary.   Hour 11    

No. 11 – My Friend Janey By Nandhini G. Natarajan   Of fourteen children, my friend Janey is the twelfth. Seven older brothers tell her where to go, what to do. Janey says yes, and does what she wants.   She tells me that in…