There’s an invisible enemy hanging in the air some say it’s from Wuhan in China, over there. It doesn’t really matter now. They say it’s here to stay.   Wear a mask. Wear a mask. Wear a mask.   Some folks have conjured up stories, …

The season of departures Was not predicted Nor announced On lit up boards Or sheets of paper. It came uncalled for, Uninvited, undesired. And soon it was So hard to breathe Through the ashes of memory.

I would like most to be Static electricity   To add spark to life Simple steps create Tiny jolts   With each shock, Laughter grows and stops And starts again   With each new spark Hair stands on end.            …

Awake with a tune, sun is shining, warm in the window summer’s soon Do my journal, stretch my legs, break my fast out the door with a purpose works reward is that it lasts today is a paragon day      

Boxes of photographs tell the story of my life the camera has captured moments, not emotion pictures of people and places hiding commotion not the waves of memory in motion not a heart, only colors devoid of strife. I first overcame through tears. Then I…

Emotions running high not always knowing where they may have come from why they present themselves at that moment yet always fully aware- waiting- hoping to make sense of the chaos, confusion. Wanting to help those around who may need the positive energy- sometimes unsure…

The world has quieted and now the birds are free to sing, no longer competing with the noise of cars and jets. In this calm, mama hummingbird builds her nest on a wind chime and she raises her baby while they rock gently together in…

Hour 7 prompt: Write a poem titled Season of the (fill in the blank). Write a poem that matches or interacts with the title.

Dear Amy three years ago, Lost in an abyss with an undertow Drinking didn’t work Smoking mj didn’t work The drugs didn’t work What was there left to do? So proud of you making that call Finding God in California But then a breakdown A…

I have nothing from the old place. I took a handful of clothes, half a suitcase of books, some beads, but the music had long died, the piano figuratively smashed into pulp after every visiting child had banged its fist remorselessly on the keys, the…