Gold, despite what some say, doesn't just come from mines.
Category: Poetry
Will You Know her Name?
... when I hear Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata, it is the soundtrack playing inside of me for the loss of a legend: the light, the imp, and angel far from where I can see."
Flipping the Nightmare: A Halloween in Reverse
“Mommy, sing me a song, and not about a raven or a nevermore. Sing about where we fly and about my new wings.”
The Greatest Purpose to Write
Just like my son, Corrie was a person you could not just walk away from
Ham Biscuits
Don't promise me when you know, I know, there are no guarantees that the mountain leaves will still cling to trees if we drive up this weekend. A weekend is a hope and a promise; a date when they promise to send you a check. Did you ever wait in a place for someone to… Continue reading Ham Biscuits
Misconceptions of Hurricanes: A Poem
There are misconceptions from the moment I wake up. I may appear as the sun shows up on a given day, but shiver in flip flops, jeans, and a thin blue rain jacket when hurricane winds begin to strike the coast. I was not made one way, but changed the moment a hurricane struck the… Continue reading Misconceptions of Hurricanes: A Poem
The Writing for Corrie’s First Poetry Collection is Done
Relief sets in on an artist when he or she says, "It's done." Some of us take longer. Some projects are shorter. In my life, I've written three full novels. Those are the manuscripts I completed. Two were the warm ups to the third on which I spent seven years. "Son" is an excerpt from… Continue reading The Writing for Corrie’s First Poetry Collection is Done
Did you know my Corrie Belle?: a Corrie Poem
If you know my daughter, you know her impact is such as legends make of kings.
October and a Part of “Sweet Sixteen,” a Corrie Poem
Six minus one is five, and at sixteen, we seldom realize destinies are nothing more than beautiful orange and yellow leaves cleaving to branches in late October before they fall in a river bank.
“Mommy, What Does Love Look Like”: Stories Imagined and Stories Told
When the darkest hour was not done and the mud feel from the mountain, yes, I slid. The tears came, and my anger, without a mercy for which a Christian sinner prays, set ablaze for those who demanded when they'd received. I collapsed upon the green shores where you once played and asked for such stories of mine. Then your father came home with your brother, and found me quiet ...
Corrie's Season 