to think on that day when a shooting occurred in Colorado that, it was in the same school district as Columbine?
Tag: Writing
Grief: Past the Days of the Anglerfish to Nemo
Grief will change you in ways you never expect. Some say grief is an ocean. A truth exists in this extended metaphor. In the beginning—and sometimes for longer—you live in the ebony depths of the ocean where only the best cameras capture pictures of its creations. Some friends drop off because the depths are too… Continue reading Grief: Past the Days of the Anglerfish to Nemo
Thunderstorm, a Poem
Darling, come to me as the clouds gather. Be unafraid to view the sky. It wants you to look away from the doom and gray. Hold tight and fear not, for the shades of bars on windows, city streets slick after rain, and the slate-snow after tires and dirt blend it color clouds that want you to cry.
It: a Poem
I am tired of it because I’ve lost enough. “First they came …” Do you know those words?
Awake: A Poem for You
"I can feel when one withdrawals their presence and friendship. It is not for us to prove to them our worth and craftsmanship."
In the Words of Penelope, a Poem for all Women
There are days I love you, and remember the feeling—though how fleeting it seems now when the words of men and the women bending to them pour down like rain in a torrent in the heart of a hurricane. Recall every moment I have loved you from the time our daughter opened hereyes, and the… Continue reading In the Words of Penelope, a Poem for all Women
Hope for us to All Remember our Humanity to November
Watching college football and returning home to Carolina with my educational doctorate, something important occurred to me. This time of year offers many thoughts. The words “pumpkin spice latte” are on minds of coffee fans at their favorite locations, and there’s the ideal of tinted leaves, bonfires, a little wind, and beautiful afternoons. It encourages—in some cases causes to dread—time with family during Thanksgiving and Christmas. While it sounds too early, we all consider our autumn plans.
The Writer’s Block Breaks
We’ll see the changing of the colors, dear, no matter when it is: the swan emerging from the river before summer’s end when one more calla lily portrays its plumes.
Four Years to the Day
write, share videos and pictures of Corrie, and excerpts from her poems; not to forever revisit or stay in the darkness, but we must remember my family and I had to--and sometimes still--travel through this heartbreak and hardship to reach some new light.
In the Middle of Some Road
Mask 1 hides the bereaved mother screaming inside. She asks, “Why am I still alive?” but I tuck her down deep, even put her to sleep, so she will not speak all that is one her mind. "Shhh … little momma, don’t you cry" although your daughter is not alive.
Corrie's Season 