Crush rose petals between your fingers, or a mint leaf, and it expresses the beauty of its distinctive essence when it’s bruised. I think people can be like that, creating great art and literature out of poverty, sickness, prisons, wars and abuse. The children of MD Anderson Cancer Center write poems. Edward Hopper, a lonely New Yorker, painted lighthouses, railroad tracks, cafés and theaters that reflected his own reclus...
When I relive the past I find my timeWas spent in many hours of heated searchFor perfect words that never would besmirchA deep intrinsic trust in love of rhyme. And keeping trust my work was not a waste,Nor simply writing pieces not so fake,But also meeting all the rules they makeTo demonstrate our art is in good taste. However now I won't give energyTo seeking out the best words for my stuff,Or losing sleep when it is no...
It is a blessing that we cry if love we have begins to die and thus we have to face life all alone. If hubby smacks us in the head or wifey cheats in our own bed or doggy chokes on a soft sirloin bone. If son is hurt by angry thugs because he owes them for his drugs and there is no insurance to pay his bill. If daughter says she is with baby yet daddy’s name is still a maybe since she forgot to take her little pill. For l...
Making soup is alchemy—a brew made from the elementswhere fire, earth, air and water mingle to concoct a potionthat if seasoned well can hypnotize the senseswith its taste and nourishment.The mysteries of soup cannot be taughtby passing down a recipe of measurements.It’s more than slicing onions to be sizzledwith cut carrots, celery, green peppersthen sautéed until their essence bleedsand shines translucent from the heat....
I see a tragedy before me. I see the result of injustice and bigotry. I see a woman who had the heavy weight of sin placed on her shoulders, a sin considered so great there could be no forgiveness.How could this young woman ever hope to carry such a burden? There was no soul on earth willing to help her, no one to turn to except her God in heaven.So she went to meet with her God, to let him be her judge and salvation. She...
In a chamber suffused with emotion By the light of innumerable dawns, In a house betwixt forests and ocean, Where the briar rose bristles with thorns; There hangs her portrait in splendour, In mystic silence, forsaken, unknown, In lines both violent and tender And colours of thunderous tone. Her eyes bespeak wisdom and knowing, Her face; enigmatic and ever serene With tresses luxuriant, flowing To realms of delight yet un...
Today, we had a revelation about something. We call ourselves writers...but isn't writing with a pen and a paper? I don't know, is it? Techinically, what are we? What can we call ourselves? Typers? We're typers...new age enthusiasts...typing away 500 words in 5 minutes or less, depending upon the amount of cofee that has been drunk...drank.Typing away to a generation that no longer cares for these things we call "books."W...
She had the most beautiful profile, almost like a deer sniffing the wind, picking up the scent of gunpowder and tobacco and wondering from what direction the bullet might come. In the beginning he likened it to a natural instinct in him that made him want to chase her, and with the option of flight or fight, she almost always chose to run. He enjoyed the inventive games she seemed to play, making him work harder to track...
