I lie still, thoughts twisting, refusing to settle,  
counting the spaces between heartbeats,  
night stretching wide, restless around me.  

Outside, rain starts—soft, steady,  
a quiet rhythm pressing on the window,  
each drop asking me to let go.  

In dreams, I walk into sheets of rain,  
water folding over skin,  
earth damp beneath bare feet,  
breath mixing with mist,  
a world rinsed clean and new.  

I awake, carrying echoes of dreams,  
rain brushing leaves gently,  
a calm pulse pulling sleep back,  
soft enough to hold my restless mind,  
a steady hum for a night that finally eased.  

Rain 
	keeps 
		falling,  
pulling quiet threads through dawn’s edges,  
each drop tracing the shape of waking.  

I rise slowly,
shadows of wet earth and cool air still with me,  
rain’s memory lingering on my skin,  
a secret held close.  

Light seeps in, pale, soft,  
clouds low and heavy,  
blurring the sharp edges of morning.  

Outside, rain hums a steady rhythm,  
a lullaby stretching past sleep; 
a promise of calm,  
moments held gently between breaths.

Author’s Note

This poem came from those nights when sleep just won’t come, and the mind won’t stop racing. I wanted to capture that restless feeling; how the dark feels too wide, thoughts tangled and loud.

Rain often shows up in those moments for me—not as a fix, but as something steady, a quiet presence that shifts the noise just enough. It’s less about falling asleep and more about finding a small peace inside the chaos.

The poem tries to hold that fragile space between wakefulness and rest, where the world feels both heavy and soft. The rain isn’t just weather here; it’s a kind of gentle company, a rhythm to lean into when the night stretches on too long.

Upcoming…

• A prose poem about what he sees:

  FROM THE SECOND SHELF, 06 June 2026

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Your grandmother’s cheekbones lived in her mother’s
and her mother’s before that;
all the way back to someone
with no name you’ll ever know,
only a posture,
a way of holding the jaw against wind.

The sky over Persepolis
is the same sky.

Words arrived in your mouth
already worn smooth by someone else’s tongue.
You inherited them the way you inherit
a coat too large,
the shape of another body
still pressed into the shoulders.

Somewhere a column stands
cracked at a clean angle,
the burning almost careful.
Three thousand years and the stone
still holds the outline of a hand
that worked it.

The hand means something different now.
Threat. Calculation. Target.

Pride drank first.
Then greed.
The ground hardened the way ground does
when nothing falls on it long enough—
a slow sealing over,
until the animals arrive at the trough
and stand there, stunned,
learning what they no longer have.

Love goes dry before hate arrives.
That’s the order of it.
One side went dry first,
the other answered,
answered,
answered;
and now both have forgotten
what the question was.

The same sky.
Over Persepolis. Over Tehran.
Over the face your face came from.
Over whatever precision
the generals are calling justice tonight.

Something lodges in the sternum;
grief without a name, or older than a name,
a city’s worth of knowing
pressing into bone.

Strangers, the news calls them.
The faces. The words
already in your mouth
before you understand them.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Author’s Note

“Same Sky” took me 82 days to write; 82 days of wrestling with words that kept evading me. Then I read something (two things, actually) that Alexander McCall Smith wrote. The first was his observation that wars begin as a failure of love—that hatred is what moves in when love runs dry. The second was his reminder that ancestry isn’t an abstraction: it lives in cheekbones, in words that arrive in your mouth already worn by other tongues, under a sky that has not changed.

Hüzün (pronounced hoo-zuhn), the Turkish concept of collective melancholy carried by a people and a place, gave those ideas an emotional home. Not personal grief but something older, heavier, shared; the specific weight of inheriting a history you didn’t choose and can’t put down. The poem lives in that concept.

Persia/Iran was already there. It threaded itself in naturally. Three thousand years of civilization, now reduced in the news cycle to a threat, a target, a calculation.

The current Iranian regime is a strict, military-influenced theocratic state that has brutally silenced its own people, thousands killed in the crackdown on protests that began in late 2025, sparked by a collapsing economy and decades of suffocation under clerical rule. The United States encouraged those protesters to rise up, to take back their country, promising that help was coming. Then the bombs fell. The old supreme leader died in the rubble. His son (harder, closer to the Revolutionary Guard, already sanctioned once before) now holds the seat.

What remains is a war that has shape-shifted into economics: sanctions tightening on Iran’s oil, the Strait of Hormuz closed, global energy markets seizing up, a ceasefire that everyone involved seems to distrust. The faces in the streets (the ones who believed the promise) are still there, somewhere underneath all of it.

That is what the poem is reaching toward: the distance between a hand carved in stone three thousand years ago and this, right now. The same sky. The same failure.

Upcoming…

• A poem about nature’s persistence:

  Rain, 30 May 2026

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He kneels on a floor that knows his knees
too well by now, the grooves worn
into wood by decades of asking.
Outside: four wars. Maybe five,
depending on how you count
the ones that don’t make the front page anymore.
He doesn’t know how to hold all of it—
Gaza, Ukraine, Lebanon, Iran, and the others
with their ordinary names
of streets and rivers and border crossings—
so he holds none of it.
Just opens his hands. Empty.
That’s the whole prayer.

His voice doesn’t rise.
It comes out the way old bread breaks,
without drama, just the crumb of a word
landing somewhere below his ribs
and staying.
Peace. He says it.
He says it again.
Even he doesn’t believe repetition will fix anything;
he’s read enough history for that.
But what else?
What else do you do
at five in the morning
when the news has already loaded
and the photographs are already
doing what photographs do?

Once he thought prayer was a bridge.
Now he thinks it’s more like breathing,
not because it changes anything out there,
but because you can’t stop doing it
without dying.
He says peace
and feels it dissolve
before it clears his teeth.
He says it again.

Somewhere a mother is standing
in rubble that used to be a kitchen.
She knows where the window was.
She knows what the light did
at certain hours.
He doesn’t pretend his kneeling reaches her.
He doesn’t pretend anything.
He just keeps saying the word;
worn down to almost nothing,
small and calcium-pale,
doing what a rib bone does:
holding the soft things in.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Author’s Note

A Naomi Shihab Nye line made me pause: “Their prayers were weathered rib bones, small calcium words uttered in sequence.” From her poem “Different Ways to Pray.” I didn’t go looking for it. It found me the way certain lines do, at the wrong moment, which is usually the right one.

I kept turning it over. Calcium words. The idea that prayer could be skeletal—not luminous, not transcendent, just structural. Load-bearing. Something the body makes because it has to, not because it believes it will save anyone.

We are living in a time of multiple wars. I don’t think I need to list them again. Most of us are carrying them in some low-grade, helpless way: reading headlines before we’re fully awake, feeling the inadequacy of whatever we do next. Make coffee. Go to work. Say something, or say nothing.

The priest in this poem isn’t a figure of faith exactly. He’s a figure of persistence. He keeps saying the word peace knowing it dissolves, knowing his knees have worn grooves into the floor and the world hasn’t noticed. That felt true to me; truer than prayer as comfort, prayer as power, prayer as anything more than the stubborn, almost absurd act of not stopping.

Nye’s rib bone did the rest. Ribs hold soft things in. That’s the whole job.​

Upcoming…

• May’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 20 May 2026

  This year, every prompt will come directly from movie titles.

  For those who want a head start, this month’s prompt is: UNFORGIVEN. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the prompt. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 20th!

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Holding on, suspended in air
Looking out and seeing the

Dark woods gently beckoning
To all my senses. The heightened 

Pleasure of flying from tree to tree
Our wings touching lightly

The cool, green woods radiating
Our joy, the utter joy of being

Alive at this moment

Whispering to the animals, singing
To the dark night sky

And the primal beast is held captive
Once again in passionate fury,

Driven on by the natural urge
To fly higher and higher still.

Author’s Note

I hoped to evoke the description of weightlessness in this poem, that bubble-like feeling when you do something really liberating or are close to nature, which then opens up an entirely new level of perception for your senses. It’s a tribute to the surge of vitality we experience when we fully embrace life, when every inhalation and every gesture feels like a little miracle.

My hope is this sparks for you, as it did for me, the same joy that inspires us to live our lives—the urge to reach higher; to hold on tight when we feel fully alive.

*Photo by Thomas Griesbeck on Unsplash

Upcoming…

• A poem inspiring us to begin again:

  Sunrise, 28 March 2026

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Love breaks  
like a wave 
that pulls away,  
	s	o	f	t
and 
	…s		…l		…o		…w,
leaving behind  
a hollow 
where warmth 
once lived.  

Oh love, you were
bright once,
not a flame, just
light that got into rooms
I’d stopped noticing,
gave mornings something
to push against,  
a  p . u .  l . s . e 
under skin,
a pull through days
that made no sound.  

If you come back
it can’t be
with memory alone,
or promises
stretched thin
from sitting in a drawer.

Come back with something real.

Hands that hold
without needing to own.
Words that don’t
already know
how they end.  

And only come back
if you can stand
what’s left here, 
not ruins exactly,
just
the weight of a place
that still remembers you,
cinders that want warmth,
not another fire
that burns
because it can.

I’m still here
holding the shape of where you were.

It aches.
Not dramatically;
more like a bruise
you forget about
until you press it.

Maybe love doesn’t leave.

Maybe it just
gets quiet,
finds a corner,
waits to see
if you’ll learn
how to come back right.

Author’s Note

“Heartbreaks” started with the idea that love isn’t only what happens between two people—it’s also what you feel for a country. And when a country begins shifting in ways that undercut what it was supposed to stand for, that feels like heartbreak too. The connection you believed in starts to give, slowly, and not without pain.

The poem tries to hold that slow unraveling. A love for a country doesn’t usually shatter with a single loud moment. It cracks quietly, through small changes that stack up until something is missing and you can’t ignore it anymore. What does it mean to stay connected to that? To stay engaged, to keep hoping, to ask that love be met with care even when no clear way forward shows itself?

What I kept coming back to was the space left behind. Not wreckage, exactly just the shape of something that was there and isn’t now. The poem sits in that space and asks what love, of any kind, actually requires: showing up with intention, grieving honestly, holding hope without pretending the hard things aren’t real.

So yes, this is about loss. But it’s also about the chance of something returning, if it comes back the right way.

Upcoming…

• March’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 18 March 2026

  This year, every prompt will come directly from movie titles.

  For those who want a head start, this month’s prompt is: SOME LIKE IT HOT; DO THE RIGHT THING. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the entire prompt (the two movie titles) or focusing on one of the two. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 18th!

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The longer I live, the more deeply I learn that love—whether we call it friendship or family or romance—is the work of mirroring and magnifying each other's light.—James Baldwin

I find that love,  
in all its forms
(my friends' laughter,  
my family’s love,  
romantic sparks)
is a dance of reflections.  

We hold each other up,  
mirrors, polished bright,  
each moment shared,  
a chance to shine a little clearer,  
to lift shadows that linger  
in our hearts’ corners.  

In companionship’s soft glow,  
we reveal a beauty within,  
each smile, 
a gentle prod,  
each touch, 
a reminder  
that we are seen,  
that our light matters,  
and grows brighter 
together.  

So we gather,  
hands outstretched,  
magnifying joy,  
transforming the mundane  
into moments of magic,  
finding strength in vulnerability,  
and courage in connection.  

In acceptance,  
we discover an important truth:  
love is not just a feeling,  
but the art of reflecting,
amplifying the light  
that resides in each of us.

Author’s Note

This poem was inspired by the quote from James Baldwin that touched me deeply. Baldwin speaks about how love is an ongoing effort where people reflect and strengthen each other’s light. I wanted to show that love—whether with friends, family, or partners—is something we create together through small acts of care and understanding.

Love isn’t always loud or obvious. It’s often in the everyday moments where we support and see one another. “Reflections” is a reminder that love takes work, but that work is also a gift. When we hold each other up, we find strength not just in ourselves, but in the connection we create. It’s a simple truth that can change how we understand our relationships and how we live with each other.

Upcoming…

• A dark retelling of three nursery rhymes in poetry and prose:

  Nursery Rhyme Riffs (Part 2), 7 March 2026

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Steam curls, soft and thick,  
a veil that blurs edges, 
softens lines. She stands before glass, 
still dripping, hair damp, 
streaked with silver threads,  
a quiet map of years she’s traveled.

Wrinkles stretch across skin,  
not harsh but carved slowly
like rivers that emboss valleys,  
each one deepening 
when thoughts drift  
to a bed where gentle snores rise,  
a husband wrapped 
in morning’s calm.

Reflection holds 
no judgment,  
only the steady pulse 
of time passing,  
and in that moment, 
a small smile—  
for quiet, for presence,  
for love breathing softly nearby.

Author’s Note

I wrote “Smile” to capture a simple, everyday moment that holds a lot of meaning beneath the surface. Aging is something many of us face quietly, often when alone with our thoughts.

So, this poem came from gentle self-reflection, not filled with regret or sadness, but with acceptance and a touch of warmth because of the life I share with someone I love. Someone who loves me in return. It’s about finding softness in change and comfort in small, familiar things. I hope it reminds you that there is beauty in these moments, even when time leaves its marks.

Upcoming…

• A poem about the essence of love:

  Reflections, 28 February 2026

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She sits on the edge of their unmade bed,  
a quiet corner of an empty room,
sheets still holding the shape of his absence,  
each wrinkle a reminder of laughter,  
of warmth that once filled this space.  

Are you here? she asks,  
her voice barely breaking the silence,  
her breath mingling with dust motes  
dancing in a slant of fading sunlight.  
Walls hold their secrets, while
photographs smile back, frozen in time.  

He appears,
a shadow,  
soft, indistinct,  
an echo of the man 
who promised forever,  
who brushed her hair from her face,  
who said they would 
conquer the world together.  

Join me, he beckons,  
voice fragile, rustling, 
dry leaves she can almost feel
swirling around,
spell-casting,
trance-inducing; 
but fear wraps around her heart,  
a heavy cloak weighing her down.  

Why must I leave this life behind?
she questions, her eyes glistening,  
memories flooding in:
his laughter at the dinner table,  
the way he held her hand in the dark.  

Because love knows no bounds,
he replies, the words  
misty, drifting,
and I am waiting in a place  
where the sun never sets.

But she clings to the soft glow  
of their shared moments, the
scent of his body wash  
still lingering in the air,  
mundane magic of grocery lists,  
and Sunday mornings in bed.  

I’m not ready, she murmurs,  
her heart a wild garden,  
untamed and full of life,  
where his voice is a gentle breeze  
that sometimes carries her away,  
but always brings her back.  

Light begins to fade,  
chill of twilight settles in,  
but she remains, 
rooted in her world,  
where memories are alive,  
where love lingers,
a haunting melody,  
where she still hears him,  
even if just for 
a moment. 

Author's Note

The past year was hard, full of loss and struggle here at home and around the world. I get these feelings daily, living with so much loss—the faces and voices that once gave me joy are now only memories. We’ve also suffered diminished freedoms as power becomes more demanding of submission and intolerant of dissent. Long-distance wars like Ukraine and Gaza and closer to home the ICE murders and mass shootings still impact us profoundly, each news item like a shaky step on a difficult path.

Still, I have my tiny glimmer of hope, fragile but persistent enough to help me plod ahead. Despite sadness and anxieties, I somehow muster quiet strength to remember what’s been lost and stand firm, searching for light in these difficult times.

Upcoming…

• February’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 18 February 2026

  This year, every prompt will come directly from movie titles.

  For those who want a head start, this month’s prompt is: EYES WIDE SHUT. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the prompt. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 18th!

I don’t have a paywall, but some folks have asked if they can tip me via Substack. Unfortunately, Substack is mostly built for subscriptions and doesn’t allow one-time payments. But no worries! If you want to support me without signing up for a subscription, you can do that now. Just click the button below to Buy me a Coffee!

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On this broad, sun-drenched beach,
waves tickle my toes,
whispering secrets with each rush of water.
     Lawd, but it's both lonely and perfect here!

I'm just standing. My story written 
in sun-kissed skin,
these Caribbean shades that 
never quite fit in;
constantly torn between worlds
that keep pulling me apart.

Not Black enough, 
     some say,
my curls too loose,
eyes too like a cat’s.

Not White enough, 
     others whisper,
my features too soft,
skin that browns too easily in the sun.

My heart? It's got 
its own weird beat,
dancing awkwardly 
     between cultures,
like some mashed-up playlist—
sometimes it's beautiful jazz,
sometimes it’s a country ballad
that hurts something fierce.

But right here, 
where water meets sand,
I'm finally learning 
to love my inner girl-chile,
this mixed-race (mixed-up) 
island lass from Jamaica,
where mornings burn bright
and evenings bleed color
with that, 
     tomorrow will be better 
vibe.

I'm trying to own my weirdness,
all my contradictions,
these identity crises 
that come and go:
shifting like these tides,
never the same, 
but always me. I'm this crazy 
patchwork of experiences,
sewn together, yes, with love;
every stitch—
tells a story,
holds a memory,
reveals something real.

So I breathe in that salty air,
inhale scents of home,
hearing whispers from those 
who came before,
who danced under these same stars,
who taught me it's okay to be different,
to love these colors, 
these flavors that make me, me;
to plant my feet when waves crash,
and to love myself hard,
the way the ocean loves the shore.

Something's opening up inside me,
catching a perfect breeze,
and I can't help smiling—
a small taste of freedom,
as water laps against my feet,
reminding me that
this body,
this heart,
they're part of 
my wild journey.

Listen, I'm more than 
     just skin,
more than 
     just hair;
I'm vast 
     like this ocean,
wild, powerful,
and finally...
     Enough.

Author’s Note

I’ve rewritten “Otherness” many times over the years. I originally wrote it in my twenties, and it comes from a place deep inside, where feelings about identity and belonging often live. Growing up between worlds can feel like walking a tightrope—never fully in one place or the other, always balancing different parts of yourself. I wanted to capture that tug, that quiet struggle, and the moments of strength that come from embracing all sides of who you are.

The ocean and the beach serve as a backdrop here because they remind me of constant movement and change, yet also of something steady and true beneath it all. Like tides, our identities shift and evolve, but at our core, we remain ourselves.

This poem is also a celebration of heritage, of the rich colors and cultures that shape us. I left Jamaica and the Cayman Islands when I was 16. I had just begun to discover who I was, and then that self-discovery got complicated by trying to adapt to an unfamiliar environment.

Ultimately, this poem is about learning to love your reflection even when it doesn’t fit neatly into other people’s boxes. There’s beauty in that complexity, and I hope this piece encourages you to find peace in your own unique stories.

Upcoming…

• Micro-fiction romance pieces:

  Love Spaces, 7 February 2026

I don't have a paywall, but some folks have asked if they can tip me via Substack. Unfortunately, Substack is mostly built for subscriptions and doesn’t allow one-time payments. But no worries! If you want to support me without signing up for a subscription, you can do that now. Just click the button below to Buy me a Coffee!

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We went for a walk
In a driving snowstorm 
The wind flung handfuls of 
Ice and snow at our faces

And caught 
Our breath
Unaware
You took my hand

I held on tightly—
Afraid to let you go
Afraid my love would not be enough
Afraid the wind would carry you away

I held on tightly—
Until we could breathe freely
Until our love wound healed
Until we were together again

Author’s Note

This piece, when I first wrote it, came from a moment of feeling both vulnerable and connected at the same time. Walking through a fierce snowstorm, the cold wind seemed to challenge us, tossing ice and snow that stung our faces and stole our breath.

I reread this piece as a winter storm dumped close to two feet of snow, a day after the regime committed another murder.

Now, the storm and biting wind represent forces that try to break spirit and hope, much like living under a regime where fear is ever-present.

Now, my words try to capture that mix of fear and hope, the tight grip born from worry that love might not be enough to keep a country together when everything around feels like it’s blowing your world apart. But also the patience and trust it takes to wait through the hard times, to heal, and to find each other again on the other side.

In that cold, difficult place, reaching out to someone, holding on tight, becomes an act of resistance and trust. It’s about not letting go, even when doubt creeps in, and believing that better days will come when breath can be drawn freely again.

I decided to repost this poem for anyone who has felt the weight of oppression and yet found the courage to hold on—to love, to hope, and to fight for a future where people can stand together without fear.

Credits for photos used in the video go to Alexey Elfimov, Hugo Clement, and Jaime Dantas.

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Wind comes,
punching at gale force
from the west,  
no warning,  
grabbing hold of a seemingly stout tree,
splitting it open in an explosion of
trunk and branches that shatter outward,  
scattering like broken promises  
across an earth that shifts and sighs,  
pushing soil and leaves into new shapes  
around stones and stubborn roots.  

I watch, protected,  
eyes tracing the wild dance outside,  
thinking…
how life bends and breaks,
how storms have torn 
through my own days,  
scattering moments, 
changing the ground 
beneath my feet.  

I feel the restless breath  
that reshapes landscapes,  
inside and out,  
knowing growth often comes  
after sudden breaks and upheavals.

Outside, 
wind-bugles pierce the air,
a phalanx,
moving without mercy,  
a force too large to hold back,  
lifting dust and memories,  
spreading them thin over uneven ground.  

Inside, 
I trace patterns on the window,  
fingers smudging glass,  
blueprints of endurance,  
left by storms that came before,  
and those yet to arrive.  

I breathe in 
the tension of air,  
the way it pulls 
at loose edges,  
reminding me 
how sometimes breaking  
is just a beginning—  
a chance for 
new shapes to form,  
unexpected and wild.

Author’s Note

“West Wind” grew from watching a strong wind storm move through my rural neighborhood, toppling and shaking trees, lifting and shifting leaves, and rearranging the earth. I was struck by how something as natural as wind can be both destructive and creative at once. It tears things apart, but in doing so, it also changes the landscape, making room for something new.

My poem reflects on that idea through the image of a tree breaking in the wind as I observe the scene from inside. I wanted to explore how the forces outside—like the wind—can mirror the changes we go through in life. Sometimes we face moments that feel like sudden breaks or upheavals, moments that shift everything beneath us.

At the same time, these moments can lead to growth and new shapes, even if it doesn’t seem that way at first. This poem is about recognizing the power of change and finding strength in the way life reshapes us, often in unexpected ways.

Upcoming…

• A poem honoring uniqueness:

  Otherness, 31 January 2026

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Seventy approaches, 
as time flashes forward. 
I look back on years 
spread wide,
some rushed, 
some slow,  
some held close, 
others slipping away.  

I think of lichens,  
small yet full inside,  
firmly fixed,  
never breaking apart.  
They live in quiet balance—  
no fight, no need to win—  
just being,  
together,  
one.  

Maybe that’s how I want to be now—  
not pulled this way and that,  
but steady,  
whole.   

I shed many roots,
or maybe I burned some 
trying to grow fast.  
But what if I find  
new ways to hold on?  
Lichens grip air, light,  
spaces unseen,  
drawing strength  
from places I never thought to look.  

I see
how they start 
on empty stones,  
how life begins 
where nothing seems possible.  
So, 
I have time, 
to begin again, 
even now,
even when years 
feel like rubble left after storms.  

When things get too hard,  
I can pause,  
quiet the rush,  
rest without guilt,  
wait for light to return.  
That patience, 
that stillness,  
that’s survival too.  

Time moves fast, 
but I’ve learned  
to measure it differently—  
in slow growth, 
quiet strength,  
in being here.
Now.

Author’s Note

As someone who has watched many seasons pass (in other words: I’m old, folks!), I found myself drawn to lichens—those small, overlooked organisms that carry so much life inside them and survive in places where few others can. Their resilience and gentle persistence felt like a fitting mirror for thoughts about aging and living fully in later years.

I wanted to explore ideas of balance and strength without struggle, of holding on without losing oneself, and of finding new ways to belong beyond what we might expect. The poem is a conversation with myself, about how it feels (as someone on the other side of retirement age) to approach seventy with both acceptance and hope, to see time not as something rushing by but as something that can be measured in quiet growth and steady presence.

This piece is meant to be a gentle reminder that life continues in many forms, and that even when faced with change or challenge, there is room to pause, to rest, and to begin again. It’s about embracing patience and finding peace in who we are now, while still dreaming about what might come next.

I hope these words offer a moment of calm and reflection in your own journey.

Upcoming…

• January’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 21 January 2026

  This year, every prompt will come directly from movie titles.

  For those who want a head start, the first prompt of the year comes from a classic movie: An Affair to Remember. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the prompt. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 21st!

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In near-dark quiet,  
she sits still,  
breath slow,  
thoughts deep.

Three—  
a shape in mind,  
a pulse,  
a rhythm.

Warnings float past,  
like leaves  
on a gentle stream.

Yet power hums  
in three’s space,  
a steady beat,  
a silent call.

Three Graces,  
holy echoes,  
father, son, spirit,
an invocation.

Faith holding
harmony’s hand,
touching wisdom’s edge.

Numbers dance  
in shadowed light,  
patterns forming,  
shapes becoming.

Three words hold  
a soft weight,  
understanding’s door,  
open wide.

No need for light:  
just this moment,  
this number,  
this calm.

Her eyes close,  
seeing beyond sight,  
where thoughts  
gather and part.

Patterns throb,  
not random,  
mindful, careful,  
like breath’s flow.

Three steps forward,  
three steps back,  
a rhythm  
older than time.

She feels it,  
not just counts,  
the space between,  
the silent beat.

Wisdom doesn’t shout,  
it hums low,  
in places  
words can’t reach.

Harmony  
is balance found  
in thirds—  
a quiet truth.

Understanding blooms,  
slow and sure,  
like dawn  
touching night.

Author’s Note

This poem grew from a fascination with the number three and how it shows up in so many different ways across cultures and ideas. For example, the photo of the three monkeys on this page relates to a Japanese proverb known as the sanzaru. One monkey, Mizaru, sees no evil (covers his eyes), another monkey, Kikazaru, hears no evil (covers his ears), and the third monkey, Iwazaru, speaks no evil (covers his mouth).

It’s interesting to me how something as simple as a number can carry both caution and reverence, seen as powerful and perfect, yet also surrounded by warnings.

I referenced the Three Graces and the Holy Trinity in the poem because they reminded me how deeply numbers can connect to stories and beliefs, offering meaning beyond just counting. Pythagoras’s view of three as a symbol of harmony, wisdom, and understanding felt like a beautiful way to think about how patterns emerge—not just in math, but in life.

In the end, my poem tries to capture a quiet moment of reflection, where those ideas settle in and become something felt, rather than just thought about. It’s a small exploration of how numbers can touch something deeper inside us.

Upcoming…

• A poem on aging:

  Age of Lichens, 17 January 2026

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Morning breaks in soft white sheets,  
each flake a quiet note landing gently  
on rooftops and windowsills.  

I stand by the frost-laced glass,  
thinking of those whose kindness  
has shaped my days  
in small, steady moments  
like snow settling without sound.  

Their warmth is a contrast  
to cold air,  
a gentle heat that softens edges  
and fills empty spaces  
with calm and care.  

In this stillness, I see how kindness  
moves quietly,  
covering rough patches,  
making coarse places softer,  
and life a little more whole.  

Snow falls, and I am reminded—  
beauty grows  
in places touched by gentle hands.

Author’s Note

When I wrote “Snowfall,” I wanted to capture a quiet moment, standing still, watching snow fall, and reflecting on kindness. It’s not about deep explanations or complicated ideas. Instead, it’s about feeling something gentle and real, like how kindness can soften the hard parts of life.

I keep coming back to a thought from Tracy K. Smith, a former U.S. Poet Laureate, who said it’s okay not to understand poetry fully. Sometimes, poetry doesn’t need to be clear or perfect in meaning. It can simply nudge us, making a feeling rise inside or reminding us of something important.

“Snowfall” and all my poems are meant to be that kind of nudge. You don’t have to analyze every word. Maybe “Snowfall” will remind you of someone who showed you kindness, or a moment when you felt a small warmth in a cold time. Poetry can work quietly, like snowfall itself, touching parts of us without making a sound.

I hope “Snowfall” stirs something gentle within you, even if it doesn’t answer all your questions. Sometimes, that’s enough.

Upcoming…

• A reflection on a number:

  Three, 10 January 2026

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Late December breathes cold air
I awake to a hoar frost—light, delicate that clings to leaves  
Sharp against soft morning light  
Cracks of chill reach deep, stirring something within  

Hands wrap around a mug, warmth rising slowly
Blue Mountain coffee—dark, rich, alive  
Streaming steam that curls up, carrying scents of earth and rain  
A place held in heartbeats and quiet mornings like this  

Mist drifts over hills, blurring the sky’s edges
I breathe, standing still, feeling more awake than ever  
A moment held between ice and heat
Between here and memory, where roots run deep

I step outside, shoes crunching on frost-tipped grass  
Air tasting keen, clean, full of promise and weight  
Clouds hang low, old friends leaning close  
As the Blue Mountains rise around me—silent, steady guardians  

This place, these moments, etched in my skin  
Not just a return, but a beginning  
A morning alive with possibility
Where frost and fire hold hands without needing to explain

Author’s Note

This poem grew from memories of the Blue Mountains in my homeland, Jamaica, especially on a cold, frosty morning in late December. Those frosty moments don’t last long—disappearing as soon as sunlight breaks through the low clouds. The mountain climate is perfect for growing coffee plants, which give us the beans for the famous Blue Mountain coffee.

I wanted to capture what it feels like to wake up somewhere that feels both familiar and fresh. When the cold air sharpens your senses, and holding a warm cup of coffee feels like a gentle welcome to the day.

For me, that morning, that moment, isn’t just a place or time. It’s where past and present come together. It’s about feeling alive by connecting to where I come from. The mix of cold and warmth, stillness and life, felt important to share.

I hope these words invite you to notice your own quiet moments and to see how sometimes a simple morning can be the start of something new.

Upcoming…

• Looking back on the past year:

  2025 Retrospective, 31 December 2025

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Along the lake’s edge, 
my steps fall soft on a worn trail,  
cold air curling in my lungs, sharp and clear.  
The sky opens wide above, 
framed by skeletal branches—  
bones of trees holding space for light to stretch.

These hours of sunlight 
feel brief, almost borrowed,  
a quiet gift pressed between shadow and time.  
I move slowly, senses tuned,
watching the sun trace slow arcs, 
slipping closer to the horizon.

Then
I stop, 
(a sudden stillness)
and spot...oh! 
Fox, 
on a sunlit rock,  
body relaxed, 
head lifted as if tasting warmth;
eyes closed in gentle surrender to this small heat,  
each muscle loose in a moment’s quiet pause.

I linger just a moment,  
breath steady, heart slow,  
seeing (feeling) how sunlight spills over fur and stone,  
how cold air slips past skin and bone.

Fox does not move,  
seems to hold time still,  
a quiet presence in the sun’s last grace,  
a silent offering on a cold afternoon.

Leaves rustle faintly—  
a gentle sound that does not disturb,  
but reminds me of passing seasons,  
and how light changes,  
how warmth is fleeting,  
and moments like this are rare.

I watch until Fox shifts,  
stretches, then melts back into shade,  
disappearing softly among roots and earth,  
leaving only sunlight behind,  
warm and waiting on the rock.

Author’s Note

I wrote the beginnings of this poem some years ago after a quiet walk around a lake with a friend in early winter. I was struck by how brief daylight feels around this time of year, how the cold air sharpens everything around me, and how the sky seems to open up in a way that’s both vast and intimate.

The short time with the fox came from real encounters, or at least moments close to it. Around the lake turtles bask in any sunlight they can find on rocks and dead branches sticking out of the water. Also, seeing our cat so still and peaceful in a patch of sunlight made me pause and think about how small moments like that can hold so much meaning. It felt like a brief pause in the rush of life, a chance to breathe and simply be present, which cats seem to know how to do instinctively.

I hope that you felt a little of that calm and connection when you read my poem, and maybe notice moments of warmth and light in your own day-to-day lives.

Related Posts

A sonnet sequence featuring a fox on an icy winter morning.

Solstice imaginings: Sijos, four micros, and a haiku chain

Upcoming…

• A poem about connection:

  Blue Mountain Frost, 27 December 2025

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He didn’t just make movies,  
he made a stand—  
with words, with actions,  
against silence that lets wrongs grow.

Have fun storming the castle!
a line from a story he told,  
but off screen,  
he stormed real castles—  
battles for justice, for voices pushed down,  
for truth wrapped tight in courage.

He spoke up when many stayed quiet,  
fought for fairness  
like it was a life’s mission,  
not just a choice.

His camera captured smiles and tears,  
but his heart beat loud for change—  
for better laws, better lives,  
for people who needed someone  
to say, This matters.

He left behind more than films—  
a call to keep pushing,  
to keep fighting,  
to keep believing  
in the good worth standing for.

As you wish.

Author’s Note

This past weekend was devastating! It started with the mass murders in Australia and then another shooting that left two dead at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. It ended with the news that Rob Reiner and his wife had been found stabbed to death in their own home.

The poem above is a small way for me to pay tribute to Rob Reiner—someone who inspired many through his work directing (and sometimes acting in) movies I watch over and over, and through his activism.

My favorite Rob Reiner movies are (in no particular order): The Princess Bride, Stand by Me, When Harry Met Sally, A Few Good Men, and This is Spinal Tap. (I haven't seen the second Spinal Tap yet.)

Rob Reiner showed us that life’s battles, whether storming castles or speaking out for change, deserve courage and a bit of fun.

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She stands beneath willowy limbs waving like tired arms,  
bending low under crisp cold air.  

Snow drifts down softly, settling without sound,  
a quiet coat wrapping every empty space.

Wind moves through,  
a slow rhythm, gentle but unrelenting.  

She watches how the tendrils sway,  
as if the tree carries a memory just out of reach.

In her mind, she sees soft petals bursting open,  
a flood of pale pink spilling over dark wood,  
a season breathing life back into this stillness.  

Do trees dream of warmth—  
of sunlight soaking into bark,  
of blossoms brushing against sky,  
of days when quiet cold fades into something tender?

She stays a moment longer,  
sharing that silent hope,  
feeling how even in winter,  
life waits…
beneath everything.

Author’s Note

This poem came from a simple moment watching a weeping cherry tree in winter. There was something moving about seeing its bare branches sway gently in the cold wind, while soft snow fell around it. I wanted to capture that stillness and quiet beauty.

At the same time, I was drawn to the idea that beneath this winter scene, the tree holds a kind of hope or memory of spring. Even in its bare state, it carries the promise of blossoms and warmth. That feeling of waiting for something good to come felt important to me.

I hope you find your own quiet connections in this scene—moments when patience and hope live quietly, even in cold or empty times.

Upcoming…

• A solstice story:

  The Longest Night, 13 December 2025

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I begin as a seed buried deep in soft soil,
cradled by dark earth that breathes and shifts beneath me.
Tender shoots stretch toward light,
a quiet hunger for sky and sun.

Seasons turn, gentle hands on my bark, 
winds brush past, sometimes harsh, sometimes kind.
I watch feet come and go—humans with stories,
animals that seek shade, a place to rest.

Roots curl beneath, a hidden world alive with friends—
mushrooms, worms, unseen dancers in the damp earth,
sharing life in ways I will never fully know,
but feel in every pulse of growth.

Years stack like rings within me,
each one holding a memory of rain and drought,
of laughter and silence, of the soft fall of leaves,
colors bleeding into the ground like old songs.

I am part of this place,
a quiet witness to the small miracles:
a nest built, a fawn born, a sunset spilled across sky.
Grateful for the breath of seasons,
the endless gift of change and return.

I stand here, strong and patient,
rooted deep in this world,
alive with the beauty of earth,
and thankful beyond words.

Author’s Note

When I wrote this poem, I wanted to step into the life of something that is often around us but rarely stops to tell its story—a tree. Trees live through so many changes and witness so much more than we realize. They grow slowly, quietly, and yet they hold a deep connection to the world around them, from the soil beneath their roots to the animals that visit them.

I tried to capture that sense of patience and gratitude, the way a tree might feel as it experiences the passing of seasons and the comings and goings of life around it. There’s something humbling about thinking of time from the perspective of a tree, where centuries can pass and every moment still holds meaning.

The poem is also about the hidden life beneath the surface—those small creatures and fungi that help keep the earth alive. It reminds me that even things we don’t see play a big part in the world’s beauty and balance.

My hope is that this piece encourages you to slow down and notice the quiet, ongoing life in nature. Sometimes, it’s in the simplest things—like a tree standing tall—that we find a sense of peace and connection.

Upcoming…

• A poem about a tree in winter:

  Weeping Cherry in Winter, 6 December 2025

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When days grow heavy  
with the weight of what we cannot change:
neighbors caught in shadows,  
families shattered like glass on tile floors,  
prices climbing high, higher,
and fear settling around us in a dense fog,
we still find reasons to gather;  
some traveling miles, hearts full,  
to sit close despite everything.  

Laughter bubbles up,  
breaking through the dark like 
sudden beams of sunlight,
voices rise in songs,  
feet move to rhythms that defy silence.  

In a world that tries to press down,  
joy resists—stubborn, fierce, alive.  

Life itself,  
(a fragile miracle spun from countless chance moments,  
a breath that belongs only to you,  
and to me)
asks us to hold tight 
to those joyous sparks,  
small and bright,  
fuel for days 
when hope 
feels far away.

Author’s Note

This poem comes from a place of both worry and hope. My daughter is embarking on a long journey with her dog to be with us for the holidays. It’s a trip that will take several days, and given everything happening in the world, I admit I feel a bit anxious. [Edit: My daughter and her dog got here safely! We are thankful!]

When I think about what to cling to during such uncertain times, I realize that gratitude isn’t always easy to find. There are many challenges around us—fear, loss, hardship—but despite it all, moments of joy and connection still shine brightly.

I hope this poem captures those small, luminous moments that keep us going: laughter, singing, and having the courage to keep moving forward.

Poetic Prose

Upcoming…

• A poem encouraging us to see beauty:

  This Beauteous Earth, 29 November 2025

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