I STAND AT the window holding a cup of coffee, eyes catching the slow light climbing over the horizon, a soft, steady burn that spills into the sky.

Outside, the crows gather, raucous voices slicing through the quiet, their sharp beaks snatching seeds, jostling each other with feathers and noise, a rough authority of the everyday.

Squirrels bound in, bold and swift, muscling through the chaos, pushing past the crows, claiming their place with flicks of tails and quick feet; no room for arguing here.

Nearby, woodpeckers hammer the suet feeder, their strikes echoing like distant drumming, each one staking a claim, a noisy duel played out in bursts of pecks and calls.

I watch all this—the small battles, the everyday claims to space—then reach for my phone, news breaking through the morning calm, a word that cracks my surface: WAR.

The light shifts, the birds fall silent in my ears, the room feels colder, and the day stretches out, fractured, uncertain, no longer the same morning.

Author’s Note

I wanted to capture a morning that starts with the usual, familiar sounds—the way nature goes on with its small struggles and routines, completely unaware of what’s coming. There’s a messy, noisy life happening just outside the window.

Then the news breaks in, sudden and harsh, pulling me (and anyone in that moment) out of the quiet into something much heavier. It’s about how quickly things can change, how even the most ordinary mornings can be upended by the weight of the world. I tried to hold that tension between normalcy and chaos, without smoothing it over or making it neat.

Upcoming…

• A poem about invoking peace:

  Holding Soft Things, 16 May 2026

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Every morning, the rising sun invites and inspires us to begin again.—Debasish Mridha

COLD GRAY MORNING, despair heavy as wet wool on her shoulders; she stood at ocean’s edge, salt clinging to her skin, thoughts already past saving.

Each wave said yes to the shore and then pulled back. She understood that.

Sick, worn through, fading dreams buffeting her like offshore wind. She’d stopped counting what she’d lost.

It had become a season of if only and what if—the sky a gray with no bottom to it, no edges.

She thought about going quiet. Thought about leaving all the noise behind for good.

And then, something broke open out past the water. Not a metaphor. Just light, coming from wherever light comes from when you’ve stopped expecting it—gold bleeding into coral, spreading without asking permission.

She blinked. Throat tight. The sun just kept going, spilling across the surface as if it had somewhere to be, as if it didn’t know she’d almost decided otherwise.

It was only rotation. Physics. A cold star doing what cold stars do.

But something cracked loose in her chest anyway—not hope exactly, not yet—more like a door left open by accident, light falling through onto a floor she’d forgotten was there.

The colors on the water kept changing.

She kept watching. Breathless, not from beauty but from something older—the plain fact of still being here to see it.

She didn’t step back into life.

She stood there, cold. But she didn’t leave. That was enough.

That was, for now, everything.

Author’s Note

“Sunrise” started with a question I couldn’t shake: what keeps a person at the edge instead of going over it? Not the grand reasons, not family, not faith, not any of the things we’re supposed to say. Just the small ones. The accidental ones.

I thought about polar explorers. They were the astronauts of the nineteenth century, as one writer put it: people who pushed into the genuinely unknown and paid for it. Many died. And many who survived the six-month polar nights, black and edgeless as spacetime, collapsed into what journals of the era called soul-despairing depression. What saved them, over and over, wasn’t rescue. It was wonder: a seal surfacing through ice, aurora light bending overhead. Something so outside the self that the self, for a moment, stopped its noise.

I kept thinking about how wonder doesn’t announce itself. How it arrives as the sun arrives—indifferent, physical, not designed for you—and somehow gets in anyway.

The sunrise doesn’t save the woman in this prose poem. She’s just stopped by it, the wonder of it. There’s a difference. Salvation is a long project. But stopping—that’s available in a single moment. The light hits the water. The throat tightens. The decision to leave gets interrupted.

Liminal spaces do that. The ocean edge, the polar dark, the strange hour before dawn, they hold us in suspension long enough that something unexpected can reach us. Long enough for wonder to do its quiet, unglamorous work.

I wanted to write toward that. The moment before the turning, not the turning itself. The cold and the light arriving together. The fact that sometimes it’s enough just to still be standing there when the sun comes up.​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Upcoming…

• 30 poems in 30 days:

  NaPoWriMo, April 2026

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The old steam engine stirs to life as dusk creeps in, its iron belly stuffed with stories untold. Oh, the smoke it puffs out! Each cloud seems to whisper tales of far-off places and rails long forgotten. Listen closely; you'll hear that engine's voice, those deep, rumbling sighs, reminiscent of some weathered old-timer spinning yarns beneath a sky where stars flicker to attention.

Rust has made itself at home in places on what was once gleaming metal. Years on the move have stolen its vibrant colors, but it still stands with dignity. This guardian of steel and vapor, a reminder of raw power, of iron wheels keeping time, of heartbeats from an age we've left behind.

Its whistle slices through quiet air, such a lonesome sound echoing everywhere. It's almost like it's saying farewell to all those phantom travelers who once filled its carriages with their joys, sorrows, and wild hopes. The steam rises, ghostly against the fading light, carrying that unmistakable nostalgic scent of coal dust and the promise of somewhere new.

Kids cluster around, eyes huge with wonder, their giggles creating the sweetest soundtrack. They've no clue about the melancholy in the engine's final melody. The conductor—hat tipped just so, the last nod to traditions nearly extinct—gives a gentle tug. The massive machine inches forward, hesitant at first, as if it's reluctant to abandon the station's safe embrace.

It rolls through valleys, crests hills, this magnificent creature, each chug like a heartbeat, each whistle a shout. It's celebrating its last journey as daylight surrenders to darkness and stars peer down, bearing witness to this goodbye, this final dance along metal paths, where time—just like steam—rises, thins, vanishes... but somehow never completely disappears.

Author's Note

One of my fondest childhood memories from Jamaica is when my brother and I traveled with my dad on the now-defunct passenger train, pulled by a steam engine, from Kingston to Montego Bay.

The steam engine (to my eyes, a beautiful machine of steel and smoke) captured the spirit of travel back then. Its rhythmic chugging promised a sense of adventure and discovery.

I vividly recall my first time seeing the lively Kingston train station. It was akin to entering another world, bustling with people from all walks of life, all eager to catch their train. Some waited patiently in line to buy tickets, while others hurried to their carriages. As everyone boarded, the excitement in the air was contagious.

The windows were open, letting in a gentle, warm breeze that carried the lovely scents of the island. I still remember the bright, cheerful colors of the landscape outside, where vibrant greenery met clear blue sky.

As the train rolled along, I enjoyed watching the people outside go about their lives. A woman in a sunny yellow dress waved to us from her porch, her smile radiant. Nearby, children played, their joyful laughter ringing out above the noise of the train.

Farther along, an older man sat under a tree in a wide-brimmed hat. He tipped his hat as the train sped past, a warm gesture that felt like a gentle connection between two worlds, even for a moment.

I also recall the “shwims” man, walking from carriage to carriage, selling small packets of delicious, seasoned (spicy) dried shrimp. He announced his wares by yelling: “Shwims! Get u shwims!” We begged my dad to buy each of us a packet. It was the highlight of our ride.

The ride wasn’t just about reaching the destination; it was about the experience itself and the wonderful people sharing it with us. Together they turned a simple train journey into a treasure trove of vivid memories, a beautiful snapshot of life in Jamaica that I cherish forever.

Upcoming…

• August’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 20 August 2025

  For those who want a head start, this month’s prompt: CONCENTRATION, TRANSMIT, FALSE. 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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CLOCKS MELT AND dreams twist in this bizarre world where he stumbles forward; his feet sinking into sand that shifts like thoughts. The dunes rise and fall around him, as unpredictable as time itself.

The landscape feels oddly familiar yet completely alien, barren, and strange. Ants march in lines, each one lugging bits of forgotten memories, crawling across a warped face that somehow reflects both longing and pain.

Twisted branches stretch toward the sky, their shadows growing longer, morphing into shapes of old fears. They seem to grab at his limbs, like they're trying to drag him back into memories best forgotten.

Nearby, a pool of what looks like liquid sunshine ripples with untold secrets, reflecting his uncertain eyes. Not far off stands a solitary figure wrapped in a dark fabric, watching; some kind of guardian between dreams and nightmares, holding keys to doorways he can't see.

Oh, but each step feels so heavy, echoing against painted horizons and stubborn skies. Time drips by slowly here, and what's real blends into imagination—colors dancing, never settling, always changing, and impossible to pin down.

Somehow, through all this madness, he keeps moving. Something deep inside guides him through obstacles made of dreams, finding paths where there shouldn't be any, looking for peace in a world where nothing stays still long enough to hold, only to experience. It's a never-ending journey, somehow both trapped and flying free.

Author's Note

This year has felt like I’m in a Dali world. It actually started in early November of last year, but ramped up this year after my mother-in-law’s cancer diagnosis in January and death in late May. We held a celebration of her life three weeks ago.

The hits just kept coming!

On Wednesday, we learned that my husband's cousin (41) died suddenly. We are awaiting autopsy results, but as of this writing do not have a cause of death. His family is stunned. We are stunned. In the span of two months, my husband's uncle lost his sister and his son.

The day after that, we learned that our dog was bleeding internally from a tumor on her spleen and that the cancer had metastasized to her lungs. We euthanized her yesterday. We are heartbroken.

Overshadowing all this is a regime that challenges the core values of democracy, equality, and justice. Many in the immigrant community fled regimes like this. Every act of oppression feels like a loss; not just of rights, but of our shared humanity, threatening to diminish the core of who we are. As an immigrant and naturalized U.S. citizen, I am devastated.

I miss my mother-in-law. I miss my dog. I miss my country. It seems to me that I've shed more tears this year than any other time in recent years.

Then, this morning, I took a walk in the woods, breathed in the tree-cleaned air, with my tears fogging my glasses. I imagined my dog sniffing the squirrel and other rodent scent-paths around the trees, dragging her away as she found and munched on either deer or rabbit poop (why do dogs eat things we find disgusting?), and watching as she stalked a wild rabbit. I caressed the ferns and marveled at the tenacity of the woodland plants.

That walk helped clear my mind and reminded me that life moves in cycles. Every step echoed the rhythm of life—the changing seasons and the ebb and flow of tides. Breathing in the crisp air, I thought about flowers blooming in spring only to fade at summer's end, returning to the earth to nourish what’s next.

Much like trees shedding their leaves, life teaches us that endings are part of new beginnings.

My mother-in-law, with her joyful laugh and warm presence, now joins the gentle whispers of the wind, her spirit forever woven into my cherished memories.

My dog, once a lively shadow at my feet, now runs freely in peaceful fields, reminding me of the happiness that still fills my home.

As for my country, I think about the lives that have influenced my world and I am reminded that the fight for justice and equality is ongoing and requires me (all of us) to stay strong through tough times. My grief becomes a call to stand up and make a difference, to honor the spirit of those who fought before, and reclaim the freedoms that truly belong to us all.

Every love, every loss weaves a thread into the fabric of our lives. Mourning is a natural part of this cycle, proof of the deep love we have known. And even though the void can feel overwhelming, I believe that, just like the sun rises after a night, new beginnings will always come from the shadows of sorrow.

So somehow, through all this madness, I keep moving!

Upcoming…

• A speculative fiction piece:

  The Stingrays, 9 August 2025

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UNDER THAT HUGE velvet blanket of late summer sky tonight, everything’s so quiet. The moon’s hanging there like some old lantern, throwing its silver glow across the still lake below.

I spot two owls gliding by—dead silent. The way they cut through the darkness is exceptional. So graceful. They’re hunting, scanning for any little movement, listening for grass rustling or the tiny heartbeats of critters hiding in the night.

Those wide, knowing owl eyes. It’s like they’re living mirrors that hold all the forest’s secrets. The trees around them stand tall like they’ve been there forever, keeping watch over everything the night hides.

Then one of them calls out—this eerie sound that breaks the silence. One swoops down (an amazing hunter) while its buddy stays perched, alert, watching for anything the other might miss. They don’t need words between them. It’s deeper than that.

Every wingbeat takes them through patches of moonlight. These two night guardians make me want to stop and watch; they make me a witness to their hunt’s beauty and the simplicity of existence.

In this quiet hour, when everything seems to breathe more softly, these owls are the kings of everything they survey.

I walk away from the lake, night sounds still bouncing around me. Those owls stick with me like some treasured little secret I want to keep.

Back in bed, everything melts into darkness while sleep pulls me under—it feels like the gentlest hug.

Then the dreams come. Owls everywhere, eyes glowing with an ancient knowing. They tell me stories about moonlit forests and secret hidden trails. The way they communicate—not words exactly—more like leaf-rustling sounds that somehow make perfect sense. Every small hoot is like a promise of shared understanding, making us feel connected.

They take me through incredible woods where time stops. Their calls echo all around, carried by the wind. In that weird half-light world, I never feel alone. Something about their watchful eyes gives me a deep sense of comfort.

When morning finally breaks, when everything turns golden, I awake feeling lighter. My eyes wide open, ready for whatever the day brings. That nighttime magic still thrums inside me, reminding me that even when things get dark, there’s always something hopeful taking flight.

Author's Note

So, I have this thing with owls.

I find them captivating creatures, shrouded in mystery and weird superstition. It’s funny how many folks write them off as doom-and-gloom omens, probably because they’re out there hooting at midnight and giving people the creeps. Different cultures have this strange love-hate relationship with them, linking owls to everything from supreme wisdom to straight-up death. But I see them differently.

To me, owls are uplifting symbols. (That’s why I have at least three owl art prints and other owl knick-knacks in my home.) They’ve got this incredible resilience and adaptability that’s worth admiring.

These birds rule the night. They thrive when most everything else sleeps. The way they swoop through pitch-black forests without missing a beat? That’s a pretty powerful reminder that we can navigate our own dark times and still spot opportunities when life gets messy.

I love that, in so many traditions, owls are these watchful guardians. There’s something weirdly comforting about that—like having a wise old friend keeping an eye out for you during tough times. When everything feels uncertain, that protective owl energy reminds me I’m not alone in the chaos.

Some find owls unsettling, but to me, they symbolize hopeful guidance. Their resilience, wisdom, and protective nature remind me that even when life throws its worst, there’s always a way forward. Embracing that owl energy helps me face unknowns with a bit more courage and much less fear.

By the way, I have written about owls before:

• a poem in the NaPoWriMo 2025 challenge:

• and flash fiction in response to a writing prompt:

Upcoming…

• A poem about bittersweet memories:

  Lavender Days, 12 July 2025

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Anyone who thinks they're too small to make a difference has never met the honeybee.—Anonymous

A SINGLE LAMP casts a warm light, illuminating crumpled papers—those printed dreams that seem to linger, hesitant in the shadows, secrets waiting to be born.

She sits, fingers poised over keys—the hum of the world outside a distant echo—and wonders: can her words, small as they are, carry the weight of change? Each poem a petal, each story a small seed, fragile yet vibrant, falling to earth, yearning for roots.

She thinks of the honeybee, its tiny body, dancing between blooms, carrying life on gossamer wings. Does it ponder its purpose, wonder if the sweetness it gathers will ever be tasted, or if its labor will vanish like morning mist?

Her heart aches with questions. She recalls her friends’ laughter, their faces bright with joy, and how her words could lift them, like the first rays of dawn casting light on the weary.

Yet doubt weaves through her thoughts, questions like a persistent wind, tugging at her resolve. In a world vast and restless, do her scribbles matter? Can a single voice echo in the chambers of change, or is she just a fleeting shadow, lost in the chaos of a million stories?

Then she remembers, the way a single bee can stir a garden, the way it can turn silence into song. With renewed purpose, she types, her heart igniting with the truth: it is not the size of the voice but the passion that fuels it, the way it reaches out, touching lives, weaving connections, creating ripples that stretch beyond what she can see.

So she writes, her words a gentle hum, a call to bloom, a reminder that even the smallest beings can shape the world, one line, one heartbeat, one moment at a time.

Author's Note

I thought it might be fun to share a little peek into my writing process—particularly how I create some of my poems. While I don’t do this for all my writing, I enjoy using pen and paper because it helps me slow down and write with more intention.

• My journals, pen, and bookmark with the Edith Wharton quote: There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.

• Some poems are born from thoughts jotted down in my journal. I started this poem a couple of months ago during a prolonged period of self-doubt. Then I read the anonymous honeybee quote and knew I had to write something based on those words.

• I start by playing with words and phrases. For this one, I felt I needed to anchor it in a setting.

• I usually type this out as a Substack post and schedule it a few weeks in advance. Of course, I reread and tweak sometimes up until a few minutes before it’s scheduled to go live.

Upcoming…

• Open-ended flash fiction about a gift:

  Enchanted Aisle, 17 May 2025

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WHEN THE WORLD seems to hold its breath, grace notes emerge like delicate whispers in the hush of winter, spinning through the crisp air.

Daily, the sun rises later, its soft golden glow illuminating the frosted landscape—a gentle reminder that light is a precious gift during this calm season.

The trees stand tall and bare, their branches adorned with crystalline ice, shimmering like diamonds in the low winter sun.

The earth, muffled by a snowy blanket, sleeps beneath the skeletal remains of trees.

Although peaceful, a strong winter energy is present. This is clear in the joyous laughter of children, wrapped up warmly, their faces flushed with cold. As they roll through the snowdrifts, their footprints create a fleeting pattern, quickly erased by more snow.

Special events punctuate the season, each a celebration of warmth and togetherness. The scent of cinnamon and pine hangs in the air as families gather around crackling fires, sharing stories and laughter that mirror the dancing flames.

Faint church bells in the distance announce the holidays, a call to pause and reflect on the joys of connection and gratitude.

Animals, too, play their part in this winter symphony. In the early morning light, graceful deer mince through the underbrush, their breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. Industrious squirrels, their cheeks stuffed with autumn spoils, scamper while bright-feathered birds flash through the branches, contrasting the subdued winter palette.

As night descends, the cosmos unveils its grandeur. The stars twinkle like distant lanterns, illuminating the sky in a celestial dance. On clear nights, the moon hangs low and heavy, casting a silvery light that transforms the landscape into a dreamscape.

It’s a time for contemplation, for seeking solace in the universe's vastness, where one can feel both infinitesimal and profoundly connected.

In this season of reflection, the grace notes of winter remind us of the beauty in stillness. They encourage us to take it easy and cherish the simple things in life—like holding a warm cup of cocoa, feeling the embrace of a loved one, or watching snowflakes fall.

Each moment in winter contributes a note to the symphony, reminding us that goodwill can unite us even in the coldest times.

Winter Scenes

In winter's hush, the white blankets unfold,  
A soft welcome, a shroud of peace on earth.  

Frosted fingers trace the edges of night,  
Glistening gems adorn the crown of cold.  

Beneath the boughs, so brittle, bowed in grief,  
Shadows stretch long, where sunlit paths are rare.  

Snowflakes twirl gently, their brief lives fulfilled,  
As winds weave through the trees, with songs untamed.  

Icicles hang like hopes, sharp, crystal clear,  
Each breath a cloud, suspended in the air.

Footsteps retreat slowly, swallowed by white,  
Echoes of laughter linger, bright and near.  

Icy shards blanket the broad swaths of fields,  
Trees stand as sentinels, guardians of night.

Biting breezes whisper chilling tales home,  
While shadows linger, cloaked in frosted breath.  

The world dons white, a canvas pure and calm,  
Nature holds her breath, a stillness profound.  

Time drips like dew from frost-laden branches,  
Memories mingle with the mist of dawn.  

In twilight's glow, the day softens its grip,  
Darkness descends, draping dreams on the hills.  

Stars pierce the veil, a shimmer of secrets,  
Soft sighs of the night through bare trees spill.

In this quiet realm, where silence is gold,  
Winter's embrace weaves a tale yet untold.

Author’s Note

• My book of poetry and prose, The Edges, is available in digital and paperback formats at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, Google Play, and Kobo.

Upcoming…

• December’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 18 December 2024

  For those who want a head start, this month’s theme and prompt word: HIBERNATE. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the theme, prompt word, or both. 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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This is poetic prose from my book, The Edges.

If you’re in the U.S. and celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving week.

Wishing everyone everywhere days filled with joy, gratitude, and cherished moments shared with loved ones. May joy and laughter fill your home, your table abound with delicious food, and your hearts glow with warmth and thankfulness.

IN THE HEART of a bustling city, where autumn lingered in the crisp air, there wandered a woman without a home, burdened by the weight of solitude and hunger. Her weary feet shuffled along the pavement, tracing a path through the alleyways adorned with crumbling bricks and forgotten dreams.

Her name, Judith, lost among the city's symphony of voices, was a mere echo in the wind. Her eyes, once vibrant emeralds, now dulled by the harsh reality of life on the streets. She wore tattered rags that clung to her frail form, affirming the relentless passage of time.

As the golden hues of autumn leaves danced above her, the woman yearned for comfort, a respite from the biting chill that gnawed at her bones. Thanksgiving approached, and with it, the promise of warmth and nourishment that seemed forever elusive.

Through the winding streets she wandered, her footsteps echoing tales of sorrow. Her search became a quest for not only sustenance, but for a flicker of hope amidst the shadows of her existence. She sought a place, a refuge, where a warm Thanksgiving meal awaited her, a feast that would momentarily mend the fragments of her broken spirit.

She stepped into a church, its wooden doors creaking open, revealing a sanctuary adorned with flickering candlelight.

The warmth embraced her, like a long-lost lover's embrace, as she sought solace within the hallowed walls.

The aroma of roasted turkey wafted through the air, mingling with the laughter and clinking of cutlery. In the dimly lit hall, tables stretched like a vast banquet, adorned with vibrant fruits and pies that whispered promises of sweet indulgence. Faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, gathered around, their eyes shining.

A gentle hand reached out, offering her a seat at the table, a place where she was no longer invisible. The woman without a home, her eyes brimming with gratitude, savored every morsel, felt a sense of belonging. She listened to the symphony of conversations, the laughter, and the stories told, woven like fragments of forgotten dreams finding their way back home.

In that moment, she remembered warmth was not merely the heat that emanated from a crackling hearth or the touch of a cozy blanket. It was the kindness of strangers, the generosity of a community, and the strength of the human spirit. And as the taste of pumpkin pie lingered on her lips, she found comfort in the empathetic and shared humanity.

Author’s Note

• My new book of poetry and prose, The Edges, is now available in digital and paperback formats at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, Google Play, and Kobo.

Upcoming…

• Looking forward:

  A Writing Update, 30 November 2024

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AS THE SUN'S golden rays melt into the horizon, a gentle breeze whispers through the trees, carrying with it the scent of impending change. The earth, tired from the relentless heat of summer, sighs with relief as the autumnal equinox draws near. Nature, a painter with a vibrant palette, prepares to adorn herself in hues of crimson, amber, and russet.

Leaves, once lush and green, now ignite into fiery embers, dancing gracefully in the crisp air. They flutter and twirl, like delicate ballerinas bidding farewell to the warmth of the sun, as they succumb to the gentle tug of gravity. The ground eagerly awaits their arrival, ready to be transformed into a tapestry of earthy colors.

The sky, a vast canvas of cerulean blue, welcomes the arrival of wispy clouds, feathery pillows that drift lazily overhead. Their shadows dance upon the landscape, adding depth and contrast to the ever-changing tableau. With their melodious songs, birds bid adieu to their summer haven as they migrate toward warmer lands, leaving behind echoes of their symphonies.

In the distance, the harvest moon rises, casting a soft glow upon the land. Its luminous face, reminiscent of a carved pumpkin, watches over the earth as it prepares for slumber. The nights grow longer, the air crisper, as autumn's embrace tightens its grip.

Welcome, oh autumn, 
with your crisp apples and 
spiced cider. 

Welcome, with your 
cozy sweaters and 
crackling fires. 

Welcome, with your 
rustling leaves and 
promise of renewal.

Your arrival 
reminds us
change is beautiful.

Even in the depths of darkness, 
there is always 
a glimmer of light.

Upcoming…

• A poem about corporate rot:

  Zombie Apocalypse, 28 September 2024

• This is the release day for my new book, The Edges, now available in digital and paperback formats

AMAZON

BARNES & NOBLE

APPLE BOOKS

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EMPATHY FADES AWAY like a neglected flower in the chaotic rhythm of life.

The relentless spinning of the world blurs the boundaries between reality and apathy.

The constant flood of news and updates on our screens numbs us to the rawness of human emotion.

Despite the chaos, something innate urges us to awaken our dormant empathy.

Our souls contain a wellspring of compassion, ready to be tapped and shared with kindness and understanding.

It’s an urgent plea to reconnect with our shared humanity, a call to action.

Let’s not forget to pause, breathe, and consider more than just ourselves. To connect, to empathize, to provide support for others’ pain. Let empathy awaken the compassion within us, leading us to a kinder world.

2024 Copyright Caro Henry

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

Lest We Forget was originally published in Sum & Substance on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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AS DAYLIGHT FADES and twilight takes its place, a sense of enchantment fills the air.

The sky becomes a tapestry of pastel hues, as if nature herself is painting a masterpiece.

The setting sun casts long shadows, stretching across the landscape like silken ribbons.

The world is wrapped in a gentle embrace, as the day and night converge in a delicate dance.

Stars appear overhead, their light piercing through the veil of darkness.

It is a liminal space, a time of transition, where the boundaries between day and night blur, and a portal unlocks to reveal the cosmic code to our existence.

In this ethereal moment, the beauty of twilight whispers secrets to those who are willing to listen.

2024 Copyright Caro Henry

At Twilight was originally published in Sum & Substance on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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I LOOK SKYWARD and am enveloped in a realm of endless creativity. Above, a vast expanse of cerulean serves as a canvas for my boundless imagination.

Soft clouds drift leisurely, morphing into intricate shapes before my eyes.

A formidable dragon materializes, its regal presence emanating from the billowy white, its iridescent scales catching the sun’s radiant beams.

Amidst this ethereal display, a grand castle emerges, its spires stretching skyward in a defiant reach towards the heavens. Silhouetted against the ever-shifting backdrop of the sky, it stands as a symbol of strength and resilience.

The clouds, like ancient bards, weave tales of yore and forgotten aspirations, their whispered narratives carrying echoes of bygone eras.

In a mesmerizing spectacle, the clouds beckon me to immerse myself in their fleeting allure, urging my mind to soar into their ephemeral tendrils.

Within this fleeting moment, the sky transforms into a gateway to a world where the inconceivable thrives, where the boundaries between reverie and reality blur in a mesmerizing ballet of whimsical possibilities.

2024 Copyright Caro Henry

Clouds Illusions was originally published in Sum & Substance on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

I will find comfort in the rhythm of the sea. — Charlotte Eriksson

THE SETTING SUN pours liquid gold on the endless horizon as the Earth rotates to night.

A seagull rides on the warm current of a breeze, silhouetted black against the sky’s brilliance.

As I thrust forward into the silky waves, my mind does not envision me as a mere inhabitant of the sea or a boat fashioned from its very essence.

No, my imagination takes me to a place far beyond that.

It transports me to a realm where I am transformed into a liquid entity, pouring myself out into the surrounding waters.

I become one with the ocean, surrendering to its captivating pull, enticed by the prospect of dissolution and loss of self.

In this metamorphosis, I am fragmented into myriad atom-sized liquid selves, merging into a formidable force that reigns supreme in this world.

With relentless determination, I erode the solidity of rocks, transforming them into grains of sand, carving out hollows, crevices, and treacherous underwater caverns that ensnare unsuspecting creatures in the clutches of outgoing tides.

Emerging from the depths of the ocean, I ascend, but my legs remain partially liquid, unaccustomed to the weight they bear.

As I attempt to walk, I am reminded of my solid nature by the sensation of sand grains beneath my feet.

I feel myself sinking, slipping, and sliding, desperately clinging to stability by curling my toes.

With each step, I am reborn into a new existence, infused with an urgency that compels me forward, armed with newfound strength and joy.

Credits for photos used in the video I created (with the help of Canva) to introduce this post on Instagram and other social media, go to Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash, Matt Hardy on Unsplash, and Joseph Barrientos on Unsplash.

Upcoming…

• Five letters never sent (a story in five parts):

  Dear Daddy, 9 March 2024

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IN THE FROSTY world of winter’s embrace, a mystical dance unfolds as snowflakes, like celestial messengers, descend from the heavens, each a unique creation, a miniature masterpiece, divinely designed. They twirl and pirouette through the air, their delicate forms glistening in the pale moonlight, weaving threads of frozen wonder across the land.

The world, cloaked in a pristine robe of white, becomes a sanctuary—serene, sounds muffled. Trees stand tall and proud, their branches adorned with delicate icicles, crystal chandeliers that shimmer and sparkle with every gust of wind. The ground is a canvas of untouched purity, a blank slate inviting us to leave our mark, imprint our dreams upon its frozen surface.

The snow crunches beneath our feet with every step, a symphony of sound, a thousand secrets shared. The air is crisp and invigorating, filling our lungs with icy breaths, awakening our senses, and reminding us of beauty in the simplest of moments.

As the winter solstice approaches, we gather together, bound by the warmth of our love and the light of our spirits. Many of us light fires that flicker and dance in the hearth, casting shadows upon the walls as we huddle close, seeking comfort in each other’s company. The solstice reminds us that even in the darkest times, there is always a glimmer of hope, a promise of light.

As the solstice passes, we emerge from the darkness, like the phoenix rising from the ashes, ready to embrace the world with renewed vigor and hearts filled with love. Some of us gather under starlit skies, raising our voices in song, and we discover melodies that transcend time and space and carry our hopes and dreams into the universe. The stillness of night, broken by our harmonious chorus, becomes a celebration of life and all its wonders.

Families gather, their hearts alight with joy, exchanging tokens of love and gratitude. Each carefully wrapped gift holds within it a piece of our hearts, a tangible reminder of our love and appreciation for one another. We revel in the joy of seeing smiles light up faces, of witnessing the pure delight that comes with unwrapping the mysteries of the world. Gifts, like winter’s other grace notes, are woven into the fabric of this season, highlighting the beauty of human connection.

Beyond the material treasures, we find ourselves immersed in the true gift of winter: a time of reflection and introspection, a chance to turn inward and nurture our souls. For in the harshest of seasons—as the world remains frozen in time, awaiting Spring’s first gentle touch—we may find the strength to endure and cherish the warmth within us, learn to appreciate the fleeting beauty of a snowflake, the soft crackle of a fire, and the embrace of loved ones.

Author’s Note

In the Caribbean snow is non-existent, of course, but each island has its own rituals and customs that celebrate the season.

In Jamaica, when I was younger, I looked forward to Jonkonnu, a parade of masked and costumed celebrants, dancing to drums and cow bells. The people on stilts were a wonder to me. The parade would wind through the streets with some participants breaking away from the parade, open front gates, and give private performances to families. They carried a cup or bag with them, wanting to be paid for their effort.

I also remember people in the Cayman Islands scooping up fresh white sand from the beaches on December 24, sprinkling it evenly around the yard and underneath a tree with Christmas decorations, pretending it was the snow portrayed on all the Christmas cards. Walkways leading up to houses were lined with conch shells. No one was allowed to step on the white sand until Christmas Day.

One more thing…

This is the video I created (with the help of Canva) to introduce this prose poem on Instagram and other social media.

Credits for photos used in the video go to David Beale, Lore Schodts, and Ray Hennessy on Unsplash.

Upcoming…

• A story about a family in a new land:

  A Christmas Miracle, 23 December 2023

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THE POND LIES in a serene clearing, surrounded by lush greenery and the sweet songs of cardinals, wrens, and other feathered creatures.

The water, tranquil and still, reflects the blue sky and the cirrocumulus cotton candy-like clouds drifting by.

Lily pads, adorned with delicate blooms in a spectrum of colors, float atop the pond like miniature rafts, providing a haven for the resident frogs, which blink their eyes slowly and croak their content as they bask in the warm sun.

Here, time slows down, and worries fade away.

It's a sanctuary for those seeking solace from the chaos of everyday life.

The gentle rustling of the leaves and the soft hum of the insects form a symphony of peace that lulls the soul into a state of tranquility.

As the sun sets, the pond takes on a new beauty, with the colors of the sky painting the water in an ethereal glow.

The frogs continue their chorus, joined by the toads and peepers and an occasional hoot from a barred owl, as fireflies perform their mating dance around the lily pads, illuminating the stillness of the night.

In this idyllic paradise, one can find respite from the noise and clamor of the world.

It's a place to contemplate, meditate, and find oneself, assurance that sometimes the most precious and sacred moments are found in the serenity of nature.

Upcoming…

• Looking for the positive:

  Sunny in Seattle, 9 December 2023

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IN THE STILLNESS of a dimly lit room, a retired Senior Master Sergeant lies, immersed in the throes of a life-stealing cancer. Time, that other elusive thief, whispers in his ear, reminding him of the passage of years, of moments lived and cherished. Memories, like ghosts, float through his mind, stirring up emotions that have long been dormant.

He recalls the day he enlisted, a young and eager soul drawn to the promise of adventure. The Air Force became his second family, the roar of jet engines his lullaby, as he ensured they soared through the heavens with airmen ready to complete their mission. He fought wars and served his country with unwavering loyalty, a man of honor.

But amongst the backdrop of battles fought and victories won, there was a love left unspoken. A long-lost flame, a connection never fully extinguished. He recalls the moment their paths crossed again, decades later, the flame rekindled, a love that had been buried beneath the weight of duty. They married in a whirlwind of emotions, embracing the joy that life had bestowed upon them.

Now, as his body succumbs to the ravages of illness, he reflects on the persistent march of time. How swiftly it passes, stealing away the vitality of youth, replacing it with aching bones and the harsh reality of mortality. Yet, in the face of death, he finds solace in the love he was fortunate enough to experience once more.

As his eyes drift closed and his breaths become longer, the retired Senior Master Sergeant embraces the bittersweet symphony of his life. He may be leaving this world, but his memories, his love, will forever dance among the stars, evidence of a life well-lived. And in the embrace of eternal slumber, he finds peace, knowing that his legacy will continue to soar, like the wings of an eagle, through the hearts of those he loved and inspired.

Author’s Note

This prose poem was inspired by events in the summer and early fall of 2023, an emotionally and mentally exhausting time. In the hospital, we witnessed a loved one’s physical and emotional pain. We remained hopeful for a positive outcome, but the cancer was persistent.

The family transitioned to home hospice care once told he was dying. This shift allowed us to provide comfort and support in a familiar environment, surrounded by family and cherished memories. We had meaningful moments with him and each other, even with his ongoing medical attention.

Watching his health deteriorate was heart-wrenching, as the cancer's relentlessly cumulative effect grew evident. Managing pain became a primary focus, and we relied on the expertise of healthcare professionals to ensure his comfort. We encouraged each other to express our feelings, reminiscing and discussing hopes for the future, even if it seemed uncertain.

Finally, the day arrived when he peacefully passed away. My sister, the love of his life, held his hand and placed her forehead against his, whispering her love as he took his last breath. Emotions of grief, loss, and emptiness consumed us, but we found solace in knowing that his suffering had ended. Both sorrow and gratitude characterized the mourning period—for the time we shared, the lessons learned, and the love that will forever endure.

This time taught me the importance of cherishing moments with loved ones, expressing emotions openly, and finding strength in unity. Losing someone to cancer is painful, but their memories and lessons live on.

Upcoming…

• A time for reflection:

  A Quiet Pond, 6 December 2023

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IN THE HEART of a bustling city, where autumn lingered in the crisp air, there wandered a woman without a home, burdened by the weight of solitude and hunger. Her weary feet shuffled along the pavement, tracing a path through the alleyways adorned with crumbling bricks and forgotten dreams.

Her name, Judith, lost among the city's symphony of voices, was a mere echo in the wind. Her eyes, once vibrant emeralds, now dulled by the harsh reality of life on the streets. She wore tattered rags that clung to her frail form, affirming the relentless passage of time.

As the golden hues of autumn leaves danced above her, the woman yearned for comfort, a respite from the biting chill that gnawed at her bones. Thanksgiving approached, and with it, the promise of warmth and nourishment that seemed forever elusive.

Through the winding streets she wandered, her footsteps echoing tales of sorrow. Her search became a quest for not only sustenance but for a flicker of hope amidst the shadows of her existence. She sought a place, a refuge, where a warm Thanksgiving meal awaited her, a feast that would momentarily mend the fragments of her broken spirit.

She stepped into a church, its wooden doors creaking open, revealing a sanctuary adorned with flickering candlelight. The warmth embraced her, like a long-lost lover's embrace, as she sought solace within the hallowed walls.

The aroma of roasted turkey wafted through the air, mingling with the laughter and clinking of cutlery. In the dimly lit hall, tables stretched like a vast banquet, adorned with vibrant fruits and pies that whispered promises of sweet indulgence. Faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, gathered around, their eyes shining.

A gentle hand reached out, offering her a seat at the table, a place where she was no longer invisible. The woman without a home, her eyes brimming with gratitude, savored every morsel, felt a sense of belonging. She listened to the symphony of conversations, the laughter, and the stories told, woven like fragments of forgotten dreams finding their way back home.

In that moment, she remembered warmth was not merely the heat that emanated from a crackling hearth or the touch of a cozy blanket. It was the kindness of strangers, the generosity of a community, and the strength of the human spirit. And as the taste of pumpkin pie lingered on her lips, she found comfort in the empathetic and shared humanity.

Author’s Note

If you’re in the U.S. and celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving!

Wishing everyone everywhere days filled with joy, gratitude, and cherished moments shared with loved ones. May joy and laughter fill your home, your table abound with delicious food, and your hearts glow with warmth and thankfulness.

Upcoming…

• A flash fiction piece, third of three endings to The Beginning:

  Cabin in the Woods, 25 November 2023

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Deep within the stellar tapestry of the constellation, Cassiopeia A emerges, an impressive cosmic remnant.

A celestial portrait etched in scattered light, her brilliance transcends time.

A luminous tribute to celestial dances, she whispers secrets of explosive demise, tales of cosmic rebirth, and boundless wonders woven throughout the universe’s fabric.

I wrote this poem in response to a prompt from Justin Deming in Fifties by the Fire. The prompt asked the writer to “Write a fifty-word story (fiction, poem, or work of CNF) incorporating stars, a starry night, or a constellation.” This is one I didn't submit.

Author’s Note

Cassiopeia A, a celestial wonder that graces the cosmos, is a breathtaking masterpiece of a star’s demise, a supernova. In the constellation Cassiopeia, it holds the distinction of being the most luminous radio source outside of our solar system at frequencies exceeding 1 GHz. The explosion itself took place roughly 11,000 light-years away, within our own Milky Way galaxy. The remaining supernova debris appears 10 light-years wide as viewed from Earth.

The remains of the explosion scatter like stardust through space. These remnants, forged in the fiery heart of the star, shimmer and sparkle with a brilliance that rivals the brightest jewels. They form a cosmic mosaic, evidence of the grandeur of the universe.

Cassiopeia A is a reminder of the beauty and fragility of life, the deep mysteries that lie beyond our reach. In this supernova remnant, we observe the boundless wonders of the universe and the infinite possibilities that await us in the depths of space.

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment. You also can show your appreciation by buying me breakfast.

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IN THE CELESTIAL realm of the sky, where the heavens touch the earth, a hawk soared with grace. Its wings, an elegant display of power, carried it effortlessly through the boundless azure expanse. With each beat, the wind whispered sweet melodies, as if nature itself acknowledged the majesty of this predator.

Down below, nestled amidst the verdant canopy, a plump dove, innocent and unsuspecting, danced among the trees. Its soft coos echoed through the woods, a lullaby that embraced the tranquility of the forest. Oblivious to the imminent danger that loomed above, the dove reveled in the serenity of its surroundings.

But the hawk, a predator born to hunt, had honed its instincts to perfection. Its keen eyes locked onto the plump dove, a jewel amidst the emerald foliage. The raptor's descent, swift and silent, cut through the air like a blade, casting an ominous shadow upon the peaceful scene below.

In a heartbeat, the world shattered. The raptor's talons, with razor-like precision, gripped the dove mercilessly. Its beak, a curved weapon of destruction, descended upon the innocent prey. Feathers scattered like autumn leaves caught in a tempest, floating aimlessly in the wake of chaos.

The plump dove, once full of life and vitality, now lay still in the clutches of the hawk. Its delicate form, once a symbol of peace, now an offering to the unforgiving laws of nature. The silence that followed was profound, a mournful requiem for a life lost.

And so, I came upon the angelic feathers on one of my walks and imagined the brutal act, as the hawk tore into the flesh of its prize. I mourned the life lost, even as I recognized the continuing circle of life, an eternal cycle of beauty and brutality, forever etched in the annals of the natural world.

Author’s Note

• A six-word prompt inspired this poem. I responded to the challenge with: Hawkish raptor catches, devastates plump dove. That response to the challenge was, in turn, inspired by coming across a patch of dove feathers—only feathers. It was as if the hawk had plucked all the feathers so it could enjoy its featherless meal of the plump dove.

• We have a Cooper’s Hawk couple that call our woods home. They go after rodents, small wild rabbits, and birds at our bird feeders, especially doves. 

• A quotation from Canto 56 of Tennyson’s In Memoriam A.H.H. also inspired me.

Nature, red in tooth and claw

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I AM FASCINATED with “edges,” all those natural transitional spaces.

I am drawn to the plants at the edge or border of a garden in the sun, where the shorter plants offer a profusion of blooms to attract the bees and butterflies as their sunny borders segue into the lawns where robins listen for their next earthy meal, the wild rabbits find the sweet clover hidden in the grass, and my dog rolls over to expose her belly to the sun.

I am drawn to the gardens in the dappled shade of the trees transitioning to the woods, where the ferns, hostas, and shade-loving plants offer cover for butterflies and insects, a couple of crows build their nest in a tall oak, the squirrels clean themselves of mites with a roll in the cool earth, and a wren claims squatter’s rights in an old woodpecker hole.

I am drawn to the woods behind our house that back up to farmland, to that space where shade-loving trees meet sun-loving grasses, where the groundhog hibernates in its burrow, the fox has a den, and the chipmunks hide their winter store.

I am drawn to the water’s edge when we visit the beach in the summer, where the waves hypnotically push and pull the sand, and the sand crabs, roly polies, and beach hoppers live.

I am drawn to the shoreline—the boundary between the land, sand, and water—where seagulls hunt the fish in the shallow waters of tide pools, and shellfish and mollusks attach themselves to rocks, docks, marinas, and boats.

I am drawn to the dawn, a twilight in reverse, when the blurred edges of the night give way to the bright light-focused rays of the sun, when the mother fox creeps back to her den of kits, and the birds begin their morning serenade.

I am drawn to twilight, when the bats emerge to eat their fill of the night insects, when the frogs, toads, and peepers begin their evening concert, and fireflies begin their courtship of blinking lights in late June.

You see, ecosystems meet at the edges, creating diverse habitats, acting as buffers for nature’s wrath, and contributing to the resilience and stability of the environment.

And if you are at all spiritual, it is at the edges where the inner being meets the corporeal, where questions are answered, and where true communion begins.

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