When one door closes in our lives, there is often the temptation to seek out another doorway to step through. We want to feel whole again, to feel in control again, and all too often, we choose to (in)conveniently overlook the fact that we first need to heal.
I don’t spend as much time writing poetry or short stories as I used to. I think that writing has often been a way for me to process things on my own, whereas nowadays I’m more likely to talk about things with others. I count myself lucky to have family and friends who are always ready to listen, to celebrate the good times and to help me through the not so good.
So many of us are wounded when we exit relationships. As we heal, there is often a conflict between wanting to love and be loved again, and our fear of being hurt and/or disappointed again. This poem is all about that conflict.
“A howling wind that blows the litter as the rain flows As street lamps pour orange colored shapes through your windows A broken soul, stares from a pair of watering eyes Uncertain emotions force an uncertain smile” Uncertain Smile, The The Each day, he was there. If it wasn’t in the morning when she pulled back her drapes, it was later in the evening; either when she checked that all of the doors were securely locked, or as she closed the drapes before finally getting into bed. It had been almost a week since Carol had first learned of his…
I’m the youngest of 3 boys, with an 11 year age difference between me and my oldest brother, David. He was my first hero and role model. He was the prodigal son who never really returned home. Some people embrace their roots, while others run from them, reinventing themselves along the way. David died in 2011 at the age of 61, and this was an attempt at working through my feelings.
September is always a time of reflection for me, and in looking back, I realized that so many of the key transitions in my life have all taken place in September.
This is based on memories of all of those games of ‘Hide and Seek’ with my daughter.
The little girl looked to her father and then looked back at the treasures spread out in front of her; the well-thumbed storybooks… each battered and well-worn item held its own story and its own place as part of the bond that held the girl and her father together.
The sudden noise of a weighty package hitting the linoleum brought Mavis Butterworth rushing out of the kitchen into the hallway… Ever since she’d read that newspaper advertisement which she’d hastily completed, clipped and mailed before she could change her mind.
For the last couple of months, I’ve been a big fan of the long-form content platform, Medium. In this age of the ever-shrinking attention span, I find it refreshing that there is both a place and clearly pent-up demand for well-crafted and thoughtful content. Every morning, I wake up to an email from Medium, sharing a hand-curated selection of recent posts, and I try to read at least 2 or 3 of them every day. What I like is that they introduce me to topics, perspectives and writing styles that I wouldn’t normally seek out. Just as Fox News and CNN…