If my seasonal affective disorder was a person…
Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.
Where my lips
the glass and
stir my pain.
a cry will
And what love
I know in me
sings no more.
Written from “Sonnet XLIII” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
No lives matter,
nothing together. Stop,
her mother, standing,
Written from “I Stop Writing the Poem” by Tess Gallagher.
I fear all we have done is to awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve.
She sits in a room filled with clothes, trinkets, and warmth. As others take to the streets, her eyes stare at the wall. Continue reading “Getting out of bed for a war”
THE MIDDLE YEARS by Walter McDonald
These are the nights we dreamed of,
snow drifting over a cabin roof
in the mountains, enough stacked wood
and meat to last a week, alone at last
I’m having trouble concentrating on writing creatively until I jot down how today has made me feel, which is as follows:
Resuscitate /rəˈsəsəˌtāt/ verb 1. to revive (someone) from unconsciousness or apparent death 2. make (something such as an idea or enterprise) active or vigorous again Continue reading “Resuscitation”