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Operation Silence

Daddy never talked about the war. He wasn’t a part of the “greatest generation.” Instead he was protested, and spit on in the streets. Daddy never talked about the war. A war not named for the world but for a single country. Daddy never talked about that war. He fought for what he thought was right. But when he returned, told he was wrong. Daddy never talked about Vietnam, but when they kept calling, he kept going back, nine tours for something to believe in. Daddy neve


Life burbles from the spring, excited, grasping, experiencing, rolling over the smoothed rocks to join the waters that have moved through here before. Playfully it bounces--moving as a brook, babbling, shifting, as it grows stronger. It stays within its banks, yes, but it slowly works on the edges-- quietly taking more space where it can. It continues to gain strength, to move with others of its own kind. Yet, when one slows to fill the void of a hole, of a vacant footprint,

An Ode to Babelicious

He paced the lobby of the veterinary hospital. A walk he seemed to have taken several times before. Though in younger years probably much steadier. Every approach of a tech, every approach of a receptionist, he would look expectantly for any news of his loved one. His face radiated hope, his posture—anxiety. Finally, the gentle old soul sat next to me. “Your cat okay?” he asked, gesturing to the carrier on my lap. Genuinely concerned, but genuinely trying to keep his mind occ

Crows Recognize Faces

Crows recognize faces-- they remember kindnesses bestowed and any disgraces. I remember faces— the kindnesses bestowed, the touching warm glow from your many graces. Crows will sound the alarm, a warning to teach their kin who would cause them harm. But I’ve never not trusted you, believe your every word. I can’t wait to see you again every time we bid adieu. Crows remember those who have shown them affection. They’ll stay by their side, I wish we could have that, too. I’ll a

The Cathedral of Trees

I move through the cathedral of trees to a place that both quiets and stirs my soul. The ravens overhead ever in attendance at this service they call home. The choir sings their serene song: the breeze whistling through the branches-- the harmony, while the river rushing over the rocks-- the melody. The trees give way to the sanctuary and there I take in the shining, melodious waters I offer up my penance, four-count casts in a series of perpetual hope for a rise not just for

Lost in the Pages

Where do we go when the world is full of despair, when the world is full of fear, when the world is on fire? Where do you go when the loneliness won’t leave you alone, when the pressures of living threatens to crack your very soul, when the thought of failure commands you close the door to what you know? Where do I go? I go where most writers do. To the worlds where we have control. To the heroes that give us our answers. To the villains who know the depth of ego. I go not to

War, War-like, Warrior

What happens when you’re built strong and sturdy with a fiery temper that blows off the peak of a dormant volcano. The anger spilling out, running down, its magmatic fingers reaching to burn, to hurt in reaction to its being hurt. What happens when other kids are intimidated by your size, your strength. You didn’t mean to grow this fast this early. But they all want you on their dodgeball team, their basketball team. You’re taller. You can hit harder. Used. What happens when

Buttercup Hill

Only a block away, really at the end of our cul-de-sac, we were a world away up on Buttercup Hill. No houses with prying eyes, only boulders with crawly surprises. They would invade our craggy castle and we would abandon it to run farther up Buttercup Hill. The golden grass waved, long enough to slip beneath our outstretched fingers. Sometimes the little blue and yellow flowers would catch our eyes and we would pause our climb. Pick a bunch and run back down the hill, down th


Fire regenerates It makes space for the new. Fire regenerates It clears out old for youth. Fire regenerates but will you be at peace when it comes for you? Phoenix by tomhotovy on DeviantArt. #poetry #fire #phoenix

Moon Child Magic

He called her his sun, but he never looked directly at her. Only squinted in frustration on days she shined a little too brightly, and complained on days she hid. He called her his sun, but only bothered to look at her when their time together was setting. "She's beautiful." She's gone. He called her his moon, and gazed at her lovingly. Her shine thrilled him on days she felt whole and on days she didn't. He called her his moon, and waited patiently for her to reflect the lig

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