An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Bursting with flavor biting into a juicy orange a ripe apple a beautiful pomegranate it explodes onto the tongue and sends ecstasy to your brain reminds you of the time of complete nirvana one with the universe The cliche is trite and overused, overworked but since it happens so rarely how else do you describe it in any other words that don't sound flowery and trite? The dictionary doesn't help and sometimes simple is better even if it causes so many groans of disgust and the rolling of eyes into their heads.

  "Each garden is a grave" (after Richard Howard , prompt from The Writer's Retreat Kit by Judy Reeves ) Each garden is a grave life's decay enriches the very soil under your feet. Leaves crumple to the ground as the autumn winds blow the world above lies in slumber. Underneath the seeds are dormant in the arms of darkness They sleep the temperature dips far below what life demands. Some take their last breath and their blanket is cold icy earth. But it doesn't last forever. Before long new life springs forth from the old awakens and stretches out arms to the sun. And shines in all its glory the warm rays bathes it with their favor. Short and fleeting Till Nature's cycle runs its course. Till arms grow heavy and droop beautiful colors fade roots wither and die petals scatter like insects to nourish the dark loam that will harbor the next generation at the very same place the very same time. Over and over over again.

 Prompt: "Down to the deepest depths I peered" (after The Poetic EddaI, prompt from The Writer's Retreat Kit by Judy Reeves ) The Poetic Edda is a collection of alliterative verse based on Old Norse and Germanic legends. There are several versions of the collection.) Down to the deepest depths I peered to see a silver sun instead filled with fronds of falling leaves red and rose and rapture green. A passion seen in purple prose darkening to deep desire the ballad of a brazen bard sweet song of sentimental stone The tone can tell a troubled tale from fiery cave to freezing falls terrible trials and trying times a victory in vicious verse. Peace will have a precious price Coveting a cache of coin Silencing secrets out of sight for freedom, fame and fortune. What's the worth of such a weight a conscience cracked and charred so cruel? Steeped in sin but still so soft History will have her hand.

(Prompt: "Comfort Me with Apples", quote from The Song of Solomon, 2:5, King James Version , prompt from The Writer's Retreat Kit by Judy Reeves ) Comfort me with apples the smell of freshly baked pie wafting through the kitchen window on the first days of autumn. The feeling of home of the love of family and of friends brought together under a banner of falling leaves. Apple tarts picked ripe from the tree from branch to oven in a moment Dough rolled out by a loving hand sprinkled with spices. Tempt me with the sweetness fork with every bite rich and full with the hint of tartness beneath. The laughter of my brethren echoes across the mountains and hills seeing the young and the old together I am content.

Prompt: "Poetry roots itself in the dreamer" (quote from Judy Michaels , prompt from The Writer's Retreat Kit by Judy Reeves ) Poetry roots itself in the dreamer Words bubble to the top like a glass of lazy seltzer water. The bubbles burst and release their voice quiet and brief. You have to listen carefully catch it in the right moment then write it for posterity. Sometimes it doesn't show itself in the bright sun of the day.. It sneaks around at the dead of night when your eyes are closed and your consciousness travels to other inner worlds. That's where it takes hold. The river of words which arrives, then stays there waiting to be discovered hidden until the right time the right place for it to crash forth to be heard.

(6 Greek, 5 Hindu, 2 Japanese, 2 Chinese...and 1 English) There are sixteen words for love: 1) Agape , unconditional with no if, and, or but my goodwill towards all 2) Eros , physical purely an appreciation of the body with the soul. 3) Philia , brotherly love affectionate regard friendship 4) Storge , parental from a mother or a father to a child. 5) Philautia , to oneself concerned with one's own happiness or advantage 6) Xenia , hospitality welcome to my house mi casa e tu casa. 7) Kama , longing craving for the senses pleasure of all kinds 8) Shringara , rapture emotional bonding the giddiness of your presence 9) Maitri , compassion giving love in so many little ways food, comfort, kindness 10) Bkhati , devotion praying to your Deity day after day for peace 11) Atma-Prema , love for self we are all one, there is no distinction, no difference 12) Kachou Fuugetsu , love of nature feel the wind in the trees, the heat of the sun and get to know yourself 13) Koi no Yokan , love a

If all you look at are numbers statistics popularity you can be primed for disappointment. Four views three of those blogs promoting crypto and AI. Negativity and drama fueling clicks and arguments. Pandering to an audience hungry for content. Bad news generate revenue good news generate grumbling "this never happened. give me proof it did". Bite sized chunks for a ant sized attention span. Flashy music and graphics fake smiles and outrage hollow laughter covers unease. Desensitized to the horrors that life can unleash. "It could be worse" backseat analysts pass judgment. The hidden gems are buried in the dross: you have to make the effort to find them. If you want to open your mind and your heart and lift your spirits defy the algorithm.

The randomness of it all: teddy bears, smiley faces and the faces of customers sitting in the diner Quick pen strokes capturing the weariness the cheerfulness the hustle and bustle of servers coming and going from the kitchens shouting "corner!" to prevent collisions and the chatter of the old style cash register. Tiny pictures crammed into every available space a capture of a time when all eyes are turned away but a snapshot of the moment still exists.

Prompt: A World without Music (from The Writer's Retreat Kit by Judy Reeves ) It was strange, to move about with absolutely no sound. No birdsong, no rustle of leaves in the trees, no soft footfall in your wake. A world of complete, utter silence. Yes, every color was perfectly balanced to the eye. The feel of silk as it whispered across your skin. The tart sweetness of a newly peeled orange on your tongue.The smell of roses and wintergreen and the aroma of a homecooked meal. Yet something feels off, not quite right. Although everything else in this world is perfect, it is not perfect. There is something missing, something quite important. The world is bathed in perpetual quiet, and it's unnerving.  

  The candle burns brightly from both ends as the storm quiets down the flames flicker as they slowly reach towards each other not at the same speed or at the same intensity. The wick that runs through slowly and inevitably brings them together it may take days weeks months years as wax sizzles and drips onto the floor and freeze into all sorts of shapes out of view and forgotten. Will they finally meet or will one burn out before they can immolate each other?

 More #vss365 responses in haiku and tanka. Prompt words are marked with # #greed not just for funds time, affection, attention it's never enough #rats scurry around wondering at the wide wide world through their simple eyes. Today I ran my fingers along the edge of the kitchen knife. I had to come face to face with all possibilities. What am I to you? #Chopped liver, fancy but bad? Parade me around serve me on silver platters, but you can't live without me. Colors on my #brush pastels, the color of spring sunny storms abound. A contradiction: approval is so #fluid one day it is good the next, according to whim withdrawn because of reasons. So day after day I #muster the energy to face all of it. Old wise matriarch she always kept the peace and held it together the #glue who oversaw all that fell apart at her loss. The leading questions #probing for what I do know what you keep hidden. #Cathartic feeling when someone confirms to you that you aren't nuts that

The sun sinks low on the horizon. It is still warm. Dusk paints a colorful palette purples, reds, oranges that dazzle the eye. It doesn't fail to amaze, astound and humble the soul. That even then, even now the cycle reaches its conclusion but it doesn't have to be the end. The Darkness doesn't need to be feared. It is a doorway to a brand new world. You don't need eyes to hear the nightingale's siren song to usher you to sleep. The stars above watch close they've been there since the beginning and will endure until the end of time. You are not alone there is nothing to fear. Let peace be your blanket as the day falls away.

The sculptor looks at the block with a loving critical eye plans where to strike where to sand it down sharp points into curves Mold an unforgiving stone into a pleasing shape lifelike with depth and shadow and breathes existence at the very last second. Delicate lace, muscles and tendons appear soft to one's vision but reach out a hand and touch to find not fabric or flesh but the hard coldness underneath. This illusion is complete. Mastery of the life from lifelessness. Marvel at the depth of skill the rare vision of pure transformation It takes your breath away.  

The air grows warmer I catch sunlight between my fingertips The sound of bees during the day and the chirp of crickets at night. The wind blows cold from east to west and back again. Not a cloud in the sky a perfect pastel blue with no storms to be seen. Those were halcyon days when Nature woke up and basked in the lengthy hours of a carefree afternoon.

Words can be used as blunt instruments but they can also be as sharp as a scalpel or a razor that cuts into your soul and makes it bleed. Even after years discovering that the true soul doesn't lie when it says its truth hidden away among pages sandwiched between colorful covers. Realization sets in that what you thought was sacred, inviolate turns out to be a carefully constructed fiction to prop up a hollow dead soul. A soul that died years ago now the corpse is walking and taking up the pen writing to ghosts who deliver their sting long after the fact: a double edged sword.

Here, take this you really shouldn't go alone: The magical sword a relic of power the magic ring of invisibility the latest technology the power of friendship Gather your allies and sally forth have fun storming the castle don your plot armor. Quest giver the old learned wizard the lady of the lake the forgotten sensei in the bamboo forest of dreams. Conquer your enemy scale the highest mountain vanquish the dragon complete the mission your very essence changed. Return home in triumph showered with wealth and glory or slip back undetected wiser and more world weary to live the rest of your days.

Words Reflections of feelings events in a person's life Their background history their home different words depending from where they came but meaning the exact same thing. Sometimes flowery rolling like the hills abstract yet touching a poet's spin on a simple description. Sometimes precise zeroing in on the details with no room for error under a scientist's discerning eye. How else do you explain the workings of the mind of the soul of the heart with the goal of being understood

A year ago I looked at a mess of music and said "I'll never be able to do this." Chords, arpeggios, flourishes tablature?! A whole new way of thinking a whole new way of moving fingers along the strings muscle memory practice scales over and over and over. Why do we have to do this?! Repetition, while there is music to be played! Tunes to be learned melodies to be shared! But slowly but surely my body knew where to go my ear knew what to hear and it all came together in a glorious symphony. And my soul was in awe.

The length of a piece means very little. A world within just a few words. A whole lot of nothing in a thousand pages. A soft and sweet lullaby with a very simple cadence puts a baby to sleep. An hours-long concerto with ever complicated arias puts an audience into a coma. Words of acknowledgment just a hint or two lifts the spirit higher than a rambling dissertation of how they benefit from the company's generosity. A concise explanation of how life works serves one more than a long winded tirade of every systemic flaw. Wisdom is knowing how to teach without falling in love with your own voice.

Stream of consciousness whatever comes to mind just get it down on the paper or screen. Spelling doesn't matter disjointed fragments of what, when, where, how, why. Five minutes here two hours there it builds up in between appointments life's crises, school shenanigans and emergencies. Every day even for a fraction notes jotted down on the back of a napkin captured in the moment just one key word to spark a remembrance. Life's full of pitfalls internet rabbit holes Sometimes I miss a day but that's all right. If I get one word in if one idea is heard it is worth it

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The spirit of the times whatever is popular right now history is a bubble What is important at this present moment in this space of time How are you feeling? The way forward is golden or tarnished or dark. Optimistic or realistic or pessimistic. The future is ours to behold the past is behind us. But right here right now the judgment of the ages come with the hindsight of wisdom which really doesn't change In this carefree time the youths see life with open eyes and live right here in the moment.

Almond and Olive Cypress and Seagrass Sandalwood Rose Japanese Blossom Shea Butter Fragrant Apple Lavender Natural Cold batch Vegan Handcrafted Wrapped up in pretty paper milled by the most careful hands. A deluge of scents A rainbow of colors Pamper your senses Treat your skin Luxuriate Soak in the water And let your worries and cares drift away from your mind.

Bread from my childhood the smell takes me back la panetteria the bakery next to the elementary school the scent wafted through the air into the courtyard and into the classrooms with dreams of panini and rolls cakes and sweets of all kinds. A handful of lira could get you a panettone during Christmastime. Hazelnut spreads jams and jellies baked fresh daily. I miss those innocent days when you had good bread to fill your stomach.

I took a break from the usual writing schedule over the Easter holidays. Kiddos had Good Friday through today off and will return to school tomorrow. Plenty of goodies, including chocolate bunnies and marshmallow Peeps and a turkey dinner. I'm seeing a lot of turkey sandwiches in my immediate future. It was nice to relax and be able to catch up with things. We went out to the park for the first time this season, since the weather was actually warm enough to do it. It's about a 15 minute drive just down the road from our new house. The usual Greenway was temporarily closed, but there are still many walking trails in Reedy Creek Park. We took a short walk to the lake near the playground. The kids were able to get fresh air and sunshine and actually enjoy being outside. Slowly but surely, we'll take longer and longer walks. I need to build up my stamina for it. Of course, Reedy Creek was quite popular, with hikers, picnickers and kids at the playground and the basketball court

I. Brewing a pot of strong dark Sumatra coffee it's enough to last hours in front of a screen: the last push before it's final. II Everything on hold social media on pause set 'do not disturb' the music on my headphones the office door closed firmly III. "Mommy's on deadline" dealing with the guilt when they tell me what is right self discipline is fine when it's applied to other things. IV. But when the job's done and the final edit's made life becomes normal until the one time it isn't the cycle repeats again.

We all got to start somewhere. Life just has to start something. There are times of great activity together with unexciting lulls. I don't mind a few bumps all roads have potholes. The road crews need to be a bit more on time, though. The roadtrip of life had some near misses I caught the stoplight wrong all down the boulevard. At least I have plenty of snacks and a lot of water. There are many roadside stations and quirky out of the way attractions. Driving through lightning snowstorms and fog even through a hurricane but the weather breaks at the end. What will I do when it's time to trade in the car for the new one? Go on a new trip of course.

Yellow-stained rice vegetables, with too much spice smile and say the food is nice. Sit and listen well the stories he has to tell not a word edgewise in that hell. Tells you that you are wrong always the same song you just smile and nod along Pick up after him dreams and memories grow dim encouragement is so slim. Break the cycle and flee But one thing he can never see that is never was about me.

Vibrating strings in courses of two waves of notes gently travel through the wood Arpeggios, scales single notes, trills vibratos and double stops techniques pay off in the end. There are many ways to read the language of composers gone by and talents to come. Sweet melodies hover in the air ringing in the heart and mind long after they fade away.

When spring comes the life in the air brings a renewed spirit of warmth and hope. Gentle winds blow from the east the leaves rustle right past my window. The shrieks of children playing outside bikes parked outside the garage adventures to be had. Flowers poke out of winter's soil eagerly facing the sun for the first time. No one can deny the cold long slumber is at an end and the warmth is here to stay.

Sometimes I look out my window and I see the neighbors' kids at play. I remember the time when I wish I could do the same inside looking out. And now I'm glad that the cycle of isolation is broken. Patterns do not repeat. The world is a scary place. But if you are paralyzed by fear it will always be terrifying.

I flee into a sea of notes let them flow around me take me away to a world where all is in harmony. They drown out everything outside. In my inner world the orchestra keeps in time. Playlists grow longer random tunes echo and soothe my soul and lift my spirits. When you venture into a world of imagination the conductor takes the baton and places it in your hand.

Sifting memories through my hands they crumble fade away washed out in the rain. Details are no longer clear and sharp. As much as I grasp they slip and fall into a murky abyss. I notice it is day one minute and the next it's already night. Where had the time gone? Why is it so fast? Faces hover over me They tell me who they are. I cannot recall I rely on the truths they tell me but honestly I cannot remember.

Pick up the brush put it in a well of infinite color. Mix and match complementary and contrasting. Translate ideas into forms shapes depth and shadows The canvas all white but filled to the brim with different melodies and harmonies. Does it have a hidden meaning? Or is it exactly what it appears to be? You can decide whether or not tailor it to your very existence.

The first stanza is based on a writing prompt (#whistpr Daily Prompt on Bluesky, run by @whistberry.bsky.social). The prompt word is #canvas. The rest of the poem is an extension of that prompt. Your life is made of broad brushstrokes and you control the color and type of paint. They say that the world is your #canvas. But to be seen in a gallery your painting must be bought by a wealthy investor. It is one thing to make art for art's sake. For the love of it Ideas fly across the #canvas to take shape in new and wild ways. To deconstruct well-worn ideas and breathe new life in original forms. They are a piece of your soul. But in a world where ideas are no longer considered unique and creativity is only a means to an end. Where numbers to satisfy an algorithm And images culled to make a profit the #canvas crumbles. The challenge is to keep that spirit alive despite all means and attempts to kill it. And it is a balance not to compromise the quality of your #canvas as you present it

25 stanzas of Haiku and tanka written with daily prompts from #vss365 on Twitter/X. Haiku has 3 lines per stanza (each line with 5-7-5 syllables, respectively). Tanka has 5 lines per stanza (5-7-5-7-7 syllables). The original prompt word is marked with #. Some have more than one prompt word; that covers more than one day of #vss365. _____ I. She's obsessed with him: what she feels is not true love just sad #limerence . II. Mum serves #muskmelon tropical fruit in a bowl But Hubby declines the texture is way too much appearance too exotic. III. Peaceful tranquil nights light beams upon the river I stand there, #moonstruck . IV. #intellectual uses very big words to #discombobulate V. The need to be seen is so #poignant but also so delusional. VI. There's too much shouting things that do not matter much: there's too much #clamor . VII. Argue with the storm face the #shipwreck of folly: it's a long way down. IX. An #exquisite meal only distracts you from the constant

The axe came down with the roar of thunder biting Then falling Vision broken apart Light shattered landing in the dark with an omnious thump in silence. Join your comrades a mass of souls swayed by the promises of a new sun to break over the land. No more pain forever peace prosperity and harmony. Silent witness as history turns. Burning summer turns to bitter fall. Dead leaves turn to cruel winter cold. Suffering goes on. Where was the promise? The lofty words spoken by those who sway with poisoned words and heavenly ideals? Ideas soaked in blood. The victors become the tyrants turning against each other tearing themselves apart like wolves with no prey to distract them. Heroes are cast down Villains are raised up. Which one was I? I can't remember. Memory is fading In one fleeting moment Heartbeat stutters. Thoughts vanish like mist I give myself to history. The axe came down.

The mirror is still in one piece but for how long? The years have taken its toll. How many faces have been reflected in its depths? How many secrets has it revealed in every shadow and wrinkle seen? Every scandal recorded in time. The frame has lost its consistency warped by changes in temperature dust in every crack and crevice. Liquid mercury runs free no longer in one soft pool silver sheen deceptively beautiful The longer you stare into the abyss the longer you became comfortable with the upside down world. Are you willing to fix the mirror? Or are you simply content to throw it away and find a new one?

  I. Volumes line the shelves as far as the eye can see above and below a silent testament to the wisdom of the ages. II. You hear the voices begging, pleading, cajoling "I need to be read. Take me from my prison and delve into another world." III. Oh, so seductive! After all, what harm is there Just one little peek The world will still be the same And nothing will ever change. IV. Your hand reaches for the nearest colorful one siren song gleeful its warmth wraps around you like a soft familiar blanket V. The melody grows as the poison pours into your mind, heart and soul Why does no one know of this? This knowledge can help so much! VI. The books applaud as you read them one by one and you are now quite lost. The ages quickly pass but no one ever misses you.

  Rebel with a Cause don't lecture her about being a Lady. She will smile nod and go on her merry way with her high heeled boots clicking-clacking. The world is her oyster Happiness is her pearl. She left all inhibitions far far behind in her younger years She's paid her dues time to reap the benefits. An embarrassment? Only if you see it as so. She doesn't at all. "Be yourself" they all said to her as long as you follow our rules. Young and old alike grimace at her confidence. But that pose years in the making shines full like the stars above. And eclipses all others in its brilliance. She has her own way.

  aka Living with Somebody who Has Good Intentions, but Doesn't Notice) Today is your mother's birthday. You don't remember but I do. I drop a casual reminder. You listen with half an ear. "He's so busy, he forgets sometimes," I say. Today I take our daughter to the doctor. You don't remember but I do. I drop another casual reminder. You listen and nod. "You deal with the doctors better than I do," You say. Today I drive to the x ray technician. You don't remember but I do. I drop another casual reminder. You listen and shrug. "It's nothing to worry about," I say. Today I clean the house so visitors don't think we are slobs. You don't remember but I do. You listen and smile. "You always get to it before I do," You say. Today my body gave out. It can only take so much. You don't remember but I do. You weep and cry. "I can't live without her," You say. "What will I do now?" 

The sun above my sky nears the horizon. It is time to go to the place where light meets dark where reality meets dream. Blue lightens to saffron gold and royal purple The last light over a deepening ocean. It breaks into sparkles on its surface. It is disappearing It is vanishing The essence merging with the everlasting black. The light will return again But this one is gone with a whisper of time.

  My responses to #vss365 on Twitter/X. The day's prompt word is marked with a # I. The final #frontier is not what you think it is: delve into your mind. II. Biggest #heist of all You stole in and took my heart I don't want it back. III. Shackled in my mind I dream of happier days the taste of #freedom . IV. At the last sunset when the glow of life is done: time for the #endgame . V. Music and laughter party around the campfire #balter and sing loud. VI. They give #credence to all of the evil misdeeds: still do not believe. VII. Family party: voices raised in argument such a #kerfuffle I simply roll my eyes and just do what I was doing. IX. Nice to think about but I'm not interested: much #velleity . X. Rhythm on guitar dancing shadows mix and match: this dark #fandango XI. A #dragonfly is luminous, ethereal: wings under the moon. XII. My limbs so heavy my body wrapped in blankets this #dysania . XIV. Today I read So many bad takes on things: what's this #codswa

A perfect Octave 8 notes. Circle of Fifths 5 notes. Circle of Fourths 4 notes. But counterclockwise. Chromatic Scale 12 tones Pentatonic Scale 5 tones Heptatonic Scale 7 tones But all in harmony. Chords on frets 6 strings different on each 8 strings fingers hesitate 4 strings which one goes where? We all play solo somehow it all fits duet though the page is static trio the music is forever.

Hook me with the story get-go from the first page. If it doesn't grab me I don't want to be involved. Flowery prose from centuries past The thread count of the dress why does it matter? Slow moving build up to the climax but if I can't relate to it it puts me to sleep. Entertain me don't preach your morals try to be too brilliant. I close the book.

Prompt: Write a poem just using headlines/leads from magazines or newspapers. (This is harder than it seems) 5 Things We're Talking About This Week: One This Week in Love: Now...A Love Story. Couple Debut but Secretly Wed! Found Sweet Harmony. Two The Best New Books: "Mayo Cat" "There is No Quitting" "Living My Dream." "Killer Cover Up?" Three When the Dinner Dread Hits: Ingredient Swaps They're Bite Size Add Some Flavor to Your Kitchen. Four The Best New Makeup: Glowing Skin in 14 Days! Freshest Face Forward Notes of Rose, Plus 3 Ways to Take it All Off! Five: What I Know Now: I'm Not Dead Yet! Still a Kid at Heart Happiest of Days. 'Finally' Feels in Control of Her Life.

  Prompt from  “ 642 Things to Write About” by the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto ): The corpse you saw in the Undertaker's window She looked almost alive. Almost. The false flush of life in her sallow cheeks. Eyes closed in a timeless sleep. Dark hair set in curly waves across her shoulders and hands clasped serenely over her breast. She looked almost alive Almost. White satin and lace a black rose in the bodice. Delicate silk gloves to the elbow. Ivory stockings a garter on her thigh never thrown. She looked almost alive Almost. Long lashes against a colorless cheek. A trusting smile frozen in time. Never knowing the betrayal the lurked behind the eyes of her beloved. She looked almost alive Almost. If she could take another breath and feel love in her cold, cold heart Perhaps she could find happiness within a den of hungry vipers whose lives are worth more than just a sack of coin. She looked almost alive Almost. Displayed in the undertaker's window. A tragic doll clothe

Every evening before I go to sleep I think about what has happened today. Where I am going where I have been. Is it harder to reflect as the sun goes down as opposed to when the sun goes up? The quiet of the night is my best friend. No distractions no child wanting attention no husband demanding I listen to his lectures. The silence of my mind is the greatest comfort and the greatest friend I can ever hope for before I go to sleep.

 I. Grey skies promise storms yet the clouds linger, waiting delaying the threat waiting for the right moment of your inconvenience. II. Incense smoke rises opens gateway to the mind: consciousness quiet the universe speaks softly it imparts all its secrets. III. Unleash your power influence people and minds ambition fulfilled but the cycle comes and goes then you will be forgotten. IV. Red and gold paper this gift arrives every year childhood treasure now passes on to the children heavenly animals change. V. Words lose their meaning in the wake of emotion wedding happy tears wailing at the journey's end the brain just feels and not thinks. VI. Long days and nights when the deadline looms so close: coffee cups pile up energy drinks among them frenzied race to the finish. VII. Hours stitched in cloth they change forwards and back Daylight expands then contracts artifically Nature doesn't care so much.

It was a gift for our wedding almost 30 years ago. My father taught me how to wash rice he was very precise. If it came out too wet or too dry it wasn't the food's fault. "You need to be mindful pay attention to the details. They will always notice." All through the years always faithful quick and easy lunches. Eventually it grew old electric sparks and sputters as all things tend to do. Honorable retirement a day or two before ending up in the garbage bin. The replacement works but it's not the same. A new generation. The tradition goes on as I teach my daughter how to wash rice.

Recycle every bit of emotion sensation what makes your heart skip what makes your eyes water How much of it is a true reflection of the soul and how much is just a stage play only put on when the glaring lights come up. Some people only see the mask you put on others only know the real you who you never show the world. Can you take off the mask when you need it the least? Or is it bolted on your face to the point where it becomes your whole persona?

Desperately clinging to Light as it fades through my fingers. Seeking joy where it once was and finding cold ashes. This is uncharted territory The cycle reached its peak and with the laws of Nature that peak falls off into a wintery low. The trick is riding the flow until the circle reaches momentum to rise once more like the Phoenix from the pyre to soar once again. But what happens when the soul is too tired to wait, to fight, to strive however long it takes it decides to turn? Is Karma a harsh mistress? Is Fate a capricious master? The Cycle can be brutal the same disappointment over and over again. I cannot do this alone but I stand there at the precipice Can I break the circle? Or will I just restart it from the very beginning?

What you see in the dark colors at the ends of the spectrum Shadows and shades that aren't really there. Or are they? Your mind detects what could be what should be not always what is. Can you trust what your senses tell you? Do you need to rely on others to make sense of the world? Blind leading the blind stumbling about, drunk and hoping that you run into something familiar something natural. Trust your instincts. They will guide you true. Take whatever you see judge every illusion make your own decision.

Rough ideas sketched on the back of a napkin as I sit alone in the diner eating scrambled eggs for breakfast. Half baked dreams tucked in the corners of a sleeping mind as I stare at my computer screen words jumbled together no motivation. Forgotten laughter echoed in the halls of a newly built home. As I pack all my belongings thrown haphazardly starting over.

  What matters to you? Fame and fortune? Clicks and views? An enduring legacy? A life well lived. What lies close to your heart? Honeyed words? The adoring looks of peers and enemies? Spite is a dish best served cold. What drives you to live another day? The smile of my children. The anger at the world A desire to make a difference. What says your tombstone? Here lies a woman mother, daughter, writer, friend who tried her best despite the odds.

There is a gate set in the garden wall. Beyond is a beautiful desert. The sun blazes hot against the harsh sandy dunes. It is wild and free the wind stirs up little tornadoes that travel from place to place until they are scattered and no more. Sometimes it rains and the storm is magnificent in its power. After the rain, the desert blooms with life. Green grass, colorful flowers It is oh so brief but it is brilliant. But soon it is back to brown and grey as if it never was. The other side of the gate has a courtyard, a richly adored manor. Comfort on one side of the gate hardship and storms on the other. One is better, it seems. But is it, really? 

An ancient temple stands by overgrown with prayers past the air goes still and quiet steps worn smooth by pilgrim feet. The chanting echoes in the fog Sound carries so long and far echoes vibrate back in time plays tricks on human ears. Faded ink on the walls used to be enamel and gold names and deeds of gods no longer spoken by the living. No more material riches to the victor go the spoils The earthly treasures fuel ambition the spiritual remembers every second. Cracks in stone and concrete Weeds become their cloak Nature returns all to its cradle gathers all souls in Her arms. History is soft and fleeting Memory is short and fading Only the dead recall the long ago we can't ask them for answers. 

Words cannot be stopped even if the world ends tomorrow and computer screens go silent there are ways. Pens scratch by candlelight lines chiseled in stone subtle pattern woven in fabric text scrawled in blood. Talismans in ivory inscriptions in marble parchment torn up and line a dictator's coat against the cold. Burnt ashes in wind to nourish the trees grown to make the paper for daily paragraphs. Ink on skin in intricate patterns meant to be pleasing to the eye and stimulate the brain. The voice cannot be stifled by the folly of man and even if it is not obvious there are ways.

We listen. Think and Create. Not for any glory or for any currency but because we have a voice that cannot be stifled and cannot be stopped. The fountain of dreams that has been dammed up muddied slowed to a trickle suddenly flowing forth like a rushing river sweeping away all obstacles in its wake. And overwhelming all barriers in its way. Breaking through the levees the sandbags placed there by opposing hands. Not a force meant to hurt or harm just an unstoppable wave of Creation.

Red meat still bleeding being prepared for the fire all life burnt away long before the hunter's arrow long before the winter snow. Death serves as fuel to nourish mind and body it is not the end a part still survives within the heart and the mind. The heart still beating The blood circulates around Energy not lost some memory still resides within the subconscious thought. Living forever does not mean eternal life accumulate years watching eons come and go: essence endures forever.

Nestled in the mundane routine letter and advertisements: bright letters catch your eye. Two words on the envelope MYSTERY OFFER probably a scam you turn to discard it. But really isn't your curiosity piqued? What kind of secrets could one missive hold? Against your better judgment you open the envelope to read the honeyed words within. Too good to be true. Here lies the rub: will you turn from the forbidden path to security and safety or will you take a chance? You may lose all you may have regrets but really, is playing safe the way to live your life?

My soul is weary when I have to face the consequences of others' actions. The bad thing is you get blamed for what he does or doesn't do. Faced with responsibility he flails around and casts blame on anything but himself. But he works to keep his head down to avoid all the blame and none of the shame. When things go well he takes the credit When things go bad he deflects the fault. One day we will see what happens when the scapegoat is no longer around.

Rolling the dice hearing them clack and bounce onto the tavern tabletop you control their destiny whether or not they live. A world adjacent to ours heroes and villains airships, castles, mine shafts cities and villages other planes of existence. Anything is possible everything is dangerous magic swords and fireballs wizards and dragons relics and cursed objects. Paths drawn by hand a pepper shaker stands in for the big bad antagonist the mundane transformed into the amazing. I miss doing this the cameraderie the creativity the adventure the door is always open.

A little too good at their job Too comfortable too set in routine knowing what comes ahead reassures all their fears. Upheaval reorganization shifting priorities different ways to do things it needs to evolve, improve. Suddenly new rules other guidelines nothing is the same. The sense of dread of insecurity. At a loss fumbling in the dark confusion, anger, uncertainty. Mistakes made new orders misunderstood. Until a new routine finally solidifies around them. Over and over again The sense of coming home but hard fought, long awaited. But how long will it last? When will it change again? No longer secure no longer complacent The world is a scary place.

Jagged edges sanded smooth everything slides into place. All the annoyances minor obstacles bumps and creases are gone. No imperfections grain of wood flows smoothly to the touch Sawdust at your feet all crumbled away not to be remembered. Seal the surface from wind and rain to hold its shine and beauty. Paint it so it glistens a wonder to behold a precise work of craftsmanship. The unworthy becomes lovable. Flaws worn away and hidden. The face to the world.

Carving pockets of time in between busyness in the ebb and flow of real life. Between meetings and arguments and when my car is in the shop. A notebook in my backpack pencils and pens in the pockets a small palette of watercolors a brush and a small cup of water. Do what you can do art in the moment words spontaneous see what happens. "I don't have the time." Sometimes in order to create what matters you fit it into your hectic life.

What if... kraken were real? turtles had opposable thumbs? Star showers were commonplace? you could drink coffee with ghosts? dreams could be reality? giraffes could talk? we could go to the bottom of the ocean or to the edge of the universe? we could find the elixir of Happiness? pirate treasure was buried under every rock? flying squirrels could give us a ride? elephants played in formal concerts? words gave form to the formless? thoughts gave form to the unspeakable? children's drawings became alive? the absurd wasn't so outlandish? innovation was more than a trend? life wasn't such a burden?

O drink of the Gods and Goddesses and Deities outside and in between! Every morning and sometimes in the afternoon and sometimes even more I pay my respects at the altar. This altar runs on a concentrated stream of hot water and grounded gold sometimes loose or packed in little cups. And sweet Nirvana Thy name is Milk with Sugar or other Substitutes within! In times of trouble or lack of any other way Thy dark bitter taste has to suffice for the meanwhile. Yes, Thy Outside Temples are many but the sweet Solace in a solitary cup cannot be outmatched. And Thy soft Comfort brings a rush of Energy to push through the Chaos of Life. May your Benefits be many and your Work be productive at the partaking of this Wondrous Brew. 

  "Borrado (Erased)"  Digital, Paper for iPad, 2015 The feeling of being erased from people's thoughts and memories, but not being physically dead. It is almost like you are a ghost that is still walking around. Eventually, you are forgotten and that is when you truly die.

 i. worry stone made smooth my anxious worried fingers every crack is worn how many hours I've spent just caressing its edges? ii. lavender tea steeps left in the porcelain cup taste turns too bitter smoke rises and forgotten the intent just disappears. iii. candle from both ends liquifies into puddles drips drips till it cools My finger touches the wax my fingerprint left behind. iv. a lone bottle stands tipped upon its side, empty much liquid courage too fuzzy minded to stand succumb to the cowardice. v. rain patters outside softly tapping on the roof cobblestones are slick water streaks down on the glass it is just like nature's tears.

Rich, buttery cookies fresh from the oven. The scent winds its way from the kitchen to the front door. Coming home from school to such delight. Always with a cold glass of milk and a chat about the highlights of the day. Then I wake up and wish that had been my reality when I was a child. So I try to welcome my daughter with a smile and a kind word and ask "Anything interesting happen today?" Cookies are optional. But heart is not.

Roses and baby's breath wrapped up with a pink bow. Leaves still green but curling ever so slightly at the ends. Flowers withered bent and drooping the water is cloudy. Days of vibrancy long behind it. It hasn't started to drop its petals quite yet. Red and black roses pieces of fabric and plastic stems don't need water in a glass bottle. Leaves black as midnight frozen forever in haunting beauty Always vibrant just like an undead corps e.

Outlines in blue pencil multiple drafts experimenting with form, shape and function. Dynamic angles where is the motion? Where is the focus? Where is the heart? The masters were not perfect what you see is the culmination of many attempts the ones that only breathe possiblity in their initial form the birth, if you will. Over and over perfecting their craft grandiose structures statues of splendor snapshots of life the masters ply their trade for the necessity of coin but the artistry lasts ages. Such ambitious souls for the love of the craft! It is a joy and a privledge to work the canvas, the floor plan the block of wood or marble and bring forth a treasure beyond words: all for the sake of the art and the pain of creation.

  Ale (full name: Aleain LeCroix, originally Oathbreaker Paladin, became Oath of Redemption, level 11/12). Digital, Marker, 2019 Ale the Paladin, with his 2 familiars, named Dark and Stormy. He was my DnD character from a campaign years ago. He started out as a comic relief, always drunk, needed alcohol to fight, and was generally a pathetic guy. But then his background came out. He was a Fallen Paladin, who abandoned his first Deity after a tragedy. Then the God of Alcohol recruited him. A fierce fighter, he actually had a combat  bonus  if he charged into battle soused. Ale picked up 2 magical familiars when they bonded to  him  instead of the party’s ranger. The orginal Ale eventually met his end when he made a suicidal run against a horde of cave gnolls. They engulfed him in a fireball and he had so much booze in his veins that when the fireball exploded, it took out him, the gnolls and the cave itself.

I try to catch the sunset in my hand race towards the horizon it keeps sinking back Red and golden light slips through my fingers growing dark and fading, fading. The last bit of warmth goes away and leaves bands of purple and black the stars now my companions I have missed the day time I cannot get back which means I must try harder the next sunrise. I plan and scheme every angle and strategem to make up the time maybe even get ahead. So when the sky lightens I feel ready to tackle whatever challenge would come my way. But what happens when you fall behind and end up chasing the sunset once more?

 i. Bad feelings linger long after the shouting stops it poisons the air destroying lungs from within until there is nothing left. Good feelings linger long after the laughter stops it sweetens the air enriching lungs from within until there is happiness. ii. Seasons turn in time darkness is no enemy Softly cold to warmth such is the natural thing time becomes a long journey. Man's Wrath turns in time His Greed is no enemy smiling warmth to cold such is the accepted thing time becomes a long sentence.

 Every day she wakes the routine is always the same. A bath with rose water the latest trend for silky soft locks. A closet full of fashion: which face shall I show to the world today? An hour in front of the mirror sculpting and shaping features and personality transforming in front of her long lashed eyes. Every strand perfectly coiffed every stitch in correct order. Color coordinated as precise as the oils of a Renaissance painter with a finicky patron. To be the talk of the circle To be the gossip of the town. A distraction of the empty life. Style over substance.

So many secrets They are buried in my yard under the planters. And my ears always hear the honeyed words of the careless. Chaos all around someone has something to lose their true character emerges for all to see and all pretense is stripped away. Sometimes it is missed because the loudest ones cry and wail they take center stage like a magician distracts the gullible with their hands. But the quiet ones watch and observe everyone and they are not fooled by the pomp and circumstance the truth screams in the silence. Evidence gathered the alibis are airtight connections are made, loyalty sundered at the slightest hint of betrayal. Desperate deals made an effort for your silence It is amazing how self preservation gives their power over to you. "You have no morals! How can you do this to them?" Pointing the finger of righteous morality when they abandoned it first.

Words from the heart are more truthful than the noise of the keyboard that tries to follow the drum of numbers. Feelings of shadow step out into the sun to be seen and heard. At times it resonates other times it fades away. Detach yourself from the ego make your truth shine through even if it seems that your words disappear into the noisy ether. You never know when that one listener hears and the vibrations stir something within their heart. The ego wants acknowledgement Reality does not always serve It takes a strong sense of will to keep going despite the silence of the cosmos.

  I typed this whole poem while being on hold for 30 minutes (and counting) with a drug comany regarding a prescription. I typed all this one-handed at my desk while holding my cell phone in the other hand. "Currently, your call is very important to us Please hold for the next representative." Twenty minutes gone the same piano minuet over and over. Even Chopin had variations. Typing one handed who says I can't multitask? Life can't stop for this. Trying to renew a prescription One necessary for quality of life. Can't call back later. "Don't call us, we'll call you." One person doesn't remember just what the previous one had promised. But taken hostage by the ones who hold life and death in their hands: no, not the doctors.

Loving yourself before you can love others: there is a wellspring of affection that feeds back on itself. Knowing how to treat yourself gently: you can share that empathy and when you see those who need a kind word you can give it. Seeing that no one is perfect: the flaws that you have doesn't mean you are broken. And it doesn't mean they are broken too. Trying to keep all this in mind: when you endure so much and become jaded in spirit it takes effort to remember these universal truths.

Broken down, recombined into something you neither expected...or wanted.  Words broken down recombined into a pleasing appearance with no soul. When you release it to the world you let go of a part of yourself. You smile bitterly in pride and joy as it takes on a life of its own. But when that life is collected by hands twisted and spit out "Hey look what I've done!" A grotesque mockery of what it was a hollow reflection of what you accomplished. Congratulations your lovely creation has been destroyed by the soulless machine.

Crickets loudly chirp as the fireflies play the nightingale sings her shadowy song. Campfire crackles melted marshmallow hisses as it drips into the fire. Companionable silence but is not silent all around the world sleeps but some awaken. The night is peaceful but it is not without noise. So much happens just beyond your hearing.

I. Rabbit in the moon watching for an entire year it is all amused at mankind's quirks and foibles bathing all in silver light. II. Vigil is closing as the moon rises and sets others take the stage someone not so retiring and a boldness in the sky III. Yin flows into Yang Cycle builds ever upwards Wait with bated breath the soft coming of the dawn bright light glints on waiting scales. IV. No, not the Phoenix but the mythic companion Strong but always there to breathe the cleansing fire for those that came before it. V. The rabbit awaits the end of their nightly vigil greets the welcome light Nods at the wise old dragon and vanishes with the night.

     It's been a while, but I'm reviving this writing blog. I've been posting on Wordpress for about a year now, but with this recent news  about how both Wordpress and Tumblr plan to sell content to AI companies, I'm going to gradually migrate all of my writing back here to Blogger. I've changed my settings on WP to prevent third parties from accessing my writing, but better safe than sorry.      I've heard stories from other authors about AIs using their work to 'train' their programs like Chat GPT. As a former teacher, I've read my colleagues' complaints about their students using AI for assignments, despite being told not to use it. The news about WP is disheartening, to say the least.     The debate over AI extends to art, and I constantly hear about how other artists' work is used for these programs, usually without the artists' permission. As a result, I've also been more reluctant to post my art publicly, even with protection