Monthly Archives: July 2016

Words Create

Words create reality

Words create the perfect romance

when the author has never felt the touch of a lover

Words create the image of the stary night sky

when the author has never seen the dark

Words create the empowerment and remorse of murder

when the author has never washed off bloody hands


In the Darkness

In the darkness

the guiding radiant light of the sun

fades from sight in a burst of glory

In the darkness

the fragrant, vibrant flowers close up their luxurious petals

In the darkness

pinpricks of light gleam through the sable cloth of the heavens at night

In the darkness

birds, mice, deer, life goes to sleep

and those that don’t, are prey for the predator

In the darkness

there is hunting to be done

In the darkness

the moon replaces the sun as our guiding beacon

except the moon is more a fickle creature

here one night

and changed the next

and gone the other

pock marks on its visage

and yet the moon only pretends to light our way

for its illumination is of false pretenses

In the darkness

everything seems a little more mysterious and dangerous and wondrous

In the darkness

However, on the other side of the world

there the sun’s luster waltzs amoung the milky white clouds

there the birds fly across the bright cerulean heavens

there their euphonious melodies can be heard on the earth below

there the mighty, verdant trees sway in the gentle breeze

there life lives

In the darkness life lives, but in only a different way



An Ode to Lists in 50 Words

Oh, the joy in making lists

or rather more in ending lists



Memory tool

But my favorite thing about lists

is checking off items

A sense of accomplishment

Yes, guilty as charged

I sometimes add things to my to-do list

just so that I can check them off


to do lists



To You Who Gave Me Writing

To you who gave me writing

To my mother who spent hours with brightly colored flashcards

taught me that a semi-circle shape was a “C”

To my grandmother who would trace letters on my back

taught me the touch of words

To my parents who wrote down in my daily journal I what I told them to write

taught me the recording power of words and that my words mattered

To my mother who on that just beginning to cool, hot summer evening in the kitchen

taught me the letters in my name

To my father who would read to me comicbooks from his childhood

taught me that I can be enthralled in compelling stories and heroic characters

To my mother who persevered against my whining in forcing me to read beginner level “Bob Books”

taught me that I can be a critic of what I read but I still have to respect it

To Miss Griffin, my kindergarten teacher, who after reading a story about ducks

taught me that “ing” means action, a verb

To Mary Pope Osborne who wrote Magic Tree House, the first books I ever read and enjoyed by myself

taught me the joy and accomplishment of reading

To Ms. Hinds, my fourth grade teacher, who gave me an assignment to give a biographical speech about someone famous

taught me how empowering public speaking can be

To Ms. Benford, my elementary school librarian, who found for me my favorite childhood author

taught me to try new genres and that “different” can bring some of best things

To Margaret Peterson Haddix who was my favorite childhood author and filled my childhood with characters and situations and words and choices

taught me how other’s writing can touch my life

To Ms. Burke, my fifth grade teacher, who gave me an assignment to write a mystery story

taught me the power and excitement of my own fiction

To Ms. Cothran, my public speaking coach, who saw potential in me and changed a shy, analytical girl to a animated girl and a lover of poetry and my own writing

taught me that my writing impacts others and that I have a voice, so use it

To Ms. Mihocko, my seventh grade teacher, who critiqued me hard

taught me that my style is not enjoyed by everyone

To Pastor Randy who gave my first chance to preach a real sermon

taught me to follow my dreams and to work for the Lord

To Ms. Conley, my freshman english teacher, who opened my eyes to the wondrous world of writing and analyzing literary devices

taught me why and how I love the written word

To WordPress who gave me a way to share my writing

taught me that others value my work and that I should take pride in it

To Economics summer test that hours upon hours spent pointless stem and response that no one will ever glance at

taught me that purpose of writing is to convey a meaningful message that will be read


To you who gave me writing

and to all I left out in this poem

I thank you dearly

for writing

allows me to create my world

both in fiction

and not


To God who created the heavens and the earth and everything in between

for giving me something to write about

To God who gave me a mind to comprehend writing and all of its glorious intricate relationships

To God who gave the world writing at its perfection, the Bible

To God who allows me to spread His Word through my words


To you who gave me writing

To you who gave me the power to change the world

To you who gave me the power to change my life

To you



Beloved, ~ A Petrarchan Sonnet

A poem from the perspective of a character in my novel Varietal

Beloved, inquired for my lust to live

If he comprehend not, have he desire?

I fancy morning dew, du jour attire

Freshly brewed tea, memories to relive

I love these, but theirs is quite allusive

Beloved, same? Love life since it expire

He is overdo to see the hell fire


In my brief time, let me teach him to love

Start with simplicity, then live wholly

For love is in the chase, not the binding

Love of life due to celebration of

Dance. Dance with me, Beloved, joyfully

Be unlike morning dew. No love should sting





Do you ever feel

like you are pulling at the end of your leash

like a dog

straining, stretching, pulling so hard that you choke

that you are dragging the rest of the world behind you

that the world collared you

that the world harnessed you

All you want to do is go free

have control of where you go

Inspired by a dog on a leash and glad that I’m not



Know. Act. Live.

It was an absolute joy to hear Nicole Nelson preach again. Proclaiming Christ’s Word certainly is her future. I’m glad to know that Good News is still being told. Her sermon is called Know. Act. Live. She talks about growing in our relationship with Christ and following His Word in our daily lives. I think she has a really good message about hypocrisy and evangelism. Enjoy! 🙂

Click here to see her sermon on Know. Act. Live.

Not A Spectator Sport

Every day we are bombarded by the media of conflicting ways to think, act and live in today’s world. These opinions are so overwhelming sometimes that we have no idea what to believe, who to turn to. No matter what is going on in the presidential election, terrorism, or shifting of the stock market, one path never changes: God’s way and will.

Societal pressures comes from worldly temptation, wanting to take the easy way out, wanting to fit in instead of standing out and standing up. We naturally don’t want hardship, yet as Christians, hardship is in the job description. Our beliefs are often in contradiction with the rest of World and we have to face the fact that we will have to fight for what we believe in, which means we can’t fit in. Resisting societal pressures is often a sign of tough choices being made. Continue reading

The Color of Your Tears

I sit here with you crying

and I feel your anguish

I hear the quiver in your voice,

your yearning for a solution is so real

it is almost palpable

But by the color of your tears

am I most affected by your anguish.

Your tears are not like the color of the midnight hour,

for that is heaving, heavy breaths,

a hope lost, a person passed.

The color of the midnight hour tears

are meant to be cried into your thick bedroom pillow

or your mother’s shoulder.

Nor are your tears the color of lilac purple,

for that is calm, silent breaths,

a beauty found, a heart warmed.

The color of lilac purple tears

are meant to be cried during sunsets

or reading a handwritten love letter.

Neither are your tears the color of Christmas bulb crimson,

for that is loud, puffing breaths,

a fight fought, a world shattered.

The color of Christmas bulb crimson tears

are meant to be cried when everyone is gone

or leads to hitting brick walls.

Your tears are nothing like the color of old car rust,

for that is shallow, tight breaths,

a pain afflicting, a heart sickening.

The color of old car rust tears

are meant to be cried in hospital beds

or on bathroom floors.

No, your tears are not like the color of horseradish mustard,

for that is quick, hollow breaths

a fear caught, a new understanding.

The color of horseradish mustard tears

are meant to be cried alone at night

or an unsuccessful try at hiding sorrow.

The color of your tears,

my dear friend,

are the hue of algae in the morning light.

Trapping, surrounding, helplessness envelopes your very soul,

gasping for breath, the slime holding you down.

Helpless, finding no way out,

your tears beg to show some outward sign

of what your heart churns about inside.

I sit here with you crying

and I feel your anguish

I hear the quiver in your voice,

your yearning for a solution is so real

it is almost palpable.

But in all reality,

your tears are not the midnight hour

Nor lilac purple

Neither Christmas bulb crimson

No horseradish mustard

Not even algae in the morning light

In all reality,

your tears are clear,

clear as sunshine in May.