This week, I am reading The Winter Sea by Susanna Kearsley. It is another book I found at the thrift store, and I found to my delight that the writing is bold as the woman’s red hair on the cover. Kearsley paints pictures so perfectly in my imagination that I am disconcerted when I need … Continue reading Discovering The Winter Sea by Susanna Kearsley
If a story is good, if it has the author's heart in it, the reader will never forget the day the book was read.
On the surface, The Written World looks to be a history book on the topic of literature. I discovered it was something deeper, far more delightful. Author Martin Puchner has a love for books much like my own; this book is his journey to find the soul of literature, the source of her power, the … Continue reading The Written World by Martin Puchner
I have a confession to make: I almost did not leave England. I can’t tell you what I would have done should I have stayed, being utterly unprepared for a move to a different country. Still, I cried on the night before we were to fly out. It had been lovely to walk the streets, … Continue reading The Charles Dickens Museum
I know few people can travel for the sake of creativity. It isn’t the only way to overcome Writer’s Block, but it does work. I am blessed to have been able to visit lovely places and have new experiences. It’s true that adventure, exploring the world, will do your creativity a wealth of good. Here … Continue reading Walking the Unpaved Road
I mourn that I was unable to see all the works in the Louvre and appreciate them. It would require a lifetime studying each piece from every possible angle. I would have to make my home in the halls of the museum: each piece of art offers hours of contemplation. I cannot live in the … Continue reading Thoughts on the Louvre
When I first started reading books, I discovered their ability to transport the reader to different places. Between covers I have been to many locations, a good percentage of which are not real…but many that do exist somewhere on this planet. Of these I have enjoyed glimpsing between the lines. How strange to think I … Continue reading My Own Account of London
I am a poet, Keeper of flowers Dwelling-place of storm. My emotions Manifest in Terrifying form. I can destroy you With my words, Feeling no remorse, Or I can calm you, Fighting battles For you at the source. I’ve learned there is No middle ground: Believe me, I tried. I am a dwelling-place Of storm; … Continue reading Dwelling-Place of Storm
Yesterday, the blue and gray Skies rolling overhead, Sighing, seemed to me to say The rivers had turned red. Treading gentle on the grass, I sought peace but found none. April, she had come to pass, Her faithful weeping done. Musical, the ancient trees Groaned with the bluegray sky. Their duet, a mournful sound, Spoke … Continue reading Hundred-Acre Grave
White horses are Sea turtles. I cannot tell my world from theirs. Coral, I watch wildflowers Bloom before my eyes. The breeze to me Feels like a wave, Tousling my hair. I don’t think I belong here, My home is not there.
Bottle up your pain In an old, glass jar. Let it sit there for a day ‘Til it’s black as tar. Fall down on the grass, Find a feather there. Take your bottle; feel the sun Shine down on your hair. Use the feather, trace Feelings in the dirt. It would be a shame to … Continue reading Poetry
I am building calluses Around my heart. Nobody can come in To hear my song. She’s losing strength Because I exposed her To empty souls who Did not know, That she is a melody Few have heard, And she is timid. She will hide. I will not forsake her Or sing her to the dark, … Continue reading Calluses