reading
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The Written World by Martin Puchner
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…
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The Charles Dickens Museum
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,…
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Walking the Unpaved Road
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…
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Thoughts on the Louvre
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…
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My Own Account of London
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…
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Dwelling-Place of Storm
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;…
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Hundred-Acre Grave
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…
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Poetry
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…
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Calluses
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,…
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Flowers
You were never going to see me Among all the other flowers, Watching idle as the strangers Daily passed me by. I am not unlike my sisters, Neither am I just like them; We are gathered as a body Staring at the sky. If you deign to come in closer And, for once, get on…
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Stars
Did you see the stars tonight? I could hear them cry Watching human promises, Every one a lie. The stars above, among themselves, Feel no need to compete. Each is glad for her own light, Sacred and complete. One by one they turn away, Collapsing in despair: Their grief consuming everything, Leaving their wrath fair.…
Mariella Hunt & the Tearoom 