Mass Transit

Men and women from the oppidan suburb that surrounds the great city forsake their circadian clocks.  They force themselves to be crepuscular creatures egressing from their slumber when the crow has not yet sung. They exit their homes to merge with strangers in mass transit for the city. They stand together nearly touching in silence almost as if searching for the mot juste. In actuality, each one merely inhabiting their body, their minds occupying the future or ruminating on the past. As dawn begins to break and they encroach upon the outer smog layer of Grand Central station, the energy, and noise within the car rises. They exit the rail into the underground station in groves. People begin to flow out on to the main street from the station’s escalator like water through a rhyton. They march through the city alive and with purpose. They complete their tasks in order to depart and do it all again tomorrow.


Words of the day:

Mot Juste – exact right wording or phrasing
Oppidan – of a town; urban
Egress – The action of going out of or leaving a place.
Crepuscular – like twilight; dim
Mass Transit – the system that is used for moving large numbers of people on buses, trains, etc.
Rhyton – a horn-shaped drinking vessel with a hole in the pointed end through which to drink

Street Lights

There was a lacuna of light between Fredo and Sally. Fredo shone brightly as he guided the entranceway where patrons drove forward and backwards in their visit with the diner. Sally always felt that Fredo was too officious, shining as brightly as he did. Sally took a much more sporadic approach to her services as she flickered in florescent patterns almost as if a veil of Honiton was wrapped about her. Fredo thought of Sally as he did most of her kind, flaky and judgemental. He took pride in his consistency and luminous glow, showing up night after night for the last 10 years. A fait accompli. Sam sat in the darkness these last few months between Fredo and Sally looking upon them in envy. He dreamt of the day when he could make a gambit into their conversation.

Words of the day:

Lacuna: a gap or missing part, as in a manuscript, series, or logical argument.
Gambit: a remark intended to start a conversation or make a telling point. A calculated move.
Officious: assertive of authority in an annoyingly domineering way. Intrusively enthusiastic in offering help or advise.
fait accompli: an irrevisbile accomplishment
Backward: opposite to the usual way : in reverse
Honiton: a type of lace with a floral sprig pattern

The Flower Man

The flower man stands at the corner of the busy intersection surrounded by his gifts of unclaimed smiles for purchase. As he waits for new business, he waves at the people and cars whizzing by. The woman who had stopped to browse reflected on how seemingly unaffected the flower man was by the contumely demeanor that some passerby’s directed towards him. Perhaps he has some great wisdom in which he knew these glares had only to do with those wearing them and nothing to do with him, she thought. What the woman did not know is that the flower man’s smile, despite others’ demeanor, came from imagining caricatures of them in his mind. The flower man met all kinds of people each weekend. Some of his customers were without motive who had a propensity for kindness. Others were fraught with pain and seeking reconciliation. There were regulars who stopped often just to bruit about their lives. Most of his regulars were seniors within the community, retired men and women. The flower man to them was a much-welcomed friend. They chatted about their kids who rarely called, or smiled warmly as they described their skype conversation with their newest grandchild. They reminisced about their ex-partner who used to love yellow carnations. They described their frustration over their latest doctor’s visit. Behind which you could easily see the fear of facing these later years of life alone. The flower man provided more than packages of cut flowers on Sunday mornings by the shoulder of the road. It wasn’t much, what he had to offer, but it was more valuable than gold.

Words of the day:

Bruit: repeat rumor, usually used with about
Propensity: An inclination or natural tendency to behave in a particular way
Contumely: a rude expression intended to offend or hurt
Caricature: a drawing that makes someone look funny or foolish because some part of the person is exaggerated


The woman resided to her comfortable space,
Secure within its walls of protection it provides,
Her energy depleted,
From the internal war she fights,
Often left feeling defeated.
She attends to her devoir as a worker, a student, a member within recovery,
Heavy is the feeling of everything,
Putting on deodorant takes all but her strength,
With great antipathy, she does the things she must to survive,
When she is out she does her best to be invisible,
Not daring to look up unless they see her insides,
When asked how she is doing,
I’m ok is the response she provides,
Emotional storms past,
As all storms do,
But this feeling of nothing,
Its passing is long overdue,
She refuses to call an armistice,
To roll over and let it possess her,
After all,
Tomorrow may be the day it gets better.

Words of the day:
Armistice: an agreement to stop fighting a war
Devoir: something for which a person is responsible; duty
Antipathy: A deep-seated feeling of dislike; aversion
Defeated: used to describe someone or something that has lost a contest or game..etc.

Family of Royal Palms and Me

There once were three palm trees whose abode was my front yard,
It is unknown to me when someone decided that this should be where they lived,
I find it interesting how little regard most give to those who dwell near them,
Nevertheless, when I bought this house I became apart of their family.
Often I would take walks and admire their beauty,
I posted their pictures on Facebook in rodomont fashion,
One was a giant royal palm and he stood well over 20 feet tall,
His immediate family were two smaller royal palms, twins, as they mirrored each other,
They embodied their names well, beautifully smooth and slender with fluffy and flowing palms that were combed gently by the wind.
They were taciturn in nature but our connection went beyond speech,
Then one-day tragedy struck our family,
Literally. The giant royal palm was struck by lightning,
Killing him and inevitably causing me to have him cut down,
I was fraught with grief over the loss,
The two beauties who stood next to him seemingly unaffected,
Interesting how differently humans react to loss,
To this day, as I write of him from my scriptorium overlooking where he once resided, I still miss him.

Words of the Day:

Fraught causing or characterized by emotional distress or tension :uneasy
Taciturn adj. Reserved or uncommunicative in speech
Abode the place where someone lives — usually singular
scriptorium a room , esp in a monastery , set apart for the writing or copying of manuscripts
rodomont noun: A vain boaster

Why I Write…

I am a 36 introverted divorcee who lives alone with two dogs. I work from home. I go to school online. I have very few friends. Writing is what helps keep me sane. There are days where the only one who hears my words are my dogs and this screen as I type them. I post my words out into the digital universe, realizing that they potentially will never be read, but somehow the slight chance that they will, makes me feel less alone. Writing makes me feel heard.

Relationships are hard. I get triggered by people. I take meds to try to make me more balanced, practice mindfulness, go to therapy. I do all kinds of things, but in the end, being alone is just easier. It is less painful. I think of myself as a fairly funny person with a good amount of insight. That is the one good thing gained from a ton of isolation, you become extremely insightful. I’ve begun to accept that my life, for the most part, will be an alone journey. An extremely insightful one, and from this I will do my best to make lemonade from lemons. I will continue to try to find purpose. To be a better person than who I was yesterday. To enjoy each moment for what it is with comfort in knowing that this is the path that was handed me. A path that has many positive aspects. We all have positive and negative aspects of ourselves and our lives. The discontent is found when looking at those around you and comparing.

Writing to me is release. It is like taking the steam kettle which is screaming like no one’s business and removing the heat. It is taking the 2-liter of soda which I just dropped and accidentally kicked across the kitchen and slowly loosening the cap. It is the feeling of taking your shoes and bra off after a long day. For those that drink, it is the feeling after your first drink. I can turn to it when overcome with emotions, good or bad and I can write until those feelings become more manageable. Neither emotion in their extreme form is bearable to me. When I write I am not judged or critiqued, at least not during the actual act of writing.  While writing I do not feel anxious that someone is tired of hearing me talk. That I might be, being selfish by only expressing my thoughts. To write for the sake of writing, with no intended audience, there are no rules. No limits. No restraints. True freedom of expression.

When I write, there are times when I feel tapped into something almost supernatural. I can physically feel my heart peeling open and some sort of energy, flowing out or in, or both. The words, that flow, almost don’t seem like mine. I feel apart of something much greater than myself. Other times when I write, I am very aware that it is just me. That is ok too.

When I sit down to my computer, there is a sense of excitement, because I rarely know what words will end up coming out. Sometimes I am quite pleased and other times, I think, what rubbish. Regardless of what I think, how I feel is always better.

There are days and times, when I will be out doing something and I am struck with this overwhelming need to write. It is almost like the writing fairies tapped me on the shoulder and whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I can’t wait to get back home to write and I just pray that the inspiration doesn’t leave before I get there.

Writing is my companion. My dearest friend. It listens, it accepts, it is always there whenever I need it. Writing is a dream, a vision unexplored, new territory just waiting to be discovered. It is a sad monologue in times of grief, an angry rant about the unjust world, a sappy poem from a love-struck heart.

I am never sad when the words stop. I expressed what was needed. It is similar to the last bit of toothpaste being squeezed from the tube. Being drained but in a good way, like the relief when after the second flush everything goes down. I know the words will return. They will ask to be shared and when they do I will be here, ready and waiting.


Yield, dualistic,
A result from action,
Abstaining action obtaining no results
Friendly, comforting, and a compassionate word,
Surrendering to the surroundings,
The car yields to oncoming traffic,
A kind gesture,
Not progressing but providing safe returns.
She yields to his argument,
Choosing happiness over being right,
He yields under pressure,
Stupidity or strength?
Preservation or perseverance?
The tree yields to the hurricane’s gail force winds,
Weakness or wisdom?
Understanding its limits while adapting to its environment,
She studied hard yielding great results,
Economic term,
It’s my yield,
Tangible such as a basket of apples,
Something I can shoulder and carry,
She yields to her touch,
Vulnerability and adventure,
Yield, so much complexity in such a simple word.

Word of the day:


Where do you find compassion?
Where does it hide?
Why do I have so little?
Why am I so mean to me inside?
Others recommend, treat yourself as you would a friend,
Unfortunately, I am also hard on them.
If I have no understanding of my own mistakes,
How can I have any for yours?
How do I cross this ocean of self-damnation to forgiving shores?

It’s hard to see a future when things will be different…when I will be different,
When you’re in your emotions things feel like they will always be the same,
Looking back I know, that statistically, this isn’t true,
As long as I keep seeking change,
My circumstances will change and I will too.

Someone said recently, that what kept him going was the thought,
That what if tomorrow is the day when things will get better?
Castaway said it best, “So now I know what I have to do. I have to keep breathing. And tomorrow the sun will rise, and who knows what the tide will bring in.”

She Waits

Moon – Tread – Cold Night (October writing prompts)

My once barren soul being re-fertilized,
Nature filling that space,
That longing to feel desired,
When I take walks and really be,
She is the woman I’ve been looking for.
I breathe and she puts smiles back to my face.
Smiles that at many times feel like 1,000 pounds to produce,
I force myself to bring it to surface even when she is unable,
Acting as if,
Hoping that the laws of the universe will return my output,
Waiting for magic,
I wait because the moon has promised it to me,
What it is, is unknown.

Treading these cold nights of my soul,
Using this time to prepare,
Growing in my awareness of both myself and the mother who surrounds me,
Trusting more each day,
Knowing that every need will be met,
Continuing the mantras, the service, the seeking,
Building the beautiful new construction of myself,
Tearing down old walls of doubt and fear,
Digging deep,
Relinquishing fresh soil where new and beautiful things can be planted,
She knew what it would take,
Time alone,
The inability to use money or women as distraction,
Endless opportunities for service,
Guides both in and out of recovery,
Providing direction to where I am needed,
I await the time when I am there,
On the road,
Hand in hand with the her, the one who requested that I follow.


Things I Hated, Now I love

The service stretching on,
Continued yawns,
Forced to stand and kneel,
Stinky smells and songs with bad rhythm,
Things I hated, now I love.
Connection and family,
“One bread, One body”,
Songs from my youth,
Traditions now revered.

Cold winter day chores,
Expectations of hard labor clearing wood,
Lazy and much rather being up to no good,
Things I hated, now I love.
The crisp clean air,
The smell of fireplace wafting from where,
Football, warm stew, and buttered bread awaited,
Bonding together over the success of stacked wood on the porch,
Now prepared for frosty nights,
Sitting together around Christmas lights.

Being stuck making small talk to some relative I barely knew,
All the while wondering what my friends were up to,
Taking my leave as soon as I could,
Things I hated, now I love.
Barbecue, horseshoes, and swimming,
In twilight chasing fireflies and listening to stories of my family’s past,
Wishing to grasp the fond memories of all those things I once hated.
Those things that now I love.