Glory be to the sun of a new day, a fresh start through the obstacles that darkened our way.
Awake with your confidence.
Awake with your vim.
Fill your cup with fortitude to the brim.
Glory be to the sun that has called us this morn, a messenger proclaiming we are reborn.
I drink the edge of the sky
A tall, morning cool glass of ombré sunrise
I taste the fruit of a new day
Sweet, my cup full of pulp free potential
This is perpetual refreshment
For those who wake to take it
No meniscus to worry about
A travel mug of joy
We are celebrating the life & times of my father today. He passed on February 28, 2022. He loved Lake Superior. And, my oh my, did he love his people. This is what I wrote.
Each week I must have an Artist’s Date with myself as part of the Artist’s Way journey. I wanted to go outside and find a story in pictures.
Fast forward. I’m in a hotel, and it is frigid outside. These are the photos that resulted. I find the ordinary to be extraordinary when seen through the right lens.
When you are the kind of tired sleep won’t fix
And your second hand is stuck but it still ticks
When you’ve lost your bookmark in a breeze
And you need a prayer after life has brought you to your knees
When you try to drive forward while in park
And you are in a story that has no discernible arc
Look up to the sky, you are kissed by the sun
Look down at your feet where two puppies run
You are here now, a gift, tired or not
Breathe it in, breathe it out, give it all you’ve got
A banjo is an excellent story writer. It’s a 5-string choose your own adventure. It’s a thriller. It’s the romance writer of stringed instruments. Go down the neck, and you get some science fiction and fantasy sounds…the bard of a space court. It’s African poetry. It’s a medical drama about a woman needing a musical cure for a rough week. The banjo is a story, and it is the cure.
A thousand black-winged dots above the horizon
Cut through the clouds
On an icicle blowing wind
Forming glass of water, nature’s sculpture
Shall they reach the sun above five more horizons?
Or shall they fall into the winter of the soul ?
Their dark wings collapsing in peace
For respite in the silence minus the whistle of that very same wind
It cannot take the glow of Spring’s first warm light on my winter skin.
It cannot tilt my heart on the axis it spins.
It cannot lay claim to the adventures of my mind.
It, therefore, will not win.
It will lay bare our faults and our fears.
It has no soul. About nothing it cares.
It will ravage the old and young the same.
It will expose our mistakes and immortal shame.
And when it’s darkness towers over us, and a last stand remains,
Rush boldly we will, shedding its chains.
It cannot, it will not, it should not transpire,
A dimming of our humanity’s fire.
It cannot, it will not, it should not conspire,
For we are glass blown into steal, forged from this same fire.
I can still feel the sun’s heat on my face,
even when fear wrestles with grace.
I can still see love in another’s eyes,
while facing the darkness of demise.
I can still water a flowering bud,
as my emotions get swept away by the flood.
And I can still believe today will be tomorrow,
when my heart mends from subsuming sorrow.
In the quiet of the night
In the hole of the soul
In the alley where it lived
Under the moon covered in clouds
The sadness it did bring,
Pulling the stitches of the world
Infecting the tears of many
While living in the body untold
Through the darkness it spread
Killing wisdom with a stone
But through it all a tiny light did glow
And with it, brought hope
Small and grand gestures brought healing
Like vitamins from the sun
And the virus disappeared
Into the cave from which it did come
For humanity is the strongest medicine of all
Writer focused on fiction for middle-aged women with spunk
An Independent Non-Discriminatory Platform With No Religious, Political, Financial, or Social Affiliations
Raku pottery, vases, and gifts
Kelly Rogers 