Crimson

A senryu series for my mother — in silence -waiting time to lay your body down a final slumber humane assistance honorable dear mother true peace -free from fear light shines from above cross over my beloved no one forsaken no separation from one hand to another longing is over ultimate mystery -unveiled one heartful remembrance copyright…

A living eulogy for my mother — Let’s begin, no time for revisions As a mother Your love was strong, Your love was clear, You’ve carried us forward in joyful song, You will always be my gypsy mamma, Dear. Innocent admiration from your four-footed friends; whom we’d always thought to be so tame, There was Pris, Sir Ruk…

A poem for my mother — You always told me to be good, be kind, be true, and be yourself, This would make me happy, wise and full of wealth. Look for beauty in another, make it pretty, make it shine, Then I could view the world with heart, to make it mine. Practice patience in…

A poem for mom — A farewell to life -with scheduled adieu Where will you go -from lingering silence With no you to be found -these teardrops are true The ombré heart -awaiting to sing Spies your blue sparrow -perched on the sill She flutters unknowingly -lifting her wing Oh unpainted canvas — golden Buddha…

A romance memoir — beach runs with my dog breezy free companionship shoreline tracks erased One was shorter than the other; both were muscular and evenly bronzed, relaxed in conversation, with beautiful smiles and white teeth. These two were friends and had been for many years. In recent weeks, Dr. Daniel offered Ashika a…

A travel memoir — olfactory nerve memories of smell for life recalling trauma We were just girls wandering loose and carefree on the streets of Cairo. Of course, we had heard of the open-air markets. It was there we must have a peek. Unsurprisingly, it was overcrowded, thick with colors, smells, and sounds. Sauntering…

Undercover police without a search warrant cause trauma and find zero evidence — intruders unwarranted illegal substances absent children witness wrongs “89, 90, 91, 92…,” I just loved jumping on my pogo-stick and counting out loud. I did this nearly every day, especially when I had nothing else to do or was playing alone. I could go on and on without losing balance…

Response for the Triple Centina Writing Challenge — Sugary juicy corn! Midnight raids have always agreed with my insatiable sweet tooth. I tromp as quietly as an elephant can. I know the consequences; villagers appear, raging, swinging their kerosene lanterns, waving sticks, and shouting we must go, or be bushmeat. Don’t they know this land has always been…