Blue Doors

Blue doors stoic against white washed summer walls
What awaits me beyond those carefully curated wooden walls?
Are there candles aglow or choirs angelic?
A return to life which withstood pandemics?
Were every role played
Within the confines of finite memory?
Perhaps there awaits all which we’ve lost.
Tears shed over damp sheets
And fresh mounds of dirt;
Carefully sculpted castles for our bones.
For once I may say, we’ll never truly know.
As my ornate blue doors slide into the distance,
The way our true love fades
From your memories and words,
Meant for another, promised over sun bleached summer days.

A little story time to go with this little poem.

When I was a snotty pre-teen, maybe around 11 or 12, I was giving my mom a hard time as we drove home. I don’t remember about what, it doesn’t matter really but it was a moment for her that unleashed something else. Without saying much she swung her old minivan into the parking lot of a mixed Korean/Baptist church at the end of our street and started crying.

“Maybe one day I just won’t come home.”

I didn’t know how to react. I kept telling her it would be ok but what I really remember is that we were parked right in front of the church doors.

Looking back I’m fairly sure my mom probably suffered from the same anxiety and depression that now plagues me and my sisters in various forms. Coupled with the weight of my narcissistic father’s constant cruelty and I’m certain this wasn’t her only breaking point.

It may not have been a breaking point at all but more of a blip on the radar of constant pressure to provide when the one you’ve promised to walk beside has more or less declared “jokes on you”.

Today’s International Women’s Day and I’ve seen posts all over social media remembering and celebrating accomplishments. That’s wonderful, I embrace it. I also ask that we not forget about the women who are dragging themselves out of bed everyday simply because they have to. The women who have laid awake all night threatened by their own nightmares and now have little people depending on them to function. The women who have gently laid dreams aside or practice them quietly after hours because there’s simply no one else to “bring home the bacon” and the dreams they have aren’t to that point yet. The women who have found themselves trapped and unable to leave for fear, so they trudge through every day the best they can while pretending everything is ok.

Society has come far but society still has a way to go.

Daily Prompt – Uncompromising


22-34/365 Magic Lives Here

You know the picture dump I promised somewhere around the mid-end of January. It’s here! Silent hurrahs all around.

These are a mixture of pictures from my camera and from my phone taken while I was wandering around the French Quarter and Jackson Square on a Sunday.

I first set foot in New Orleans when I was around 13 years old and I’ve had a continuous love affair with the city since.



Cotton on the Breeze


Picture book pages flip in the wind,
Like flimsy fabric ripping against the trees.
These memories fall victim,
Pictures of life we may never see again.
They fly from our fingers much too fast.
If I’m unable to grasp
The color of your eyes
Or gentle waves in your hair …
If your fingers slip from mine
Before I can feel them slide
Along my sides …
If these memories begin to evade,
Should they slide away like cotton in the breeze …
Let me tell you before they’re gone,
Just one more time.

The Grave Robber’s Dress

Sunday Funday … or something like that

Prompt – Fabric

Music – City of the Sun on Spotify shuffle

July passed the light fabric between her thin fingers. Black with big brush stroke sunflowers, how odd.

The skirt flowed down from her grip, a dark waterfall with pops of yellow and brown to remind everyone that this wasn’t what it seemed.

It couldn’t be.

The young woman’s make up seemed to accent the point. Ruby red lips and a smoky eye, the oddity continues.

Her dirty blonde hair was carefully styled in robust curls which tumbled from her crown just brushing the straps of the sundress.

Perhaps the most perplexing part to July were the shoes. Even in heaven she’ll be tripping over those heels …

They were adorable though, a dark gunmetal gray laid with some kind of iridiscent shimmer.

Not too fancy … But greatly helped by the presence of gray bangles and meteorite necklace on her fragile extremities.

“July.” Her partner’s rough voice sent a shock up her spine. “Come on.”

“I want this.” Behind her the team of two other men sighed.

“What?” Red leaned over her shoulder. “You want what? The girl?”

“The dress …” July let her glance linger over the gentle girl. “I want the whole outfit.”

Red pinched the bridge of his nose and his grumbled. “We got what we came for, leave Jane Doe clothed.”

“Just take a picture then get on Amazon like a normal person.” August chimed in.

“He’s got a point. Boss man will want to know why we took longer than necessary and I don’t want to explain how July wanted to shop.”

With a stomp of her covered converse and a sigh July pulled out a phone. “Fine.”

Time technically ended as I was typing “linger over” but I wasn’t done yet so I broke my own rule. 

Tiptoe The Line


I tiptoe the line
Between the ever converging
Gold and brown of your eye.
I balance so fine
On the hair pin moments
Of raised voices and tender kisses.
One day I’ll swan dive
Into the crushing distinctions,
Bringing reality rushing over daydreams.
For now …
I dance the edge of a dime,
Spinning through scenes
Painted like oil slicks on my mind.

Chase Them Away

It’s Sunday, I’m still working out a good opening here.

Prompt – Congregate

Music – Pink Floyd – Meddle

*Started writing, forgot to start timer, delete, start timer*



I don’t go to church.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise.

When I was 15 my parents moved from a city area to a much more rural area.

I went from a performing arts high school to an agricultural one

I didn’t even know that was a thing …

One day I was on the bus

I took my headphones out at the request of a boy who was wearing a fish hook on his hat and had a clump of dip in his lip

I can’t remember what he asked but the subject turned to religion

To which I responded “I don’t know, I’m not Christian, I don’t go to church.”

At the time, if I had to put a name to some idea of religious practices, then I’d say I was Pagan.

Poor guy was floored.

“I thought you were a good Christian girl!”

I congregate in a different way.

I go to concerts.

One time I went because I thought maybe the music would be loud enough to drown the bullshit in my head.

Now I can’t always understand what you’re saying in normal settings and I go to shows to drown myself under the sound.

Let it wash over me and take away all the self hate that can settle in my mind.

This morning I woke up and something just hit me, straight to my core.

I found myself thinking in terms of self hate, “pathetic piece of …”

I push those things away and congregate in big, or sometimes not big, raucous, sometimes not raucous, groups

To let loud melodies chase them away.

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