Free Verse
Azalea
azalea pink, white attracts attention on walks, a feast for the eyes. Note: Just like camellia, this time of the year, azalea bloom in the neighborhood yards, looking beautiful. They are also called rhododendron I have heard a variety of rhododendron bloom in the foothills of Himalayas, creating a beautiful vista.
By Seema Patel10 months ago in Poets
Humor And Other Healing Ways
Author's Note: I was at a training yesterday and discussed methods in general and specifically on Native American healing methods. A traditional healer friend told me that what I got from Reiki, my spirit animal, my colors, physical, emotional and spiritual healing that all would have came from our ceremonies. We didn't get religious freedom until 1978, when I was 24 years old and it has taken years to come above ground. And some things never will. So, I talked about what I know personnally and no more.
By Denise E Lindquist10 months ago in Poets
What Wasn’t There
Hello… If I don’t reach out, I’m met with silence. When I do, the familiar pattern emerges: Surface-level chatter. Half responses. God forbid I need emotional support. I’m met with minimization. Misunderstanding. Silence again— or the careful avoidance of that part of the message. My phone only rings for Scam Likely. No one checks in. Even when they know my situation. When my son’s birthday went unacknowledged, that hurt worse. I have no nuclear family from my childhood. No contact, after a lifetime of neglect. He will not miss them. I will not let them treat him the way they treated me. For his first birthday, I made party hats for his toys. It was quite a turnout. He was surrounded by all his friends. My heart held sadness— but I made sure he had magic. He won’t remember who wasn’t there. Only that he was loved. That everything was curated with care, with thoughtful details chosen specifically for him. When you break cycles, when you heal, you realize how much of your life was shaped around other people’s comfort. Once you stop translating, diluting yourself, accepting scraps like a Thanksgiving feast— life becomes quieter and louder at the same time. Did anyone actually care? Was I ever truly known? Appreciated? Loved? Seen?
By Alicia Melnick 10 months ago in Poets
