Training Counselors and Others Working with Native American People
Native American Curriculum (NAC) training this week.
Some people are mandated to training
Others are there because they want to be
Today is foggy, yesterday raining
I am there because I am me, you see!
~
Weather is bad, I’d rather be inside
Trainers can’t be all that bad
The trainers are great, and I’m on their side!
Could it be I am one of them? So glad!
~
I was told someone loves my funny humor
Many others did thank us for the day
There is a new leader is the rumor
I was excited to hear that today!
~
Let’s celebrate as I retire soon!
And the saying goes, “Fly me to the moon!”
~~~~
First published by Write Under the Moon on medium.com
About the Creator
Denise E Lindquist
I am married with 7 children, 27 grands, and 12 great-grandchildren. I am a culture consultant part-time. I write A Poem a Day in February for 8 years now. I wrote 4 - 50,000 word stories in NaNoWriMo. I write on Vocal/Medium weekly.
Keep reading
More stories from Denise E Lindquist and writers in Poets and other communities.
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly6 days ago in Horror
Comments (5)
Lovely and cheerful.
Hehehehehehe this was a fun one. I loved it!
Haha Nice one!!
That’s cheerful! Happy upcoming retirement!
Beautiful and fun sonnet!!! Loved it!!!