Writer Crews

Through the open window The breeze comes in to greet me Its cool touch is welcome Eyes closed It kisses my skin hello Surrounding my senses Bringing me the gift Of early morning scents Clear, cleansing, awakening Good Morning Wind. I inhale. A swish answers, on exhale. Poor souls, those who forget To open their windows.

In the writing circle today we focused on description and for some reason, skin came to my mind. The first prompt was a green tomato, the second was simply choosing a person we felt like describing. As always, the writing in the group astounds me and I'm humbled by my fellow writers. Little snipits of their writing really stuck with me, to me. Here's some skin off what I wrote today: Tomato Green as a Granny Smith Smooth as split pea soup Skin, balloon tight It's surface, a shiny happy face. Hard as a nine-months pregnant belly, packed with potential. Green tomato and Grandma Flo was a Peach I ran my finger across the back of her hand. Her skin was like peach skin, velvet soft, only a thin layer that if pressed too hard, could easily peel away. Ripe with age, her sweet flesh gives beneath my touch, tender. Sun spots blotch like bruised fruit. A long life on the vine has drained her juices, leaving wrinkles where fullness used to be. The only thing pl...

Been in a poem-ish mood lately... this one, written during a Portland Women's Writing Circle, was innspired by a Rumi poem about the deep listening, specifically; "the beauty of your separation". Listen Inside Listen to your solitude Hear its daily hum, edging along your skin Vibrating the heart drum Listen with intent Past the buzz in the fear of being alone There is music there, inside you- Accompanying you, a duet for your one life Listen to your solitude And find yourself there Beyond the sigh of breath A quiet orchestra In your solitary soul Waiting For your strum, for your lead You: the conductor of your loneliness Listen with the intent to hear Your spirit And it will sing A lullaby of connection.

On Witch's Thanksgiving When day and night are of equal length, balance holds my thoughts. On Witch's Thanksgiving A full moon will shine on ripe harvests below, coven basking in her glow Leaves will fall to quilt our mother, grounds growing colder Earth stands for a moment in equity, ubiquitous female On Witch's Thanksgiving The Autumnal Equinox I will pay homage to both sides The yin and the yang, the dark and the light, fire and water, joy and sorrow How brief this balance Will be Before we are set swirling once again on a titled world Living a skewed existence On Witch's Thanksgiving Things hold still- suspended, peaceful Before the Fall.

If Jealousy is green, what color would impatience be? Red- Fiery. Hot. Agitated mobility. or Black - Black is done. And when you've reached impatience you're already done. Every drop of patience has either drained or evaporated, already departed. But maybe black for emptiness, because patience was never there in the first place. Just its lack -it's absence- defines the whole of the other. I am impatient. Impatience wears jeans because they hardly wrinkle. Impatience puts too much Frizz-ease in her hair because she doesn't take the time to tame it. Impatience had two cups of coffee, not the four she desired... Al dente pasta, wet paint, typo's... these curses follow in the wake of impatience. But all you get is the wake because impatience doesn't wait around to introduce herself. So, it turns out, impatience is blue. Sowing the seed, not watching it bloom and grow Mixing ingredients, never letting them stew Making snap judgments - not sitting ...