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Malleable --able to be hammered or pressed permanently out of shape without breaking or cracking --easily influenced; pliable I am malleable.  Like tin. A can without its label.  Once full of nourishment And possible poison.  Void of frills, lacking complexity.  Empty, discarded. I am malleable.  Like gold. A ring worn on a finger.  Full of promise And sorrow.  Void of adornment, lacking whomever. Meaningless, in a pile of jewels. I am malleable.  Like silver. A second place medal.  Full of triumph And loss.  Void of first place, lacking assurance. Worthless, in a sea of runner-up winners. I am malleable.  Like iron. Born from stars.  Full of purpose And history.  Void of gentleness, lacking lust Exposed, creating a scattering of rust. I am malleable.  Like an innocent child. Made in passion.  Full of potential And woe.  Void of control, lacking direct...

Allison was touched with the turnout for a Tuesday.  She stood motionless, trying to understand it all.  Her senses were amplified in a strange and peculiar way.  The people around her seemed to be focused on their own tasks, going about them as though they were the only ones faced with this reality.  There were a few men, one or two with a cane in hand, carrying plastic planters full of mums, headed to their marked destinations.  Several women, with their balled up tissues occasionally dabbing at their eyes, were kneeling as if praying.  Their somber faces exposed their own journey.  Off in the distance, a backhoe could be heard breaking the ground, trying to perform its task with as little disruption as possible, unsuccessfully.  The smells were a mixture of both fresh and stale, crisp air mixed with corn rotting on the stalk from a nearby field.  It was too early to be called autumn, but too late to be considered summer.  She often r...

Peace eluded his hardened heart.

My soul weeps Like a March snow, Wet and heavy. Holding on to branches, Weighting them like a burden It did not ask for and does not want. The tree is helpless in shaking it. It waits patiently for the sun To melt and ease the ache. It’s a slow process. She prays for the wind. Although the bulk will remain, Perhaps the load will lessen, Wafting away in a gust To descend upon a sturdier More stable recipient, One with deeper roots and thicker bark. For now, it has no choice But to stand and hold its own Until the elements change.

Parking outside of my childhood home, hunkered down in my car, with a box of tissues ( why did I not splurge for the extra soft, is a question I will struggle with for a long time as I nurse my chapped nose), I once again wonder what all of this is for.  It’s December 19--six days before Christmas.   For not the last time (and certainly not the first that week), I wondered how I would survive the next few days.  I did not get here intentionally, as few mad people do.  What started out as a true willingness to help others, a wanting passion for tradition, and my insatiable need for achievement, coupled with my foolish optimism and talent for procrastination, created the perfect calamity.  My desire to know I am not alone inspired me to keep this journal of descent.  Please read with a dose of humor, a lack of judgment, a whole lot of empathy, and perhaps a glass of wine. Thursday morning, November 24.   Thanksgiving Day.  Today is the offi...

Pulling into the driveway, memories make me gasp for air. Can anyone know the love that happened here?  The maple tree out front where I discovered how to make noses out of its seedlings, and felt carefree enough to jump in its leaves, stands exquisitely rigid demonstrating its stability. Its branches reaching for the heavens as if to pull down the home’s occupants for one last joyful jump. The metal gate scrapes against its barrier, gives way, and creaks its opening, I am greeted by the paint-thin, red, splintering porch swing where I learned of mustard seeds. Salted mackerel taste still on my tongue.  So pickled, my fists clench in response.  The key--reliably found in the metal wash basin containing the watering can and long forgotten gardening gloves-- Weighted in my hand this time, turning reluctantly in its receptacle. Smells of life and of death hit me, breaking a bone.  Clean laundry folded, food spoiling in the tras...

When I first started writing again, I was surprised to learn how many preconceptions I had regarding the process.  I dug deep and made a list of the lessons I have learned. The biggest lesson being  that you can learn about writing.   I had always believed one either had a gift for writing or one did not.    I had always envied those that had it, placing myself in the lacking column.   Through the class, I feel I have grown and  discovered  that it is a craft that can be honed with exposure to loose formulas, examples, and exercises.    Another concrete lesson I learned was  restraint.   The need to tell every detailed process or portion isn’t as necessary as I had believed it to be.   I feel I have mastered the difference between what adds to the writing and what is an unnecessary distraction.   This lesson also crossed over into my life as well.   As much excitement and passion I feel about my writing...

Hammer to glass, I shatter.