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Poems
Fearful Wonders

Fearful Wonders

I am fearfully made in this garden of wonders where sun dapples down upon bench and bed, upon creeper and crocus, with shoots lancing quickly up, defiant through dampened earth.

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Red Ink

Red Ink

In case you’ve ever wondered what goes on in an editor’s brain, her desire to conquer syntax can cause an awful strain. A typo, a misspelling, a hyphen out of place will etch a deep, deep crease upon an editor’s face.

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Pain Well

Pain Well

That sunny day I stepped upon a shell, its bitter clam’s edge digging in my sole. I remembered why we pain, remembered well. So I dug in deeper, dug deeper still, my foot on the shard in the fleeting hole, that sunny day I stepped upon the shell.

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Plea to a Cold World

Plea to a Cold World

How like the mountain, confident, the world around me stands, defiant hands upon hips, lips issuing demands. Am I the only shattered soul who’s sometimes lost her way?

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Sketches

Sketches

Sometimes I look into my drawer of old sketches, take one out, and admire the dark lines and etches. Memories are recalled, all unique and precious.

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Miracles

Miracles

Miracles are quiet, great as the blades of mountains that rise and score the clouds, rending greater gashes and letting light inside a world that’s gone too loud.

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Question Marks

Question Marks

It’s interesting, isn’t it? How teachers often tell us that any question is a bright question, and a good question’s only job is to be asked. But kindergarten was sixteen years ago, and my teachers don’t say this anymore. We stopped talking about questions a long time ago.

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I Took a Walk Among the Forest Pines

I Took a Walk Among the Forest Pines

I took a walk among the forest pines to be alone, away from all mankind, to listen to the sound of nothingness, and leave my doubts and worries far behind. As I wandered beneath a maple maid, I breathed into my lungs the virgin air, unspoiled as of yet, and ripe with scents of spicy hemlock with a piney flair.

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Progress

Progress

I don’t remember living without this doubt. Confidence was suspicious, like the shadows of dark streets that I never dared wander. Certainty was the friend I watched others get to know, wondering if she would happen to notice me by accident. I don’t remember living without walls around my bedroom and thoughts.

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Poetry Isn't Just for Poets

Poetry Isn't Just for Poets

It can also help novelists write better stories!

Get our Harnessing the Power of Poetry e-book to learn how techniques used by skilled poets can enrich your storytelling.

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