Just when the evening turns to night – There is a word the wise ones say It speaks itself when all the birds Have sung away the last of day

For a week, maybe more, I’ve had a cough that won’t leave punctuating my days with dragon’s fire. The pain performs ballets of lightning, blooming, reminding me I’ve not been careful with my seasons.

The seconds turn into decades, always surrounded by those who will never truly know me.

She of the long flowing hair cascading like the river 22 stories below telescopes far on the avenue where humans skitter along

She wore pressed clothes, matching shoes, an oversized hat, and clip-on pearls. When she crossed her legs on the aisle seat, Sophia saw her. She didn’t want to be obvious, so she sat in the front rows, then drifted a few rows behind—opposite side.

Two years ago, there was a bad drought like this one, and we abandoned my baby sister. Mommy was too sick to feed her. I begged Mommy not to, but she said it was the only way.

The full moon Through my kitchen window Turns the kitchen floor to light, No any-so-shining silver world By day, however bright

By Laura Jean Dahl Inspired to combine contrasting ideas, Laura Jean Dahl is a boundary pushing writer, artist, producer and educator. A life-long writer, she now has the time to devote herself fully to the craft of creating compelling literature. Her art has been featured in many shows, including the national Silvermine Guild competition and the international Art Reach competition in Utah. As an American nomad, Laura’s diverse career includes being a back stage tour guide at

I paint a Flemish scene of bristly trees and hard-packed snow between two frozen streams. In this our northern winter land I freeze

I know that hat, although I don’t know Paige. When I was ten, and not quite at the age when girls start questioning their style decisions

When twilight finds you by the sea and memory tears collect renounce the tide that has taken me.

Can you love me laissez-faire when the path leads to and fro and not succumb to daily wear?

Raju had no choice. Beggars can’t be choosers. He had to do it. His natural disposition didn’t suit this kind of work, but a man does what he must do to survive. That’s how it goes.

Here is the bed where I can’t sleep and there’s the desk where I can’t write, abandoned papers in a heap.

A cleverer student would remember Milton’s voice a line of iambs marching free, an ego perhaps from God’s own lips.

awake again without a reason why the ghostly fingers drag along my spine telling me that everything is fine that I don’t have to suffer; dry my eyes.

In the hills behind my house, bodies burn The vapors rise over the sakuras While I sit by my window with my dogs

If boots could talk the tales they’d tell of wearied limbs up random fell

I remember… Vivid sights.

I’ve lived in France for decades but still feel an outsider. Born in St. Thomas, I had Jewish parents of Creole-color, wealthy merchants who never approved of my valuing