Giving Space To The Inner Poet and Closet Story Tellers

                                     To be or not to be, the age old question whose answer we seek, A whisper in the quiet valley of the strong and the meek. We walk along the narrow ridge between the dark and the light, Chasing after shadows in the middle of the night. Is it better to stand tall and face the heavy storm, Or wrap ourselves in safety where the fire keeps us warm? We build our tiny castles out of wishes and of sand, Hoping for a map to guide us through this shifting land. Every choice we make is like a seed we drop to grow, Into a path we choose to take or a road we'll never know. The stars above just look on down and never say a word, Leaving us to find the melody that we have never heard. So we breathe the morning air and watch the rising sun, Knowing that the journey has only just begun. We do not need a perfect map to tell us how to live, We only need the stre...

  The highway ends where cliffs begin, The air grows crisp, the trees grow thin. We press the pedal, climb the grade, Through tunnels carved of green and shade. Then suddenly, the world opens wide, A sea of peaks on every side. The valleys dip like giant bowls, Where rivers run and morning rolls. The jagged mountains pierce the sky, Where eagles drift and clouds float by. A painted world of stone and snow, With tiny, silent towns below. We pull the car beside the ledge, And stand right at the windy edge. The giant earth makes us feel small, But we are glad to see it all. The road curves on, the summits gleam, A moving, brilliant, high-up dream. We wrap our coats to block the cold, And watch the mountain views unfold.

                                                                   We are made of stardust and of clay, Of brilliant light and shadows gray. We laugh until our bellies ache, And cry for promises that break. We are not machines that never tire, We burn with passion, hope, and fire. We stumble, fall, and scrape our knees, Then stand back up to chase the breeze. To bleed, to feel, to fear the dark, To search the night for just one spark. To love so deeply it might hurt, And find our roots down in the dirt. We carry scars from where we've been, With messy thoughts that swirl within. Yet in our chest, a heartbeat drums, A song of hope for what still comes. For perfection is a boring art, Give me a fragile heart instead. That dares to learn, to grow, to be, Alive, imperfect, and wholly free.

The dirt turns sharp, the gravel bends, A path that never truly ends. It curves to greet the rising hill, Then dips and shakes, and refuses to sit still. Each mile is marked by rock and stone, A jolting dance of flesh and bone. The tires grip the uneven ground, As dust and memories spin around. A sudden dip, a sharp detour, The destination is never quite sure. But every bump that rattles the frame, Reminds us why we chose to come. For smooth highways are easy to keep, But they lull the searching soul to sleep. Give me the paths that twist and rise, That shakes the cobwebs from my eyes. The winding ways, the broken track, That moves us forward, never back. Where every rattle, jar, and bend, Becomes a teacher and a friend.

I remember the summer of ‘98 like it was yesterday. The sun was a relentless tyrant, and the air was thick with the smell of cut grass and dusty sneakers. The neighborhood kids, a motley crew of preteens with scraped knees and boundless energy, spent every waking hour playing street soccer in front of old Mr. Atley’s house. He hated us, and we loved the thrill of annoying him. He was the grumpy Goliath, and we were the plucky Davids, a soccer ball our only sling. The best player on the street was Kevin. He was a year older than the rest of us, with a mop of sandy hair and a cocky grin. He was faster, more agile, and had a way of dribbling the ball that made it seem like an extension of his own foot. He knew it, too, and his constant showboating drove me crazy. I was a decent player, but Kevin always found a way to make me look like a clumsy oaf, stealing the ball from me with a quick flick of his ankle or nutmegging me with a cheeky grin. One day, our game intensified. It was just Kevi...

Jayden loved the sound of baseball: the rhythmic thwack of the bat, the satisfying pop of a ball hitting a leather mitt, and the triumphant cheer of the crowd. More than anything, he loved the feeling of a bat in his hands, the weight of it, the power he felt as he swung. But now, that feeling was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache and the heavy presence of a cast. A freak accident during a practice slide into second base had left him with a fractured humerus, sidelining him for the entire summer season. The first week was the hardest. He sat on the sidelines, watching his teammates in a state of quiet despair. The summer sun, which used to feel like a warm hug, now seemed to mock him with its brightness, a constant reminder of everything he was missing. His friends tried to include him, passing him a ball to hold, or letting him sit in the dugout, but their kind gestures only highlighted the chasm between him and the game he loved. He felt like a ghost, a silent observer in his...