Valiant Scribe
A literary hub giving voice to the voiceless by retelling the human experience

It may be easiest not to discuss this. Politicians would prefer headlines that violence is decreasing, at least in their area, but what if violence is not decreasing everywhere, always? What then?

You read about them in history books. How military men became leaders early on, before governments were strong. How they became a rallying point for real injustice or imagined wrong. To believe in something larger than life that was often miserable for most, who were just holding on—but for how long?

As I approached the ladder, I glanced up into the black, gaping hole of the hayloft, then turned away. Something held me back. I left to search in the woods and never saw her hanging there.

Canada geese will shout their return over the river. Days longer, lighter bringing joy to Round Bald, to mountains shadowed. Mist that would hold us to winter’s core trembles with shifting molecules.

The loss of who I thought I was is difficult to accept. But I want to illuminate the cavern to make it safe for Happiness – remove the nerves of memories, indecision can leave, too – unwanted visitors turned back by orange construction barriers.

Yesterday we drank red wine and dined pleasantly bored, arrogance our daily guest. There were no doubts, there were no fears, great promises rang in our ears. We were entitled to the best.

nothing here to see, there are weightier matters in circulation amongst women and men far more capable of the kinds of flicker-events that start forests blazing.

The world is surging around me … chaos protests, disasters, crashes and killing And in the eye of the storm, I’m on the floor building legos My 2-year-old architect demands music and I play it

I am in the water of your tears, the intake of your breath, the pressure of your knees as you kneel in depths of solitude and sorrow, half-remembered Bible verses, the memories of picnics and birthdays and family dinners

Fingers of pine feather the sky, juncos hopping in the shadows – light and dark marbled through cedar and sycamore.

How much freedom do Black poets have to write of Nature, silliness, an exciting vacation, the ill-treatment of animals. Oh, I know Black poets write on many subjects, but I’ve never heard that variety at these readings.

Her curves are caving in now, her arches dipping down. Pillaged by both sun and sea, a queen’s corroding crown.

Matchless people in a frenzied crowd gone the way of the living dead. Heart’s lonely cry echoes in faraway conches.

I asked a lonely grape-vine, “Are you bearing sweet fruits even now, in war time?”

The river recovers and continues on it's way. It can be slowed but not stopped. The impounded water fills the valleys covering ghost towns wiped off the map.

Devoid of the hustle and bustle of life, Peace and serenity permeating all. Complete relaxation, not one hint of strife In this blessed place of those heeding the call.

The old man breathes deep and reminisces Sentimental for the smell of diesel and gasoline While they watch the bumblebees and the lovebugs Dance amidst the wildflowers; a cool summer night

I stand on the slab where long-dead people once slept I peer into the cracks widened by years of freeze-thaw cycles I see a lone ant carrying a tiny particle of food I pause and smile with the realization that life, ever so precariously, goes on.

The little girl and the old man connected Only by the way the water sagittated glass shards Into smooth crystal over long decades How could they know, someday, they would both Be ankle deep in the same river?

That difficult conversation you dread? It is good practice for more. That excruciating situation? Same.