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

For every twilight, there is a dawn. For every demon, there is a prayer. And God reigns through it all.

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.

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

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.

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.

Here dies a son of sun and sand, who sailed the sea to sow strange soil. You mouth your thoughts, fingers twitching words in air, as you watch your blood feeding the earth, watering the tomato vines. L'or rouge des Pouilles. Leur or est rouge de notre sang.

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?

Marriage does not deputize a spouse to carry another adult’s sin, addiction, or dysfunction. And yet, for years, that’s exactly what it felt like I was supposed to do.

The fire nearing a small town where they had friends, consisting of more ancient homes, rickety cabins than sturdy recently built structures. Panicked pounding on the door made him jump.