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

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?

I am flawed and imperfect imbued with conflicting emotions with extreme polarities in thought my anxieties instill fear and my fear breeds anxiety

Second Sunday of Lent. Confession prayer, and my fingers are consumed with unweaving my eldest son’s TheraPutty from his liturgy booklet, pressed in some moment of sensory need to the perforated part where you share contact details and prayer requests.

We could be at peace and yet we fashion battles, for who can gaze in silence at the sun and be content for long?