A Quarry
I dreamt I was a little girl reaching tall on tippy toes as my button nose peered over stony wall to see a quarry on the other side . In…
Author: Barbara Powell
We heal through storytelling.
A Poem about a Helpful Emotion
I felt rage in my dream and even as I write those words I grimace because people say (especially in the Midwest) “Anger isn’t a pretty thing!” It declines to…
My Dog Blue
We call him Blue because his eyes give his name away. He’ll never hear a word we say, but I speak to him all the same. It’s because of him…
I put lipstick on to write
and as soon as I sank into my chair I caught sight of my mouth in the mirror. The red didn’t have any business being there and as I opened…
Take me to Arizona
I do not know the desert, yet the stories of rock, hot sand, and cacti burn in my mind. I’ve seen swiping photos of the majesty that arises early morning…
What I learned by age 10
When my knees were small and knobby and the trees all called my name, dirt smudged my cheeks and I’d linger in the rain, I was told “just be quiet”…
Morning Shower
My hands hold my arms, crossed and uncertain. My head dips, water drips, behind shower curtain. All I can hear is the spray of hot water and the breathing, the…
I only when
I only dream I can fly when my body knows she’s able. I only write in poetry when my thoughts are knot and tangled. I only go for walks when…
