If days in the previous year seem somber, maybe dismal, cut them up into interlocking parts and box them like a 365-piece puzzle. At start of the New Year, resolve to put them together, studying one bygone segment with each new day. You just might find delight in the details.
Judith wrote this. She resolves to smooth out the jagged parts of life’s puzzlements.
Over a decade underground
on tree sap survival
creepy crusty shells
crawl through earth
leaving exoskeletons’
nutrients near trees.
Emerge meta-morphs,
wings as stained glass
in green tinted bodies
with falsettos in tune
to a summer’s ending.
Only weeks left above ground
attracting their mates
to lay eggs by trees.
Judith wrote this unable to ignore critters that remind her of the circle of life.
In a teahouse,
a cup of tea—
leaves ground,
bamboos whisk
balance.
In a tearoom,
a cup of tea—
guests invited,
humors mingled
connect.
In a tea shop,
a cup of tea—
comfort brewing,
scents steeping
ambrosially.
From a teapot,
a cup of tea—
poured gently,
sipped slowly
into serenity.
Judith wrote this.
Happiness, playing hide-and-seek,
____________stalking fairy tales,
____________once-upon-a-times.
Sneaking into fondest reverie,
fleeing from a darker memory.
Happiness, masquerading a smile,
____________falling head over heels,
____________upside down to a frown.
Escaping glumness nonstop,
floating above the teardrops.
Happiness, your time’s up! Now,
____________bestow my ever after
____________olly, olly, set me free.
Judith wrote this. She is happy having her writings appear in 50-Word Stories.
Six years we’ve lived together. Her creative energy, my lasting attraction. Her corner signature in every painting, my curiosity. Only her forename, the last letter extends as a straight line to the opposite side.
I finally ask why.
“I’m waiting for you to fill in the blank,” she says fetchingly.
Judith wrote this. Her writing has appeared in 50-Word Stories (sometimes only with her forename).
like strawberries and champagne
one seed toward ripeness,
bubble bursts into sparkling
like strawberries and champagne
the scent of you, sweetness
your touch, effervescence
for me, love at first fondness
for you, growing into it –
a pairing by chance
the birthing crystallizes
a mother and child
like strawberries and champagne.
Judith wrote this. She was overjoyed to celebrate Mother’s Day together with her daughter after two years of pandemic limitations.
The train moves. They wave to Tato on the platform.
“What’s there?” Mama asks.
Unfurling a fist of pebble, broken seashells, her daughter says, “Where we go, I’ll show the home I have left. Someday, I’ll return these to Odesa’s beach, or put them at Tato’s grave.”
Their seven-year-old knows.
Judith wrote this. Her heart breaks seeing Ukrainian refugees pick up their lives.