I Miss You

I miss you

In the quiet moments of the dawn

In between sips of coffee

When it snows

At a red light

I miss you.

I miss you

When I sit on a windy beach

In the moments before sleep

When I see a boat

or a shell

I miss you.

Look To The Skies

The rain is falling; the woman’s body can sense moisture in the air.  Once a child, the woman would think it odd when her grandmother would comment, I can feel the weather in my bones.  Now she knows this is factual.  Scientists state that creatures, including birds, can sense a storm, as it brews, before it strikes.  True, the woman believes. Pay attention to the birds, Grace.  Look to the skies.

The sky is grey, dove grey. Gossamer threads taut, white fibres stretched through the sky, much like a blanket, the shades subtly mingled and woven. A cozy blanket to comfort the earth.

Red boots on Saturday

Red boots on Saturday (Photo credit: huppypie)

The woman fans the paint chips, November Skies, catches her eye. When it comes to colour, Nature, the masterful painter, always gets it right. Look to the skies. 

This is a red boot day, a functional rain boot day.  The woman senses the boots whispering through the floors of the old house, Come, let’s play.  Once there was a time when new rain boots made the woman smile, peering through the living room window, waiting for rain.  Anticipating the child’s thrill, dipping a foot into water. The puddles to splash!  Look to the skies. 

The rain tumbles down.  The woman wonders, Does the sky shed tears? Perhaps, the universe, heart-broken and melancholy, sobs, when a light goes out on the earth below.  A sorrowful cleanse of sorts, a reminder of loss and despair. A reminder of another’s love, now washed away. Lost to memory, patiently waiting, for the right time for one to open the box.  Open it.  Let the sunlight’s brilliance remind us of all that is beautiful in life, remembering, the rain will pass.  Look to the skies.

Fall Back

Part 2~

The opportunity to fall back in time, to face him, the questions lined up in rapid fire, the judgements already sealed, words tattooed upon the woman’s heart .  Its every pump, sending forth doubt, frantic searches to find the missing puzzle piece, the never-ending search for an answer to the question, Did you love me?  An answer to the why.  There had been time to prepare the words and wonder, the unsettled musing about, the shedding of tears.  Journeying back in time, the woman rediscovered the place where the stars crossed, the point that they had started from.  It became her only way to find inner peace and a desperate sense of belonging.  Journey back to the beginning of the story.  Mine and scrape the mire off of hope, dreams, and love.  This became the quest.

The woman discovered that the story begins with family strength.  Many generations of men and women struggling to raise their families, surviving the cruelest moments that life has a way of tossing out.  Families living with a strong faith, guided by a belief that their God would provide, in time.  Patience.  It started with love; actions such as the scrapped pieces of poetry, carefully cut from the newspapers, glued into a now tattered book, dedicated to the man.  A mother’s enduring love for a son, the words on the page calling forth wishes, expressing sorrow, and hope. Belief and patience.  The unspoken words on the page, the silent messages of a mother’s undying love.

Did the man appreciate how much he was treasured; was the message softly spoken?  The woman wonders if the man knew his value.  Did the man realize the talents he possessed, the ability to see the details, an eye that could create and fix, rendering works of beauty and function?  Did the man realize that he was good enough? Did the man lose his heart?

There was so much the woman could have said; so many questions to ask.  What was the point?  It is what it is.  It is not what should have been.  The woman and the man both know that fact. The woman stepped forth and took the man’s hand.  The touch screaming the words that she could not express, the questions unimportant now. I love you, dad. For that is all that truly matters.

Fall Back

This evening, by midnight, certain regions of  Canada and the world, will complete the annual ritual of turning back the clocks by one hour, an action also known as standard time.  There are positives to this action.  A recent seven-year study in Sweden found that this semi-annual one hour change is linked to a study that shows a decrease in heart attacks and fatalities, perhaps due to body alertness and ability to adjust to light changes.  It is believed that setting the clock back by one hour is easier on the body than setting the clock forward.

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/clocks-fall-back-to-end-daylight-time-1.1333086

Imagine being able to find an opening in the universe and like, another Alice, much more famous than my Alice, topple and tumble-down a rabbit hole, to arrive at an event.  A pivotal event in your life, a do over moment.  What would you do over, what would you change, if time gave you this opportunity?

“Waiting. Simply one person doing nothing, over time, while another approached.”
― Ian McEwanAtonement 

Stepping into the quiet, calm night, so still, one can feel the stars sparkle.  Fairies of the night, shining souls, casting their brilliance to the earth below.  It is the midnight hour, an alluring moment of time, where magical happenings are always a possibility.

Darkness layers the night, the ancient evergreens thick and sturdy tall, standing guard to form a fortress of protection, against the darkness of the night. Venturing deeper into their midst, the woman senses the rustle as the boughs adjust, a joining of hands like moment, of solidarity and connection.  You are safe here, their whispered breathes, blowing forth, greet her.  Shelter here.

Leaning against the trunk, the woman presses her cheek against the cool, rough, soft surface. A tattered blanket of moss wraps around, much like a too old child still clinging to a weary blanket.  Some comfort. The woman closes her eyes and falls.  Back in time, tumbling into a garden a bloom, where he is waiting.

~ to be continued

Rainy Day

This morning, I sit in silence, listening to the rain as its steady patter hits the roof.  I imagine the soft water droplets exploding after their harsh landing, scattering into the air and gutters. Free falling.  The coffee is black, strong and hot, just the way that I like it.  The house is still, darkened by the smoke grey clouds blanketing the sky.  Only the light cast from the lamp illuminates the desk where I sit, musing on the morning.  I realize how much I enjoy these quiet, melancholy mornings.

To be honest, I love grey, wet mornings.  There is something beautiful about a universe that lets her world have a good cry of tears, every once in a while. It’s cathartic, as if the universe is saying, Just let go, it is what it is, let it be.  A lovely cleansing of sorts, preparing us for the eventual return of sunshine and clear skies. For when it happens we will be ready to appreciate the bright changes all the more.  Let some light into the darkness.

This is a baking morning.  Quiet, grey, wet mornings  demand an audience; they want to be treated as special guests.  Turn on the oven, the warmth from within fills the kitchen.  Carefully select, mix and stir the ingredients. Savor the cinnamon and vanilla.  Put the darling into the oven.  Blanket it in warmth for a spell.  Delicious goodness awaits.  A simple action that sustains.  Blissful, unhurried moments on a rainy day morning.

The Lady’s Coat

The Lady’s Coat

Slipping the Thrift Store coat over her forearms, easing it onto her shoulders, the woman smiles as she senses the weight settling into place, cloaking her frame. Glancing into the mirror she considers her reflection, graying hair swept into a simple up do, rolled and pinned into place, the simplest of pearl studs gracing her delicate ear lobes. The woman possesses an air of simple grace and beauty, yet the coat she is wearing suggests a different, more opulent story. Enfolded within the coat, the woman recalls someone she once knew, long ago in a younger, more naïve time.

The coat, constructed of the finest Persian lamb’s wool, is exquisite, yet simple. The crossover collar frames her tired face and the sleeves with accompanying wide cuffs adorn her arms and wrists.  Wrapped warmly, as though with a hug that’s luxurious and sensual, she lets her mind go. After all, this isn’t just any Thrift Store coat; this was a lady’s coat. Gazing into the mirror the woman sees reflected back the image of one once so beautiful, so once-upon-a-time naïve.

The woman imagines the stories the coat could share, if only coats could speak. Imagine the daily excursions to town, the dining out, as surely as this was once a lady’s coat.  Imagine the owner, a fine lady, head held high, sashaying to church or to the shops about the city. The local butcher would have paused, eyes focused upon the vision wearing the Persian lamb coat. How may I help you, ma’am? The locals’ whispered comments, Who is this lady? A banker’s wife? Someone’s mistress?

Closing her eyes, the woman recalls distant memories, focusing on a time outside a city café. Through the window, the woman views a younger vision in a Persian lamb coat, seated in a booth at the back of the café. The dark auburn hair in a simple up do rolled and pinned into place. The eyes, cast down, the lashes as noir as the Persian lamb coat she wore. The simplest of pearl studs gracing her delicate ear lobes. The young woman possesses an air of simple grace and beauty, yet the coat she is wearing suggests a different, more opulent story.

Glancing at the watch upon her wrist, the young woman wears an expression of concern, or is it disappointment? Perhaps shame clouds the lovely features. Glancing toward the café door, she waits. Focusing on her coffee cup, slowly, gently, stirring the spirals, gazing as if into a mirror. He loves me, he loves me not, words whispered. What does the young woman see, what is she searching for? She recalls a time when she had felt hopeful, which was more than she felt at that moment, patiently waiting in a café for someone.

Surely this someone would show tonight. After all, he had promised to meet her at 5:00.  Glancing at the watch upon her wrist the young woman notes the time, 5:45. Still, this man is an important man, people steal his time, and meetings run over the scheduled minutes. This fact she understands. How many times has she phoned his desk line, offering up an excuse to exit? Let’s get lost, Shirley, his words luring her further into their web of deceit. Those simple words, provocative, led her deeper into the place where lies entangle, until she became a willing victim of his terms.

The young woman in the booth glances at the watch upon her wrist. Why bother checking? Of course, he is late again. Are you ready to order, ma’am? For the waiter recognizes this woman, how could one avoid noticing such a vision, the lady wearing the exquisite Persian lamb coat? May I refill your cup, ma’am, allowing the lady time to think, to plan the next move.

The older woman can’t help but feel sympathy for this younger woman seated in the back booth, a vision in the Persian lamb coat. For whom does she wait? Is it a man, her husband, perhaps a lover? Is she the mistress? Why does she wait? The younger woman stands up, a careless wave, a slightly forced smile. The man she waits for has arrived, baring flowers, clutching a briefcase full of excuses and lies. She senses this fact, knows it to be true. Let’s get lost, Shirley!

Shirley slips the Persian lamb coat over her forearms, easing it onto her shoulders, smiling as she feels the coat settling into place, surprised at the weightlessness. Gazing at the café window, the younger woman sees reflected back the image of one so beautiful, so elegant, no longer once-upon-a-time naïve. A fine lady, head held high, Shirley walks out of the café, leaving the past behind.

May I help you, ma’am? The woman returns to the present, glancing back at her image in the Thrift Shop mirror, a vision in the Persian lamb coat. It’s a beautiful coat, a lady’s coat, the employee gushes. The lady who owned this piece must have paid a dear price for it!

Enfolded within the coat, channeling all thoughts luxurious and sensual, the woman’s mind begins to wander. After all, this wasn’t just any Thrift Store coat; this was a lady’s coat. The woman hands the ten-dollar bill with change to the cashier. Gently, she slips the Persian lamb over her forearms, easing the weight over her shoulders. She clasps the fastener of the crossover collar, noticing that one fur cuff is worn, slightly tarnishing the vision. In her ear she hears his whispered words, alluring, ensnaring, Let’s get lost, Shirley. A fine lady, head held high, the woman exits the Thrift Store, a vision in Persian lamb.

~ entry from writing contest @ writersite.org

It’s Alice

dears, and I want to share some wisdom for obtaining and acquiring a bright, beautiful skin.  Firstly, a warning lovelies~ High living and late hours will destroy the most beautiful complexion!  The secret to acquiring  a bright, beautiful skin is, temperance, exercise, and cleanliness!  There you have it!

Wisdom gleaned from my trusty household guide,

~ The Household Guide, Home Remedies and Home Treatment, For All Diseases in Man or Beast, A Manual in Domestic Information for All Classes, Davis MD, E.B. and Jefferis PHD, M.D. , J.L. Nichols, Naperville, Ills, 1891

PS~ Between us~ my granddaughter, Grace, drinks black coffee, copious amounts of black tea, has been know to stay out late~ (once upon a time), uses retinoid creams, and on occasion, drops by the med spa, wearing a fitbit, on her wrist. 

Until next time, dears!

Yours in loveliness,

Alice

x

The Treasured Book of Words

This morning, I discovered a scrapbook containing snippets of poetry, phrases, and words.  My Grandmother, Alice’s little bespoke Book of Words. Wise words, words to ponder, words to inspire. Words that caught her eye.  I’m assuming that these words spoke to her.  From the poems depicting gardens of pansies, injured birds, rolling kittens, little boys, struggles and hardships, lowly rats, and the evidence of whimsy that I recall, I have been allowed a deeper, sliver glimpse into the reflective soul of the woman I called, Grandma.

Judging by the many clips, Parenting, was a topic that caused our Alice to pause and reflect.  I often wonder about the relationship that she had with her son, my father.  Judging from the poems scrapped carefully into the, Book of Words, Alice, as so many mothers before and after her, was filled with a spirit of hope and promise, at times disappointment, sadness, worry, and longing. Evidence of a dear and precious love was locked in her heart.

I’d like to share this poem from my grandmother’s Book of Words, with you and I wonder if Alice was feeling some regret over family words spoken that once set free, can not be taken back.  It reminds us to celebrate our children’s individuality and their successes, reminding us that success is personal and goals will and should differ. Unconditional love and meaningful praise feeds the soul and the heart.

Which Parent Are You?
I got two A’s, the small boy cried.
His voice was filled with glee.
His father very bluntly asked,
Why didn’t you get three?
Mom, I’ve got the dishes done,
The girl called from the door.
Her mother very calmly said,
Did you sweep the floor?
I’ve mowed the grass, the tall boy said,
And put the mower away.
His father asked him with a shrug,
Did you clean off the clay?
The children in the house next door
Seem happy and content.
The same things happen over there,
But this is how it went:
I got two A’s, the small boy cried.
His voice was filled with glee.
His father very proudly said, That’s great;
I’m glad you belong to me.
Mom, I’ve got the dishes done,
The girl called from the door.
Her mother smiled and softly said,
Each day I love you more.
I’ve mowed the grass, the tall boy said,
And put the mower away.
His father answered with much joy,
You’ve made my happy day.
Children deserve a little praise
For tasks they’re asked to do,
If they’re to lead a happy life,
So much depends on you.

~ Badger Legionne

(approximate date~1930)

The Daily Prompt~ Junk

MirrorDaily Prompt: Clean House

by michelle w. on September 29, 2013

Is there “junk” in your life? What kind? How do you get rid of it?

Photographers, artists, poets: show us JUNK.

A clean and tidy house calms me, assures that all is right with my world. Clean as in floors washed, dishes scrubbed, trash contained and clean as in visually calm and pleasing to the eye, everything in its place, ship-shape, serene.  There is an order to the spaces and pieces in my home, purposely placed to show their function, use, or aesthetic beauty.  Artful placement.  Nothing mumble jumble. It has always been this way for me, a comfort comes in knowing and visualizing where everything is and why it is.  Addicted to order and beauty, addicted to calm.  I fear chaos.

I am addicted to order and beauty yet I can not pass by that one-off chair sitting by the curb, discarded, worse for wear.  I can see possibilities and beauty.  A project.  Junk to you, treasure to me.  Lately, I am drawn to shades of blues and greys, reminiscent of oceans and skies, the shades changing with the hour and the light. Moody shades.  Addicted to shape.  I touch all that is round, smooth, and cool.  Rocks, chestnuts, shells, pottery bowls, and glass are heaven in my hands.  Lately, I am addicted to words, those prolific, simple quotes that complete a thought.  I selectively search them out, books, notecards, posters, pillows, words grace my space.  Junk to you, treasure to me.

Junk challenges and over the years I have attempted to deal with that aspect in my life.  Recycling when I can, discarding if I must, choosing with a selective  eye, finding a home for each item, or walking away.  When I see an item of beauty, it is the history that captivates me, the memories evoked, the stories.  I am addicted to the stories that the pieces whisper forth as they sit in the thrift shop, or beside the curb.  Sometimes, I falter and bring them along home, lovingly restoring and coaxing new life to the damaged shapes. Finding a place for the old.  Junk to you, treasure to me.

Junk can clutter a home; it can clutter a life.  Lately, I have decided to deal with the debris in my soul, sweeping it off and dusting over the scratches.  Polishing up the shabbier pieces, illuminating the beauty and shine, finding my voice. It requires one to be brave, take a risk.  It is difficult to let go and scatter the broken bits, the memories we frantically cling to.  Some of these memories will find a place in a story, some banished, others will be forgiven, planting the seeds of hope and promise. Junk to you, treasure to me.

Oh~ and I will purposely leave a cup out-of-place.  I will walk away.

Building Bridges

There comes a time when you realize that some matters can’t be figured out, that over thinking a situation is futile, answers aren’t forthcoming.  Sometimes you just have to listen to your heart.  Thus, it came to me.  I decided to change the story. The one that I had lived, the one that I had told myself for far too long.  I decided to build a bridge to Promise.  Not that I didn’t ever try.  Previously, I constructed a ramp.  Before that, another attempt, many attempts, in fact. Always, my efforts created a temporary, precarious structure that offered an opportunity to cross over to a hopeful promise, from the abyss to solid, level ground, to the promise of belonging, the promise of forgiveness.  Always, I would start the precarious journey, gingerly stepping away from the safety of the zone I had created.  Always, I would make it to the half waypoint where I would falter, afraid to push on.  The voices whispering, Go back. I would listen.  First came fear, stealthily overtaking my head, moving downward to tangle my heart, finally paralyzing my movements, until my body ached to return to the safety of the land called, Limbo, the place where action isn’t required, where one waits until another day, a maybe later place. A place where indecision becomes a comfortable existence. Where we take missed opportunities to the grave.  Where I wait for you to offer your hand.

Limbo Land is a dangerous place to exist. Within the walls, too much thinking occurs, not enough action.  Limbo time fools one into believing that there is always enough of it. Maybe later is the brand chosen to announce this place.  Someone is wrong, I am right, maybe later, are the mantras.  Individuals walk around smiling, holes in their souls, constantly seeking to fill themselves up with anything, anything that numbs the pain and allows one to accept, maybe later.  It is a land that allows reflection time.  Just be aware, it does not require one to take action. After all, actions speak louder than words.  You can exist in Limbo Land; you just can’t live there.  Fear is the ruler and like a despot, Fear will always silence that seedling voice inside of you, the one that whispers, What if? Maybe now?  Stay awhile, just be aware nothing is ever accomplished and nothing will ever improve when you are lounging in this joyless place.

Perhaps, the saddest souls inhabiting Limbo are the  drifters, ones that have turned their backs on one another, so-called, family.  Ones connected by similar DNA, shared blood lines, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. Our sisters and brothers, our mothers and fathers.  What on earth is worth more than those sacred relationships? We cry the same tears.  Doors close, wars rage on.  In the silence of the night, as we prepare to sleep, do we find a quiet calm? Or do we mourn for an open door, acceptance, forgiveness, and restored peace in our world? We are all connected and when one link of the chain breaks, we are each weakened by the snap. Forgive, reach out, come back, are the sorrowful, yet, hopeful words that whisper from beyond Limbo.  Be still and listen, you will hear the whispers on the back of the winds that blow across the deep abyss that separates Limbo from Promise. Perhaps you will hear my voice.  I sit beneath the stars and pray.  Maybe later.

We have waited long enough. Sometimes you just have to listen to your heart.

Writing Contest Stories

I’ve been testing my wings.  Writer and Educator, Luanne, from the blog, Writer Site, recently hosted a writing contest.  The story entries will be posted on Luanne’s site, writersite.org  throughout the week.  My story, The Lady’s Coat, is posted today!  Please take some time to read the judged entries.  Writers can appreciate the process of writing and the brave spirit necessary to “publish” one’s “darlings!” A special “thank you” to Luanne and the esteemed judges,

Wilma Kahn has an MA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing from Western Michigan University, as well as a Doctor of Arts in English from SUNY-Albany. She is the published author of poems, short stories, essays, and a detective novel, Big Black Hole. Wilma has led writing classes for adults in Kalamazoo County, Michigan, since 1987. In her spare time she tends a little wildflower garden with ironweed seven feet tall.

Kimberly Keating Wohlford is a writer in Charlotte, NC where she free-lances for the arts community.  In 2011, she left an established career in newspaper advertising, to pursue a dream to write her own stories.  Kimberly is currently working on a memoir that follows her journey to Glastonbury, England where magical things happen to redirect her path in life.  She will receive a certificate in creative writing from Stanford in March 2014.

for offering this exciting opportunity to the writing community.  With my amazon.com award, I have ordered a hard cover version of the Newbery Medal Winner, Where The Mountain Meets the Moon, by Grace Lin http://gracelin.com/.  I chose a hardcover, paper to touch book as a gift for my “dear” one and my hope is that she will treasure this gift through time.  I want my dear to enjoy print and words as much as I do.  Follow your dreams!

My entry, The  Lady’s Coat, is posted onto writersite.org

I hope you enjoy, The  Lady’s Coat.

Thrift Store Coat

Grace’s Thrift Store Persian Lamb Coat

writersite.org

Sincerely,

“Grace”

~ Lynne

x

Simple Acts of Kindness

Heart of Mud.

Heart of Mud. (Photo credit: anyjazz65)

There were several strong women in my mother’s life.  These women had to own strength, nursing children through illness, caring for large broods of children, struggling together during hard times.  They knew hardship and they knew the collective power of bonding together.  Their strong circle of support formed around another family in need.   This time it was my mother’s family.  These women made a pivotal and positive difference finding order from chaos.  It was their simple acts of kindness and commitment that pulled my mother through one of the darkest of memories.   My mother’s, mother passed on, when my mother was a mere nine years old.  These were difficult and sad times for all.  A distraught father, an infant in tow, created a perfect storm for chaos.  There was a need for order,  established routines, and a desperate ache for love and acts of kindness.  These women, laid aside their differences and lives to circle around a family in need.  They stepped in and offered up simple acts of kindness through gifts of time and love.

My great-grandmother was among the first to arrive.  Still grieving the loss of her daughter, great-grandmother filled the role of mothering her daughter’s child.  My mother fondly remembers her grandmother and their lovely visits together. This woman would read tea leaves and she read my mother’s with conviction and optimism, the sun will shine for you, dear.  Every evening when the sun set, great-grandmother would pick up her daughter’s silver-handled brush from the nightstand and brush my mother’s hair.  Great-grandmother would sing as she softly brushed away the sadness that clung in the little girl’s mind.  Tucking my mother under the covers, great-grandmother would recite a prayer.  My mother believes that this simple, repetitive act soothed and eased her pain.  My great grandmother’s loving touch, strong faith, and the simple action of methodically brushing hair comforted, instilling calm and hope into a little child’s broken heart. Their time together would be brief.

Another woman of strength was a childless, flamboyant Auntie who would pick my mother up from the city house and take her off for a weekend stay.  My mother, seated in a sidecar, would ride to the Auntie’s with Uncle Monty steering the wheel of his motor cycle.  Clamouring up the stairs, my mother would wait for Monty to enact the magical act of pulling a bed out of the wall.  With a flourish and a wave of  hand, Monty would drop the Murphy Bed. Auntie and Uncle Monty’s zest and zeal, their laughter and joy of life returned some of the enchantment, sparking the light that had dimmed in a nine-year old child’s world.

There were the cheerful Aunties that arrived with casseroles in hand.  Bustling through the kitchen, they could set and place a satisfying, home cooked meal on the table in next to no time.  There was warm food to eat, manners to model, grace and conversation shared, all served up, spiced with shakes of laughter.  The Aunties demonstrated that dining together was more than just the sharing of a meal at the table.  It was about the circle of family that surrounded, concerned for another.  This protective element returned a sense of family and love into a young child’s grayed life.

I share this story as a reminder to look about and discover how  a simple action can begin to heal, threading joy, order, and laughter back into someone else’s life.  When you share a small piece of your heart,  the simple actions set forth, rolling on throughout time, mending and patching and healing others.  Share a small piece of yourself with someone in need.  You won’t need to look too far to find that someone and you won’t need to spend much money to bring joy to another.

The Art of Trying

“We may struggle, but we don’t quit”

ALMANDYNE

A storyteller who writes and scribbles, and calls it art.

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The Casual Way to Discuss Movies

MyStoriesWithMusic

READ THE STORY AND FIND THE SONG - The story and the song have the same title, but are not necessarily about the same theme, however they are linked in some way and as you read the story you will find the song. (There will also be posts that are poems/quotes and posts that are all about the music.)

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islands and in between

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Your sentence here.

Give me a sentence. I'll write you a story.

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Let your passion be directed by reason. Take Action!

The Art of Trying

“We may struggle, but we don’t quit”

ALMANDYNE

A storyteller who writes and scribbles, and calls it art.

MovieBabble

The Casual Way to Discuss Movies

MyStoriesWithMusic

READ THE STORY AND FIND THE SONG - The story and the song have the same title, but are not necessarily about the same theme, however they are linked in some way and as you read the story you will find the song. (There will also be posts that are poems/quotes and posts that are all about the music.)

The Sound Sniffer

Sniffing out the best new music

A R C H I P E L A G A L

islands and in between

SCENTS MEMORY

Wear what you love, not what they say you should like.

Goal Digger

Be Positive, Patient and Persistent...

Sauce Box

Never get lost in the Sauce

SKYLARITY

Paradigm Shift, Mindfulness, and Personal Empowerment

Little Fears

Tales of whimsy, humor and courgettes

Corkboards and Coffee Houses

Reflections on Writing

Bonkers

Is there no way out of the mind? Of lazy litanies and trying to make sense on the way down the rabbit's hole...

Your sentence here.

Give me a sentence. I'll write you a story.

HeartSphere

Conversations with the Heartmind

At Koko's Place

Simply a lifestyle blog! Come along with me...

deepspiritleading

Reflections on spirituality in everyday life

Minister Is A Verb

Let your passion be directed by reason. Take Action!

Dean J. Baker - Poetry, and prose poems

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Relationships, Words of Hope and Inspiration, Empowerment

Words Like Honey

add sweetness to my soul

I didn't have my glasses on....

A trip through life with fingers crossed and eternal optimism.

Dr. K. L. Register

Just a small town girl who writes about Christian stuff.

a POP of red

A blog of utilitarian DIYs, fantastic food, and much more

The Crafty Mummy

DIY, Crafts and Handmade

Words.Become.Legacies

My thoughts come to ink

BLOG

Spread Hope. Inspire Others.

prairiebazaar

Vintage, Upcycled, Handmade

SOLM Designs

Elegant, Simple & Fresh Design

re:retro

collecting retro

FOUND THIS, PAINTED THAT.

Decorating solutions for the dollar challenged.