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Untroubled (my poem) was Published by Redrosethorn Magazine

My haibun, Untroubled, was published in Redrosethorn’s second annual issue: Home/Belonging.

Born in South Africa, raised in Cape Town, moved to Nelspruit, and immigrating to California, Kritsy Anne describes being stumped when asked “where are you from?” in their editor’s letter:

“…in the current political climate—the question of where we are from seers into the rhetoric that someone does not belong to the place they are living. I felt that cut when Americans asked me this question. I had the sense that I was being ‘othered’, reminded that was not one of them. And I began to discover the microaggressions hidden in plain sight uttered through our tongues.”

What’s your idea of home or place of belonging? This is the question the magazine asked every contributor.

“From these stories, I gleaned that what we are seeking is a planet that is protected so that she may thrive; freedom of movement and the liberty to express and be one’s true self, without prejudice, and being surrounded by love and support with people we care most deeply for. I think that this speaks volumes about what home and belonging truly mean to us.”

So, what’s my idea of home and belonging?

Untroubled, details a moment in a small family’s life. It’s physically messy with the caretakers obviously exhausted, but happiness is present despite the haphazardness of the scene.

I wrote this after weathering a tantrum. While I can’t remember the details, I do remember my son’s sweetest smile after I got him to calm down. That moment of calm after a whirlwind of chaos was so vivid and raw that I wanted to portray it in writing somehow. It made me think about my own parents and how, despite their exhaustion, home felt like home.

Anyway, I’ve spent the better part of my day reading the journal and love it. There’s amazing work by other writers and it’s aesthetically pleasing in my opinion.

Links:

(The link marked with ” ** ” is an Amazon affiliate link. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases at no extra cost to you.)

Check out my other publications, here.

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A Letter to Writers who are Parents: Writing and Parenting is Possible (my guest post on NaNoWriMo)

Between late night feedings, tantrums, and saying “don’t eat that!” for the umpteenth time, I wondered how authors balanced their careers with parenting. So I googled (“is writing and parenting possible?”) and regretted it.

Not only is this rarely talked about, it’s believed to be impossible in some circles 1 .

But it’s absolutely possible 2 !

Continue reading “A Letter to Writers who are Parents: Writing and Parenting is Possible (my guest post on NaNoWriMo)”
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My August Childhood

boy in green shorts holding green hose

The water hose hissed and, for a moment,
The faint scent of sunbaked rubber
Filled the humid air.

Water tickled small, laughing bodies
Running barefoot through lush grass
Peppered with dried needle leaves.

They take refuge behind a rundown car
With cracked windows that resembled
A spiderweb glistening in the sun.

Prompt: Poetics: Sometimes August isn’t recognized by Sanaa Rizvi (from A Dash of Sunny) on d’Verse ~ Poets Pub. Join in on the fun by posting your response to the prompt via Mr. Linky.

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A Peaceful Summer Afternoon

potted plant and chair on balcony 
A shaded balcony
Chlorine wafting from the pool like a Siren's song
Children's laughter
Scrape of colorful chalk, tattooing concrete
Flowers in bloom
Red petals dancing in summer's light
Cyclist meandering by
Wheels cracking and spokes creaking
Wind in grass
Dried morning trimmings blanketing the walkway
Peaceful observer

Written for d’Verse ~ Poet’s Pub poetry challenge: MTB/Poetry Form: The Eleventh Power & More.

Funny story: I accidentally locked myself on my balcony while I was drafting this.

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My Writer’s Journey so far… (aka Hello!)

For the last two years, I’ve been on what I could only describe as a personal journey. Almost like a Hero’s Journey (or a Writer’s Journey 😉 ).

The beauty of the Hero’s Journey model is that it not only describes a pattern in myths and fairy tales, but it’s also an accurate map of the territory one must travel to become a writer or, for that matter, a human being.

Christopher Vogler, The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers 3rd ed

I needed a reason to write and thought, why not take part in a coffee share? So, welcome visitors and HELLO to everyone still reading (I love you <3 ).

Continue reading “My Writer’s Journey so far… (aka Hello!)”
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A Treasure of Nightmares

person holding brown wooden chest

There is nothing more torturous than an agitated mind.

It’s like a treasure chest of unspoken riches

Selfishly guarded, every jewel meticulously analyzed

Accumulating over a short time–

Epiphanies, suspicions, fears, schemes–

Until it overflows

And the tortured realizes too late

That it was easier to open than shut.

Written in response to Patrick Jenning’s Pic and a Word Challenge: Experience ~ Pic and a World Challenge #313

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The Death Sentence

The year is 3020 and time travel is an execution method.

A few years back, it was a hopeful science experiment. “Humanity’s next great breakthrough,” said World Union’s propagandists. It earned them a few willing volunteers. A couple hundred if I remember right, but after humanity’s next great breakthrough turned its volunteers into charred corpses, WU couldn’t find a soul patriotic enough to step into a pod.

So these bastards used it to kill “criminals” or, better said, revolutionaries like me.

I wish I kept quiet. If I hadn’t written those papers. If I’d just stayed an obedient citizen…

My feet felt heavy as my handlers led me to my pod. My heart beat rattled my body and I couldn’t find the strength to walk anymore. Hands yanked me from the ground and tossed me into my pod. They strapped my arms to my seat and, when I was secured, pressed a button that lowered the pod’s door. It made a hiss as it sealed me in.

A priest stood outside and prayed for me, but I couldn’t hear him. Not over my loud breathing. Not over my heartbeat, now thundering in my ears.

The machine whirled to life when he disappeared from view. I felt it attack my body first, pulling me apart atom by atom, then it went for my mind and crushed it.

***

The year is 1985; I live in London with my wife, and I’m the first human to survive a time jump.

Credits
Photo: Clock by Splitshire via Pixabay.
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Our Escape

I want to be alone… with someone who wants to be alone.

Dimitri Zaik

We rented a motel room in a city far away from our respective lives. The moment we entered, we killed our phones then sequestered them in the old drawer – charging be damned – officially going off grid.

Two chocolates and a courtesy “Hope You Enjoy Your Stay” note sat in the center of the bed. We pushed them onto the floor and stowed away under the cold covers, embracing each other for warmth and, at some primal level, a need to belong.

But when our embrace didn’t scare away the loneliness that festered within us, we resorted to kissing it away.

Our respective decomposing worlds faded into a fog, leaving us alone.

Under satin sheets
Your soft snoring in my ears
Sheltered in your warmth

Credits
Photo: Morning Blankets by Cottonbro via Pexels.
Prompt: Solitude ~ Pic and a Word Challenge #257 by Patrick Jennings via Pix to Words.
Quote: Dimitri Zaik
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Every Bit of Me

Every bit of me
Wants to believe we
Are real, that in
Our silences, a chord,
Silvery, binds us together.
Unseen but felt, reminding
Us that we are
Kindred souls in love
Fated to be by
God or whatever force
That put us here.

Every bit of me
Wants to believe this.
But the wounds from
Past chords prevent me.
Chords I believed were
Like ours—precious loves—
Until brutishly snatched away
Like ripping an embedded
Hangnail from a finger.

In my eyes
My wounds prove
“Love” is foolish.

Yet,

Every bit of me
Wants you to
Prove me wrong.

Credits
Photo: Three Heart Balloons by Kristina Paukshtite via Pexels.