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Learn more about Amazon Prime. Please try your request again later. She attended Settlement Music School in Philadelphia and the University of Maryland and practiced as a real estate broker before embarking on her life career as an author, songwriter, and creator of her original musical play "Greener Grass," which is set for workshop production. The children's book 'A Family Still, United Nations,' is such an inspiration, which will include a trailer for all to see.
It is set in the form of a story with poems and triumphs over hills and valleys to the Magic Mountain. A young man's bigger-than-life birthday wish was realized when he awoke from a spectacular dream where his quest for humanity, human dignity, and human freedoms could spread from sea to shining sea the world over.
The storybook is based upon catastrophes and epic poverty. It includes whirlwind storms, earthquakes, the birth of warfare, children who live under a bridge in Brazil, September 11, which changed our world foreverand then there was Hurricane Katrina, August, 29, Are you an author? Help us improve our Author Pages by updating your bibliography and submitting a new or current image and biography. Learn more at Author Central. Popularity Popularity Featured Price: Low to High Price: High to Low Avg.
Harbingers of Spring Jul 17, Available to ship in days. Only 1 left in stock more on the way. Available for download now. Unsuitable Resting Place Jul 23, Usually ships within 1 to 2 months. I ran outside, and it was raining, of course it was raining, but you followed anyway. You took my hand again, but the callouses on your palms no longer offered comfort; rather, they reminded me of our faded invincibility and your father, constantly calling you for money, work, anything you could spare and more.
The aches in my chest almost became unbearable. The bags collected under our eyes, no less dark than our college days but so much heavier. I think to myself. The sun rose today in a kaleidoscope of orange. I added just the right amount of creamer into my coffee. Netflix has the next season of my favorite show. A Kairos song came on the radio. I got a letter in the mail.
My friend randomly texted me how much she loves me. My brother called me to ask how my day was. My favorite movie came on the TV. A teacher stayed after school just to talk to me about life. After the sun set so beautifully, the moon lit the sidewalk. The stars had the same twinkle that I see in your eyes. The lake was so calm its reflection was a perfect mirror. The long limbs of the willow trees dipped into the water.
The warm breeze tickled my ears. And my pillow was just cold enough for me to fall asleep. The man, an over-polished young professional dressed cautiously casual for his down time, stared out the window, his head resting on the shaking wall of the train car. The woman, pretty in a safe, unintimidating way, read a novel but would glance up frequently to study the face of her partner.
She crossed her hands and forced them into her lap, rolling her eyes.
What is it, like three stations to go? She watched the sleeping woman as she turned and drew her coat closer around herself. Funny, the woman thought, I feel warm in here. I could do some writing. She soured and rolled her eyes, animating her whole face grotesquely. Besides, I wrote that in college.
I laugh at them. She noticed the sleeping woman was slowly waking up. She rubbed her eyes with one hand and was rifling through her satchel, pulling out receipts and trash. The woman smiled slightly to herself as she pulled a phone and earbuds out from her purse. The woman looked back at her boyfriend, who was picking at his nails, tearing away at the cuticle of his right pinkie.
She started composing a poem in her mind, three transcendent lines about accepting the bad habits of those you love. She scowled at the back of his head and tossed her hair. Give me an example. What a terrible thing to do to an artist, put them on the spot. The woman on the train watched her leave and walk away as the train journeyed on methodically. The man straightened suddenly, thinking of something. She looked like she had some scheme cooked up. How old fashioned and sweet. She just wants grandkids before she dies. I adore your mother. I need to establish myself at work before that.
She is my mom. This time, though, she leaned in towards her boyfriend so he could see her entire face twist with arrogance. Her face twisted and folded in on itself. As she bit her lip to keep it from quivering, her face grew splotchy. The first tear broke free and ran down her face.
Her hand flew up to stop the tear, but it was too late. Another followed, then another until she was doubled over with her hands wiping aggressively. The woman, with a determined and set jaw, stood and steamed towards the exit of the train car. Her partner, shaking his head to no one, rubbed his eyes.
After a slight hesitation, she turned back at the door and grimaced at. Does someone in the office have it? A pure white flower stands against the breeze, Its figure nobly raises petals high; No leaf unpolished; fragrance neatly creased, Against the beckoning of sultry sky. Erect it stands, a talisman of hope, And though alone, it will not step aside. No shame it feels although it seems to grope, At times for remnants of unblemished pride. Defeated will our waxen warrior be? Our dance can have many variations. We like to waltz in the autumn and winter yet we do the quickstep in spring and summer.
Yet our relationship is over such a long distance, and my heart cannot help but yearn with sadness. Sometimes, we come together in a tender embrace, an eclipse. We always savor this moment together It feels as if it is simply us and nothing else. Yet we both know we have duties to attend to. I revolve around the earth, and the earth needs something to orbit, you know. So we part reluctantly, knowing that the fate of the planet Earth depends upon us two. Astronaut flipped through the aged, wilted menus they were handed every Saturday evening.
The Fool ran his hands through the pages, glancing at the names of dishes until he found one he wanted to try. The Astronaut turned the delicate pages with the tip of her finger, pouring over the ingredients of each dish, taking great. When the waiter came to take orders, the Fool rounded up their menus with a clumsy flourish as the Astronaut announced that she would like grilled quail that evening. He whisked his straw out of his soda glass and stuck it in his mouth to chew; the wet plastic squeaked as it rubbed between.
The Fool lowered his gaze to the scratched wooden table with a bashful smile, and he glanced sideways at the couple seated at the table next to them. The Astronaut watched their waiter merge back into the hustling highway of the restaurant from her secluded corner. It was fascinating to watch him navigate the fluid rows of people sitting and standing and other waiters taking and giving orders.
She flew through the orbit of her work life and home life, most of the time at speeds faster than necessary. The rigorous path would have frayed her more——if not for the Fool. He shepherded her down from her orbit when she flew too high or too fast. He ate with a ferocious speed, as if the oysters had begun to offend him, and he cast his plate to the end of the table as soon as he finished. She turned the car to the front of the restaurant, where the Fool stood with his hands shoved in his coat pockets. He shifted from foot to foot, performing a barely noticeable dance for the Astronaut.
She leaned over the passenger seat and swung the door out for the Fool to catch. It was her turn to have a mischievous glint in her eye. So the Fool joined his Astronaut once again. He climbed into her rocket and prepared to navigate the next revolution of their lives. Eventually, their circuitous path will return them to familiar territory, and the days will slowly stretch with routine and stability.
For now, though, days whirl by, never the same as the last. And the Fool was happy to follow his Astronaut, who jumped headstrong into the unknown tomorrow, grasping his hand to help him jump, too. The Fool snorted, barely concealing the hearty laugh that bubbled from his throat as he opened the door for the Astronaut.
She gave him a tight- lipped smile that widened as she entered the restaurant. Once seated, the Fool and the. Even while ignoring each other, they were identical. I find you endlessly fascinating, my dear. Chapped lips brushed skilled fingers as the Fool kissed her hands. The Astronaut blushed, her mouth gave a tiny curl upwards, and she looked away. Their waiter maneuvered through the other tables in the restaurant with a loaded platter balanced on his forearm, determinedly making his way towards their table.
He cast quick, piercing squints at the people in his way, bustling past them after rushed insincere apologies. The Fool chuckled to himself; the waiter looked like the Astronaut did when the Fool took her to the mall. Of course not, the Astronaut thought. He had run around the restaurant. The Astronaut trailed behind her Fool, avoiding the rough divots in the concrete with calculated steps that took her high heels into consideration.
He continued to bumble across the parking lot while looking behind him, feet slipping into gritty potholes and arms flailing out to balance himself. A glint of mischievous endearment sparkled in his eye. The Fool nodded, a curt little thing, and addressed the waiter for the check. Not that the Fool could speak anyway, for his mouth was already crammed with chicken fried oysters.
They curled in on themselves—clinging to his drink then his phone, clinging to her drink then her phone. When they looked up from their devices, they would stare downward at the floor. Before you call me a cliche, understand that I mean this literally. I mean it literally.
As literally as possible, anyway. Here is how I do my work. You may watch, if you like. He observes her, wondering what she is thinking about, itching to open her mind, a vault concealing countless treasures within. He can practically see it, can visualize it happening right this very second; he opens the door, steps through, and passes her thoughts, emotions, knowledge, and opinions, each shimmering with a unique and multifaceted perspective.
They are imprinted on the coins and golden bars that spill out from each crevice of the door. The door is snapped shut, jarring him from his musings. He suddenly realizes that the door must be kept closed, lest the maelstrom of the repressed subconscious be unleashed. First, I walk into a room. One ceiling, one floor, for the sake of simplicity. As I venture farther in, I notice a draft that suggests a window. Searching the walls, I find the glass.
As I continue my exploration, I find a second door. I put my shoulders back and decide to change this room. To begin, I flex my face muscles and smile at the floor. The ugly tile ripples and melts into a warm, living floor that smiles back at me. Carpeted, plush and soft, with a deep blue and green design that breezes like the ocean. A few dark spots here and there to mix it up. I move on to the walls. I consider castle walls but decide that stone bricks hung with tapestries are overrated. So instead I smile and transform them into glass, lit up and burning with the late afternoon sun.
Through the flood of light, you can see rolling hills and pastel sky. Lights race everywhere through the open space, creating a myriad of colors. Satisfied, I tilt my chin to the ceiling. I dislike cells and chains and ceilings, so my smile dissipates the plaster above. Finally, the birds are free to swoop in between the glass walls, and the blue, blue sky becomes one with the rainbow.
I lift my smile to the heavens and that is the last thing I change. I change the sky into eternity. I spin around once, twice, slowly, to make sure my smile touches everything and makes it permanent. I may leave this room, to change other rooms and other worlds, but I will leave a piece of myself here. I have changed the world, literally. After all, I am blind.
It silently strides along the walls around the edges of the mind— Hope is a mere shadow— a fractured promise, for faith is blind. The silhouettes surround me, At last, revealing their source. Time clenches the seconds in a fist, no longer running its course. I close my eyes to surrender, but know an end is near I have since not forgotten there is nothing to truly fear. I learn, have learned, and will learn that envy holds a loaded gun and wears the face of God. They take a piece of me; a piece of my past But because of them, I have found new pieces of myself Courage Resilience Perseverance.
They leave me shaking, tears streaming down my cheeks They are watching, waiting to strike again They are always lurking in the corner They are a constant, uphill battle They leave me broken. Thus I set out on the jetski, humming the Baywatch theme, spray leaping from the water and cooling my skin. But something was off, something was wrong. Why is it taking so long to reach to them, I wondered. However, I had no time to ruminate over this as, without warning, the seat fell out from underneath me.
Rumbling engine noise filled the air during a second of weightlessness as the jetski launched. I fell back to Earth with a hollow, resounding thud, the jetski reverberating like a struck bass drum. Then I looked up, and my stomach dropped into a pit of dread; the sailboat was still far away.
We were not only out of our league and in over our heads, but out of the bay, past the peninsulas. Later, I found out that the line holding up the sail had been caught. My arrival was not well-received by my brother and dad; they only screamed at me to turn back. The whistling of the wind and the pounding of the waves drowned out their actual words, but I understood the connotation and flew back to shore as fast as I safely could. The vicious wind tore Hail Marys and Our Fathers from my lips, ripping them apart and scattering them into the air.
My mother and I decided to at least attempt to rescue my brother; thus, we rushed back to the jetski, only to find that it was minutes from being out of gas. A jetski with an empty gas tank is a minor nuisance on its own, but add in a stranded sailboat and it is a severe oversight. The slamming and creaking of doors echoed as we searched, aware that with. Finally, we discovered the extra gas tank, which was hiding in the corner of a closet, unaware of its saving importance.
But as we lugged the sloshing red container down to the beach, the rusty yet sweet scent of gasoline following us, the sight of a man in uniform stopped us in our tracks. The sheriff motioned us over and explained that my dad had called He affirmed that my dad and brother would be safe, that an amphibian boat was on its way to tow them in to shore. My mom sighed with relief and tutted as she realized the implications of that phone call.
My dad did have his phone with him—the sole effective precaution we had taken, while the binoculars and the pocketknife and the jetski had failed. Just to be safe. We were in the middle of a streak of perfect weather: That same weather was the same perfect sailing weather and thus provoked the same response.
My dad stepped the mast, same as the day before, but this time also stowed safety and preventative equipment—collapsible oars, waterproof phone cases, distress flags, pocketknives—onto the boat, just to be safe. Yet, just like the last day, he reached out to me.
Yet those binoculars turned out to be useless as we strained to resolve the fuzzy, dusty image of the sailboat, which had stopped several minutes after departure. We shrugged it off; they had only remained stationary for a minute or so and were close to shore. After all, what could go wrong, we thought. But soon that minute turned into two minutes.
And those two into three. And those three into four. The time grew with an inkling of anxiety. The minutes compounded until 10 minutes passed; still, there they were. But at least they had not moved, for the sailboat appeared to still be close to shore. I decided to head out to them on the jetski and bring along two oars; my brother and dad were trapped on a sailboat that lacked a method of movement not powered by wind—in hindsight, a foolish idea that we had made a grave mistake in not rectifying.
All I had to do, though, was bring the oars and then my mom and I could laugh at them as they limped back to safety. After time, feelings of guilt and ambition propelled us to put the sailboat in the water. Our maiden voyage was a success, and same with the next, our triumphs offering us no hint that perhaps we were in over our heads. So the next day, the next voyage, we had no premonition, no warning, of the mess we were digging ourselves into.
That day itself indeed brought no harbinger of distress. Warm sun beams, unobscured by lazy clouds, pattered across the beach, heating the sand to a painful-to-bare-feet temperature. The faint moon drew a slow orbit overhead, looking out of place in daytime but doing its millennia-old job of pulling and pushing the rolling waves; meanwhile, a light wind tousled the leaves of the trees attempting to touch the bright blue sky. A thin, synthetic trunk suddenly shot up; its paleness jumping out against the greenery.
My father was stepping up the mast of our new sailboat; today was to be its third voyage. He offered a ticket to ride: After all, my family had discussed this—albeit in brief, allocating it much less attention than we should have. Two people in the sailboat, two people on the beach, one to call and the other to operate the jetski. Just to be safe, even though my mom and dad had been experiencing Lake Michigan for years; they could even trace their meeting and marriage to its shores. But still, just to be safe.
Your mind has become a barren wasteland With the exception of a lonely tumbleweed carrying vague ideas. You take a few deep breaths breathing in inspiration. You turn music on hoping the rhythm will awaken the ideas in your mind. The song starts off soft. Ideas humming faintly to the beat. The jagged thoughts of a piece of metal come pouring onto your paper. Gaps and spaces all throughout your work, Yet the message is still carried out Like the disappearing echo in a tunnel. Ideas so strong, yet the ink cannot form the image.
You search your mental dictionary for those few words That will string together your passions, But the words still elude you. You continue producing the chopped up blocks of ideas. Each one slowly becoming more beautiful than the last. But on rough days she would slouch. This day, she was slouching. I asked her how her day was, and she said fine. She showed no other indication that today had been anything but good. Mac and cheese is my comfort food. As we pulled up to a stop light, I noticed a homeless man on the corner.
A hat hid everything about his features other than a curly, brown beard flecked with grey. His height was average, but his body was rail thin. I could feel my face twisting in discomfort and distress. I quickly rolled down the window and offered the man the entire bag of bagels. He walked toward us, and with every step my heart broke more.
The man had a limp, could barely even walk; one foot dragged behind the other. And as he reached out for. My senses seemed to stop working, and I was frozen. Snapping out of my daze, I pressed the gas pedal and left the corner. A waft of bagels snuck through my window just before it finished closing. I hope to God those bagels tasted as good as they smelled.
I hope they made that man smile. It faded out when compared to all the worries piling up in my head. The next thing I remember is going to bed. I lay in my bed and looked up. I thought about my day, about everything that had happened since this morning.
And I did the only thing I knew to help: I prayed for a mom in surgery and a daughter so exhausted from fear. I prayed for a boy denied his education and for those whose brains functioned differently than mine. I prayed for a woman who was slouching today. Only gonna last a couple of hours. All flavor was lost. As I read the story, my stomach twisted into knots. Here I was, sitting in the school that I get to attend every day, having never been denied access to my education.
This seventh grader was being threatened with arrest if he attempted what was part of my daily routine. And with that thought, my perspective changed a little. I had been having trouble seeing, and Twitter just gave me a contact lense. The rest of school passed me by like a daze. By the time the bell rang for the end of the day, I was certainly ready to go home. My eyes had started hurting from the crying, though not as bad as I would have guessed earlier that morning. I even played music as I drove home,instead of the empty silence I had chosen this morning. Walking into my kitchen as I came home, I first noticed my mom.
Not just her standing there, but the way she stood. Up ahead I saw the red and. By the time that class ended, I had another worry join the collection forming in my brain. They seemed to be piling up like Jenga pieces. Carting around the load on my mind, where I sat at. Traffic began to slow as I approached the scene, and with it so did time.
There had been an accident. Glass scattered the floor like it was confetti—a party hosted by the Grim Reaper. One man lay on a stretcher. A woman sat in the passenger seat of one crumpled car. A teenage boy sat in driver seat of another. Neither had their eyes open. My ears heard nothing but dead silence, which was eerie in its own way. Realistically, I was at the accident and passed it in about a minute.
As I got to school, the accident faded into the back of my mind, keeping my worries about my dad company. I dashed into homeroom, just a moment away from being late. I went to classes.
Satisfied, I tilt my chin to the ceiling. English Choose a language for shopping. I begin to move again, this time experience aiding my step, giving me a path in my head of where to follow. I will not Stand out. I was still looking around for some bread in the clumsiest way possible, banging into things and knocking jars of food over but then I heard something.
It was a normal Wednesday. First period was uneventful. In second period, I sat next to my friend Lucy as always. When it was time for us to do practice problems, we talked instead. Lucy looked down at her paper. I thought to myself. The noise reminded me of background music in a cheesy video game, something I find particularly annoying; sometimes anger was the only feeling strong enough to get me out of bed. With that reminder came the memory. The words of what I had done wrong, what made me not good enough.
All these things were familiar to me. Throughout the years the details may have changed, but these three were constant. Lying in bed, I looked up at my blank ceiling. My thoughts whirled in my head so I could focus on nothing else. Then, I did the only thing I knew to help: Prayed for the situation with my dad to improve, or at least not get worse, and prayed for me to not hurt too much that day. I forced it all down and put two feet on my carpet. Time to start the day. About an hour later, I was pulling my car out of the driveway and on my way to school.
Thoughts of my dad and how sucky that situation. I heard a Phone buzz when I died; The brightness in my room Was like the brightness in the game When my enemies met their doom. The TV buzzes on forever in my house, Sometimes with watchers, Sometimes to douse The possibility of making our own words To fill up any silence. When the eyes beside had wrung them dry And retweets were coming sure For that last post when theking, would feeling secure. Someone stuffed my head with Wall insulation, jammed it in Through my ears until I went stiff.
I see the pink stuff behind my eyes If I stare long enough. For years, we have tried to find the answer to the Earth. Questions moving men, men moving rocks, rocks moving mountains. Perhaps the answer is sheathed in soft, amorphous enigma rather than cold, hard, glaring truth. Thus, we must reach unto the stars, into the heights, looking, searching, praying for the series of impossibilities that might lead to our flickering glimpse of understanding.
In the stars we may reach comprehension where we have failed at credibility. I willed my fingers, typed away, What portion of me I Could leave behind—and then There interposed a text. With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz, Between the light and me; And then the wifi failed and then I could not see to send.
I come home from my wander And to avoid looking my family in the eye I pretend I had something to ponder But we all know I tried and failed to escape The blinding blizzard of white noise. After all, does not a rose have deeper roots, and its innermost petals guarded by thrusts of thorns? A rose can shutter its windows, bar its gates, seduce itself from that nightmare fancy: And while the rose is clothed in shackled pleasantries, the orchid forgets her earthly frailty, runs with abandonment into the sky.
Yet, somehow, even ringed by her shambled petals, the orchid archs determinedly, alive. The golden watch sits abandoned by its owner, next to a garbage bag of give-aways and solemn memories.
A small girl sniffs, dabbing at her tears and holds the golden watch close to her chest, making a silent vow to never part with it. The golden watch is passed from hand to hand until it is bruised, battered, dented in on itself. But still the gold shines, still the hands move. Still the clock ticks. And look at the luster, the shine on that thing! In the midst of autumn, trees cry their tears of leaves ever so sorrowfully as they mourn the passings of spring and summer forlornly. In the midst of autumn, the grass goes to sleep, dreaming of a verdant awakening.
In the midst of autumn, both trees and people cry until their eyes are dry. In the midst of autumn, lightweight leaves are lost to the breeze while early signs of frost manifest as plants threaten to freeze. In the midst of autumn, there is always a telling that soon, winter is coming Walking Into the World A young woman walks into the world, Accompanied by her swells and a bluster of nonsense. Her face painted on, her hair in a curl. Homeless man, where are you from? Soulless man, how do you fare?
Ice in your eyes, do you know despair? Behind the sign, on walk of side You sit your days, no mind inside. Beg and plead for life tonight, But homeless man, that street will bite. Those escapes are just a fallacy. Loveless man, you are my shadow. The old ones struggle out of the world No less content than when they came. Their lives behind them, a scroll unfurled. The rush and paranoia of youth has dragged their skin And they wait for the end of their wilting days Hoping someone will recognize the child inside. A young man walks into the world, Clutching desperately at his masculinity, With his emotions pushed distant and hurled Worlds away, displaying his ego on his breast With covetous mania keeping him alert eternally, Lest they discover the child inside.
Children ran through the narrow streets with wooden swords in hand as they reenacted the deeds of their beloved heroes. The clamor filled the air with life as the heart of the city beat with its typical spirit. Her fury perforated the fertile soil that man had blissfully cultivated for centuries. Her searing screams would not be ignored this time. A cloud of smoldering dust had conquered the clear sky. Ash rained down on the bustling city.
The citizens scrambled for the docks, leaving behind their ornately decorated homes which would become troves of cultural treasure. The clamor still hung over the streets. This clamor, however, was made of the dreadful cries of people from all classes of society, united by primal terror. All that remained of classical civilization was ravaged ruin that left its former glory in the imagination of secluded scholars.
Yet when the plow struck the eager, volcanic soil, Nature lifted the life of civilization back to its surface. A window opened wide into the soul of a people whose lives had faded into legend, and the city could breathe once again. When the sun showed again, the city was but a carpet of black soil. Magnificent frescoes and mosaics, treasures of civilization lost, hid from the transforming reach of feudal power. What Nature had reclaimed was now ripe for the plow.
The cloud continued to engulf the city, and many people were stranded in mortifying futility as the earth rose around them. Some lifted their hearts in prayer towards the somber sky, asking why the once docile land was swallowing them whole. Others shared one final, eternal embrace that froze their love in the grains of time. Few even managed to sleep through the chaos, unaware that the comforts of civilization had slipped out from underneath them.
All were devoured by Nature, their final actions trapped for the ages. Misty shadows, foggy facade; Simple, sparse, fading lights Cast a sickly glow, within This endless tunnel: I walk along blindly, Not knowing what I see, with Every slight movement Taunting my heart. So I walk blindly along these tunnels of life; awaiting Everlasting light. My cloudy vision fools me, amongst the subdued light. Falling rocks echo around me; I hear a hopeful tune.
Surely God will soon bring me home: For nothing is good in my dark tunnel. Then, up ahead I see it; An angelic, golden girl, Who had broken, the condescending tunnel walls. With open arms, she welcomes me; Guides me to a brighter path, Where other people laugh and sing: I not only await eternal light But enjoy the journey of life. I grab the small cup filled with ground coffee beans And place it and some water into the machine.
Those brown little beans ground inside a cup, oh, they never fail to cheer me right up. We all have bad days, and some days are worse. Some days we wake up, and our beds become our only sanctuary that can guard us from the horrors of the day. And the idea of a tomorrow makes us fear today. We spend our days running from our mistakes, trying to slow down time. Face your problems with an open hand and shake off the faults.