Tag Archives: Creative Writing

The Journey

AnSurBir didn’t bother listening to the rest of the trans-byte from Squad Circle Zeta. The talk from his pod was relentless – even during his Bei Dai time: “Caution, Sur – history and survival is at stake!” Snorting blaze breaths of green anxiousness, he thought, “Was he not the elder eight times removed from the Great Crawl? Calming himself, his blow slits flared; his skin changing texture to receive the coating filaments that would nourish his organs, he became lost in the sounds notching the time of departure. The great engine flared to fire; the ship shuddered ever so gently; Bei Dai slowly engulfed him. His last thought was how would those upon that green/blue world greet them?


Copyright (c) 2017 Roads, Paths, & Trails. All Rights Reserved


Wishful Thinking

Give him some days to gaze upon the week; a few hours to while-away his minutes. In time, he will realize the years of silence born out of his existence of being alone was futile. And out of the mist of nocturnal daydreaming, he will finally grasp the timeless maze of love.

The Gifts

Fan the fire in her eyes; nourish that dream in her heart –

Drench her mind in a golden ray of hope; as you wrap her soul in purpose.

Make sure she hears the wonders of time.

Guide her with the winds of passion;

Then give her your love to wear like a crown.



An excerpt from “Rainbow Stories and Waterfall Men” – a collection of poems and prose.


Copyright(c) January, 2017. Roads, Paths and Trails. All Rights Reserved

Looking out the window in the mirror

It was not something one sees every day. It was not a pretty site: his back was bent into sharp angles and his neck was marred with knots, ridges and scarring like leeches eating him alive. Contorted arms hung like scarecrow limbs. But what frightened him were the “black hole” eyes starting at him like pinpoints of pain. As he slowly looked down, he felt his knees wobble – legs rocked and leaned away from his control; he was – he was, inspired to think: what the hell? Why was this bright sunny day, blue-sky beautiful; with those puffy breaths of white clouds lazily hanging, drifting on the wind, showing him a hell-in-his-soul picture that was not real? What was his mind seeing if not God’s gift of a perfect day?

He rubbed his eyes as if to wipe away the foul image and thought as he sat down.  How many times had he stared out this window from his daddy’s favorite chair? It always nestled him in deep with its memories wrapped around him; comforting – familiar -filled with Daddy-Frye’s strength and sure-certainty that things would be alright with world. Why this morning had be been given such a horrid vision?  Who was saying what to him? He had to stand back up.  Had to get back up now! He leaned in close to the window ; touched it, rubbed the glass making sure it was solid, really there. Then he thought that maybe if he went outside and looked back through the window he would see his real world again.  As he shuffled and began to turn, he looked around and wondered why there was no door?


An excerpt from “Rainbow Stories and Waterfall Men” – a collection of poems and prose.


Copyright (c) January, 2017. Roads, Paths and Trails. All Rights Reserved.

Children of a Child

We both stumbled out of the gate; one filled with hate – the other a child of that fate. Color was the cause of that spate. The dye was casted that blazingly chilly day for children unborn, none would dream nor know how blindness made the life road they would take.

Love should conquer all; stand tall unbending to break one’s fall. It is a hope many have in their heart when it’s time to give one’s soul – but sometime that beginning is not so bold.

The light of us we say are our children; those sweet innocence of purity with the breath of the Gods – with a future to fill guiding them to the stars.  I think this is what the great man saw with much wisdom; the promise of the best of ourselves brought to the world. Though I think he forgot that we are imperfect; burnished with that sin we must all embrace like the winds that swirl.

Life surely teaches us goodness, grace and the angel’s road to take.  We bring that gift to our children; setting them on the journey they will make. Along the way their gold grows old, cold and they become lost souls.

Broken men searching for a mend; rushing into love seeking a godsend. But the piece of peace that soothes sleepless nights bring the children. Oh how we delight! Vow to get it right – to make this life of mine stronger of mind to brightly shine. But dare I say it: my goodness, my goodness – isn’t this the same story line? The same promise divine; passed along the paths of time.

There must be a happy ending to this dilemma; something that is worthy of life’s glory. Or are we forever destined to wring our hearts dry on our circle of one’s childhood story?

“It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.”

– Frederick Douglass, American Slave, Abolitionist, Statesman – 1818 – 1895

Copyright (C). Roads, Paths & Trails. All Rights Reserved.

Lisa’s Curtains

They floated silently and slowly from the wistful breeze slipping through the barely opened window.  Flower-yellow mixed with pristine whiteness; trimmed at the edges in sky blue.  They seemed to savor the sweetness of the honeysuckle roses rising on the trellis beneath the window…filtering the light from the sun’s summer day.

Teeny-tiny dusty things vibrated in the sheen of the sunshine like agitated life-forms; searching for dark shadows in which to hide.  There is not much fun at the window anymore.  They used to be the welcome in the morning – gave a warmth and feel of a loving hug.

Now they rustle up memories that ended with the midnight moonlight shadowed by a cloud.

Copyright (c) 2015.  Roads, Paths, & Trails. All rights reserved.

Late Night, Last Night

It will morning in America tomorrow, bright and dark blinding to my sight  Barn doors will creak and clang, as the sun rises to beat back the fright

Over so far away by the truck stop across the track, hearts pounding- minds foaming working the night.  Mothers in the countryside drowning in right. Mothers in the city grieving at sunlight

Big time Big Times sucking from the blood-soaked pipe, All over everywhere mouths open only to drown down tight. Living with the feeling that your head could not deal with the slack, Knowing somehow nothing could hold back the fear coming back

It was night last week when the hold on my heart broke down. The park was all sunburned and the trees bent all around.  That’s when I knew for fact that you could not mend the past; you just had to let the eagle swoop down – time to show some class.

Because when it’s morning in America tommorow nothing will last.