-
Unmarked by His Scales: His T-Shirt Reads “Humanist”
His T-shirt reads humanist, and on his desk the polished brass scales gleam with practiced certainty. One by one he drops his uniform stones — ping on ping — and the beam tilts against all my words. None bear the mark of his name. Yet beyond the window, rivers refuse rulers, clouds cross the sun…
-
Source, Not Reflection: You Are Not a Concept
You are not a concept, not a metaphor pressed between the pages of someone else’s understanding. You are reality — breath, pulse, fire. A candle trembles. The moon reflects. But the sun burns from its own core. Disconnect from the old pond of still reflections. Step into the river. Let the current loosen your borrowed…
-
What Writing Gives Me That Nothing Else Does
There are things I cannot say in a room full of breathing bodies. They turn to vapor before they reach my mouth. But when I sit before a blank page, something in me loosens. Writing becomes shoreline, telescope, shelter, and sky — a place where I can contradict myself without apology, where grief expands to…
-
The Questions I Am Afraid to Answer
Even in drought, the river remembers. Beneath cracked earth and sun-split stone, a silver memory waits— of currents that once roared without apology, of banks that trembled under the weight of abundance. What looks empty is only gathering breath. What seems broken still carries the map of its own flood. #WriteAPageADay #FreeVerse #InnerJourney #NatureMetaphor #CosmicAwareness…
-
The Chapter I Am Learning to Name
If my life had chapters with dog-eared corners and tea-stained margins, this present one would not arrive with spectacle. It would move like groundwater beneath visible fields — quiet, persistent, reshaping the roots. This is the chapter where I stop conquering mountains and begin becoming them; where I trade urgency for awareness, noise for listening,…
-
The Promise I Keep Making to Myself
There is a promise I keep folding into my pocket like a small square of paper, softened by forgetting. It does not arrive with noise or ceremony. It comes like dawn—without asking the night for permission. Again and again, I return to it: a quiet vow to live awake, to forgive my unfinished edges, and…
-
What Home Means to Me Now
Home used to be an address, a gate, a familiar bell at dusk. Now it is quieter and closer—found in breath, in forgiveness, in the widening sky within. No longer bound by walls or geography, home has become an inner returning, a living field of presence where earth and starlight meet in the simple awareness…
-
Sharon Diotte Te’ora memoir: Author Interview
A quiet conversation with Sharon Diotte on trauma, spiritual reinvention, and the long courage it takes to choose a beautiful new life after wounding. Some lives are not rebuilt through grand declarations, but through patient listening. In Te’ora, Sharon Diotte traces a journey from wounding to wisdom, showing how survival can slowly soften into freedom—and…
-
The Advice I Keep Folding Away
There is a quiet voice that arrives like dawn—soft, persistent, and unwavering. It speaks in simple truths: slow down, rest, forgive, choose yourself. Yet ambition, urgency, and fear often drown it out. This poem journeys through the tension between knowing and ignoring, between resistance and surrender, unfolding from intimate self-awareness into a wider cosmic alignment…
-
360° IMPACT and the Art of Leading Like a Human: An Author Interview with Michele Kline
There is a quiet that arrives just before clarity — not the silence of answers, but the pause where noise stops arguing with itself. In this reflective conversation, Michele Kline, founder of Kline Hospitality Consulting and author of 360° IMPACT, explores leadership as presence rather than performance. From systems and structure to vulnerability, humor, and…
Got any book recommendations?
Poetry Hub 