A Paradise Of Expressions..

Where strangers are family.


Falling leaves,

The end of  summer.


Nippy winds,

Chilly yet refreshing to the face.


Outside with a bicycle,

and a lonely road.


Riding the wind,

while it paints my cheek red.


Falling leaves,

they lie on the road.


While I leave, they stay

colouring the ground.


When I’ll come back, they’ll be gone.

All things return home someday.




A Dream Between Two Rivers — Literary Hub

Brasil I first saw her where the two rivers meet, brown and black, pressing their long, watery bodies together over mud and sand. The others were snoring in their slatted seats or gazing with glazed eyes at the earth-colored heads of the capybara poking through the great, green-bladed shore. Her body seemed like a log…

via A Dream Between Two Rivers — Literary Hub

Earn it, or.

Let this one go, Mom. What will be will be. (And it’ll be OK.) — gendermom

A worried mother of a three-year-old sent me an email recently, asking for my advice. She was trying to answer the very same question that plagued me when my child was the same age and saying the same things: Is it OK to let such a young child transition to another gender? Or to even […]

via Let this one go, Mom. What will be will be. (And it’ll be OK.) — gendermom

On (Re)naming an Adopted Child — REVISIONS OF GRANDEUR

The boys have been talking about what their names would have been had they been girls. Gray would have been Ana (these were pre-Frozen times, people). Reed would have been Fern. And Miles would have been Brooke. Funny how, even though they are boys, those other names still seem to suit them. Or maybe mother dreams […]

via On (Re)naming an Adopted Child — REVISIONS OF GRANDEUR

Getting Lost in the Magic of Maps: Three Stories — Discover

Real or fictional, maps don’t just represent space — they also make storytelling possible.

via Getting Lost in the Magic of Maps: Three Stories — Discover

September 19

Al pastor with big hunks of piña, a raucous song coming from a band of young drunks, is it Roma, Condesa? These streets run around and around like a race track. Cerveza at altitude. Joven, cinco má…

Source: September 19

A Native American Indian girl on a Greyhound bus across the States.

Opher's World


A Native American Indian girl on a Greyhound bus across the States.

In 1971 I was on a greyhound bus with my girlfriend, now my wife. We’d spent three months in the States working in Boston and then hitch-hiking and bussing our way around. We’d been up to Canada, down to Mexico and across to San Francisco, the redwoods, San Diego and Los Angeles with a memorable night under the stars at Big Sur where the mountain lions howled.

There were numerous incidents and tales that came out of that trip, tales of cars, crashes and near death, friends, camping and music. But now it was nearing its end.

We were heading back from the West Coast to the East in order to get a plane back to Britain.

On that long bus ride I got talking to a young woman. She was a Native American Indian who had been…

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September 12

It has been long since I’ve put my mind back into poems. Yours was a great one to start with. Thank you.


Woke up to End
of Days, the sun

an angry ember
in an asbestos sky,

the only thing
not on fire,

and still death
to breathe–

woke up to a burning
throat, eyes wet

but even that
moisture went–

woke up to a sunset
at dawn, a dead day,

smoke following us
as far as we could flee,

South, West, the sky
never got right–

that sick yellow hue
of a blister–

we kept all the windows
shut and it didn’t matter,

smoke got in,
permeated our clothes,

hung like a shroud
over unseen mountains,

the tinderbox trees,
the ashen disasters.

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