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- Fiction > Historical Fiction
On June 8, 1845, Maggie McMoore, my distant eighteen-year-old cousin, came over from Ireland to live with us. Her husband, Patrick, had just died, and she needed to go to where opportunities were: America. She had come to our red door with a stained kerchief, a torn blue dress, and a heart as big... - Poetry > SonnetBow in her hair, a gleam in her stare, a smile on her face, even though she lost the race, for inside she knows she won, in life, she had more fun, for she worked for the king, of whom she doth sing, a sweet melody, that soars above the trees, into the open sky, flying way up high, to gr...
- Poetry > Free VerseA pirouette of snow. An arabesque of ice. A grande jete of wind. A peqe of hail. A winterdance so sweet, so soft. And I will never stop....
- Poetry > Free VerseA fortress strong, made of stone, stands tall, stands alone. A little child, staring up, discovers, it is warm to the touch. They stand surrounded, by hills of snow, by demons and evil, nowhere to go. The little child, fears for her life, though it was dreadful, and full of strife. ...
- Poetry > Free VerseGod is sweeping off the clouds, and it’s falling on my face. Calmly, gently, whistling swirls of white. The air is crisp and sweet as a delightful treat. The pine trees gradually become cloaked in this simple joy of winter. My heart slows as it swoops down upon every inch of the ground. ...
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