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I wait.

Dressed in gray, the sky is gray, the water is gray

No breath of a ripple.

I once

frantically screamed your name into the muddy waters

Knowing you had succumbed.

My voice descending to your deaf ears

Echoing back to me

Creating silence.

I stood breathlessly on the edge

of the cropped, stubbled grass

That melded into slippery mud as it slid inside

The murky waters.

I agonized whether to dive in to try to save you.

I whispered for you to raise your hand up to me.

I waited.

No breath of a ripple.

The fog encased sky remained gray.

I was cold

My bare arms mud splattered

My hair half tied and wispy

My white dress streaked in gray

A ragged wind snatched at my hair and dress fitfully.

I step back from the slick ledge of the endless pond

And donned a cloak.

I am covered in the dampness

But I still feel the cold stinging my face.

Now, instead of watching only the filthy water,

I also watch the sky

Knowing the sun will eventually break through

Sometimes, I think I almost see it.

But not yet.

I wait.

Having faith

That I will know when my waiting will end

And that the sun will pierce through the grayness.

If not here,

Then somewhere else that my path leads.


United We Stand, Divided We Fall

Dear Diary,

Within this bizarre time we are all living, with the challenges we are all facing, we should all take the opportunity in this pause of our ceaseless ordinary busy-ness to embrace the clarity and power of our togetherness, thwart divisiveness, and fiercely work to build the structure of a cohesive, kind humanity.



Dear Diary,

Poetry today. About finding your creative voice.



Because words

are more than words,

but a gateway to expression.


Yet, words are merely one avenue

of thoughts and whimsy

that are within.


They clamber

They clamor

to be released,


Seeking a channel

to unfold

The efflorescence

of the Creative Spirit.


Find the Spark, The Thing, Your Art, that cracks your impressions

and widens them into an alley,

then expands to a Journey

of imagination expression.

Garden Untended

Dear Diary,

Ah, the weeds that grow in a Garden Untended.

Didn’t I just yank a few out

As I was passing by the other day?

Certainly, pulling a couple should have helped?

But no.

Where did this ugly jungle come from?

Their roots are long and thick and coiled.

Where are my flowers?

Their delicate fragrance is not to be found.

I anxiously search to assure myself that they still exist.


Deep within the mass of angry, threatening growth

Are the tiny, white wild flowers

Of hope and fresh joy

Waiting patiently amongst the chaos.

And so the work begins.

Each weed extracted is painful to

Endure with their thorns and clutching roots.

But, the Garden must be cleared

Of suffocating weeds

To allow hope and joy to grow and breathe.

And so I toil.

Didn’t I have to do this before?

Yes, I did. Now, again.

And I remember the beauty of the Cleared Garden

With only the fresh, white wild flowers


I must not allow my Garden to be ransacked thus, again.

I must be diligent

And recognize and banish the weeds

As they creep in before they own

My Beautiful Garden.

Life as the Sea

Dear Diary,


We grasp for sprinkles of meaning

Within the vast tumultuous Sea of living.

We want to assign logic to our existence and experiences.

But the Sea shifts and swells

Reducing our assured Truths to fragments

Or losing them altogether in the tide.

And new sparkles of insight appear on the sunlit horizon.

But is meaning essential?

To try to understand that which is so immense and overwhelming within our narrow view may not be the point.

Perhaps it is more conducive not to swim mightily for a destination, or worse to drown from the weariness of the distance, or flounder helplessly in the undertow.

Instead, float within the purity of what is; the flow around us.

Embracing the sense of weightlessness, the soft lapping by our ears, the aroma of continual change, the snap of saltwater on the tongue, the dazzle before our eyes as the sun dances on that Sea.

Absorbing the hopes, despairs, inspirations, love, and heartbreak in as a wave and sending it out again to continue its cycle of fluidity.

Learning and evolving from every experience, large and small, sensing instead of deciding what is necessary.

Unencumbered by the need to understand or harness the Sea of our life.

The Running

Dear Diary .... by Kellianne Sweeney


Dear Diary,

The Child is poised

On the edge of an endless field

Crisp, tall grasses sway and wave

Cajoling the vivid wildflowers within.

The shy bright sprigs

Slide against the shifting sea of grasses,

And then coyly bend away

In the ruffling breeze.

The breathless wind skips over the tips,

The whispering is barely audible.

It teases the flora

And it teases the Child,

Tickling a place deep within that has no words or reason.

A child must run

When faced with a wide open field

Or even a long corridor.

The impulse insists

And the Child runs

Happily embracing the burst

Of brief careless freedom.

There is no destination or purpose.

There is only the running.

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Chocolate Cakeup and Makeup


Dear Diary,

I had awaken with what I will call a Balloon Face. Yes, I am exaggerating, but that was what came to mind. My eyelids were puffy and when I glanced downward, I could see the left side of my face poking out. A look in the mirror confirmed my ghastly appearance. I had diligently scrubbed and rescrubbed my face the night before. My face had been deeply caked with artfully applied makeup the day before to render my face appropriate for a professional looking photograph. Amazing stuff, that makeup. The resulting pictures were quite impressive. I believe that my face trauma was due to the fact that under normal circumstances it is generally naked. I am not a big makeup person. Eyeliner and mascara complete my look. When I was in high school my face was occasionally splattered with stage makeup for plays, and I will admit to experimenting with some more extensive looks, but ultimately my face became used to a minimalistic approach to embellishment. My face was now rebelling and swelling.

This instance took me back in history to the only other time that my face reacted in such a way. The culprit, surprisingly, was chocolate cake; Black Forest chocolate cake. I have no idea why it’s called that, but it does sound rather eerie, doesn’t it? It wasn’t because I ate the cake, it was because the cake was smeared on my face by my friend Carol. We were not children. We were adults with our own children, and we basically had a food fight, or a chocolate cake smear to be more exact. I will admit that I started it. It was a beautiful chocolate cake that had not yet been touched. Carol said something very funny to me that demanded an extremely witty, sarcastic reply. Instead, I completely startled her by gouging the cake and depositing it on her surprised face. I will have to say that her expression was absolutely priceless and it was worth everything that I received as a result of my action. Of course she retaliated. Our other girlfriend and all three husbands watched in disbelief. They were sure that we had lost our giggling, childish minds. When playtime was over, we dutifully cleaned up our mess as all mature adults should do. That’s when my face began to swell. The ballooning of my face only made everything more hilarious to us.

The chocolate cake incident became the cornerstone of future practical jokes that Mandy and I would play on each other throughout the years. It is a fond, distant memory brought suddenly to my mind by my recent makeup induced face expansion. It is odd what can trigger vivid memories. I just hope that whatever was in the makeup that made my face swell is not the same ingredient that we were eating in that cake!


Light On Dark

Dear Diary,


Light On Dark


Behind the crafted mask you wear

I know what’s really hiding there.


Within the silken threaded lair

Lies a not so clever snare.


I step inside from light to gray

Knowing I will likely pay.


Fragile flowers I will lay

On the dark and dense decay.


The flowers rest upon the stain

Wilting as they soak the pain.


Their dimmed brightness is not in vain

Dark is lighter where they are lain.

Before Dawn

Dear Diary,

I really like waking at O’ Darkthirty on most days. It gives me a chance to breathe the quiet and settle into my day. A new day that could and will bring anything. Some things expected, some surprises. My goal is to make each one count. I meet each predawn with anticipation and a musing cup (or 3) of coffee.


In the stillness of the morning dark,

Void of the call of any lark,

The trees are silent and waiting.

The day ahead could bring anything.


The quiet air surrounds me.

I am enveloped in what could be.

Before the bustle of the coming day,

I breathe the dark before sun’s ray.


I feel your presence all around me.

I see your face, but unclearly

Intermingled with the truth and pain,

Laced in love and joy within the stain.


I embrace it all to live what’s real,

To grow and die and truly feel.

Striving to be unhampered by

Superficial things that bind and tie.


Eggsplats and Mudpie Rainbows Now Available


Dear Diary,

I am very happy to announce that Eggsplats and Mudpie Rainbows is now available for purchase. Its all about stuff that kids love and find fascinating. The book is guaranteed to bring smiles to children and nostalgic memories to adults. Play in the delights of childhood. Find the happy Here!

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