Passing Travelers

In this very small corner

Of the world

I am sitting slightly on the edge of my chair

In anticipation of the

Warm sun that rolls very kindly across my

Weary shoulders.

I hear whispers and little patters

Silverware and walking feet

I am taken back to a place

Taken back to a moment when you

And I

We’re close.

Touching arms and

Knees, you would


Whisper in my ear;

Green was the color of

Your wind breaker jacket

To have and to hold

Your deep brown eyes

As if it was yesterday and not almost six

Years ago.

I remember

The calling

The falling way

That you held me against your chest as

If I could slip away from your big and deep


I didn’t mind being surrounded by you

And the way you would ask about

My day;

Calling cards are for lovers

You would say

And then look to me with a smirk in your


Those lovely

Angel eyes

That really did deceive me

thinking I understood, your soul.

Back to moments that

Surround me now

Names called

Orders picked up and I

Enjoy the bright blue spring day sky.

How we have

Shifted and yet

Remained the same

I will always cherish my memories with you

Passing stranger,

We were both travelers and

as you left, I always wondered what

Could have been

If we journeyed together a little longer.

Have I?

Have I waited long enough

Basking in the sun and looking

Up at the clouds?

Have I stated my prayers

To the wind too many times

That the whispers became lost

In the ocean?

For in the deep and silent stillness

I hear a crow sing a sad song of the morning

Black and dangerous too cold to bear.

For in the darkness of the corners

I realized there was a calming

Sort of back and forth coming of the dawn.

Have I longed for the heart

Of another birdsong too soon

After the thunder had left?

Have I missed the ancient rhymes

And your smile among the crowded

streets of Roma?

For the tapping sound

On the doorway lends itself to

a minor key that creates a turning and twisting

Of my long lost dreams.

For the little desires in my fingers crave

to be unleashed from the

Sodden wet paper

That covers the inside part

Of my doorway.

Have I remembered my last name

Even with the changing times

And new faces

That meet me in the mirror

Each Sunday morning?

Have I started to see all the good green and

Yellow things

That blossom in front of my feet

When the rain slightly slicks the

Back of my neck?

It’s time

Maybe it’s time to spread

My wings and remember

The other side of the fears

In my chest

A cavern, endless roaring waves

To crash and thrash against

The stone door of my mind’s eye

I walked far away from here

Then back again

To return?

In the space and time between the

Now and will be

I saw three things



Left behind

Maybe it’s time to

Dance in the noon time sun

As it lights the way to

My neighbor’s garden

I always thought you would

Be waiting there

Under the swaying willow tree

Frog and toad

Rhyming words we would laugh

In each others lips and part

Only when we had to gasp for air

Maybe it’s time to

Let go of the what if’s and

Memorized lines to the play

That I still haven’t performed

Craving attention

Like a lost flower on a windy day

Trying to cause someone to reach out

and touch me

Floating along and

Saying yes and no

When I want to be in a land with

Green fields and Bonnie lads

Shhh Shhh

Maybe it’s time to

Remember to be.

Late to the party: a recollection of things that could have been – a #freeverse #poem by Leona


You were an angel

Golden locks running along

The nape of your neck

Faraway we shared


And I wondered why

I never let you

Say hello


Fingers crossed behind my back

Wishing that the rose petals

We’re for me

Not my friend

Two rings and vows

To dream of my own

Sort of 

Loving embrace

If I only could imagine


That sunday in the year

Long forgotten

I met you at a cafe

To drink and be merry

Eat and be in love

Finding out what 

Was between us

I never left you with a kiss


The folded sheets against my skin

Hands softly touching the 

Edge of my


And I dream of the moments

My lover held

Me tightly

Gasping my name


Calling names and

Writing thank you cards

With an empathy that 

Reminds me of the 

Days when

Summer lasted longer

Than spring


A cold winter morning

You said it smells like snow


And I stood far off

Wondering what it was like

To be 

All together and never alone

She wore a red colored sweater and

Leaned in


Facing days spent on earth

With a newness

I had thought was lost 

To the wind

But I am still here

Sleeping among the stars

As the noon day sun rushes

In to sear away my 

Clinging memories

Time Moves – a #freeverse #poem by Leona

For time moves

Swiftly my dear

So fast all at once

We are in a tilt-a-whirl

My dear as the age

Old rhymes barely

Keep up with the beat


I tried carefully to find

New pathways across

Old sodden fields of

Corn and barley


Can you just pause a moment?

Drifting toward an empty sky

I find your eyes keep

Looking my way

Back again


The clock chimes in the hallway

Down the stairs under the

First floor balcony

It depends on if the butler 

Has wound the

Clock to quarter past 10


Will you be my valentine?

Have we parted as more than


East and West of Here – #freeverse #poetry by Leona

Night rings in frightful tones

Of lovers lost to time

Where dandelions and peonies

Sway to remember

Some forgotten song

East of here; New York station

To collide into picturesque postcards

Of lovers about to kiss

The dreamy melting memories

Of our shared banana split

Left my mouth wanting

Lips tasting the odd artificial 

Strawberry flavor

Fingers sticky from the spoon

We shared

West of here; Brooklynn station

And farther away than

I remember

Running from the scent of

Ancient and decrepit rhymes

Only to toss a farthing

To the lonely woman

Sitting on the doorstep of

My apartment

East of here; Manhattan station

Jumping on lily pads of

Dark and undulating spaces

To arrive at your front door

Darling, you murmur against

My neck, smelling the incense

Burned from my prayers that


We dance to drums created from

The skylarks that leap to and 

Fro from the wooden stoops

Between windows of this

Tightly knit city

How it was to be loved

And remembered. 

Do you remember my name? I ask

West of here; Queens station

At 7:30 every Tuesday evening

The crippled man from upstairs

Blares the old tunes from

Before the war to

Forget the times that 

Came after

Ripping through seams of life and the

Fabric of our loved ones

Eyes. I always

Drank a glass of whatever

Was available and 

Gave a toast to the 

Only God I knew

Praying that somehow

Meaning would fall upon

My lap and grace me

From above

East of here; some type of station

And I’ll wait for the train to arrive.

Honey wine- a #freeverse #poem by Leona

Conversations are like free

Butter and bread

Spreading honey over

Too thick and

Delicious to taste

I love to laugh at

Your terrible jokes

And how the government

Will fail us all in 2 

Years or so

I love to see you squint your eyes and 

Curl your lips as you try

To remember the name of

The capital of Kyrzakhstan


Laughing fits are like freshly

Baked cookies warm

From the oven, sweet

Chocolate melting on 

My lips and my

Mouth waters in anticipation

I love to hear your 

Grand tales of adventure

From your youth

And how you slew

Dragons in your time

I love to feel your breath

On my

Cheek as you 

Try to think of something 

Clever to say as 

The sun sets in our



Chance has made our

Meetings sweeter than

Honey wine on a summer


And I do so wonder 

Why such a 

Gift has been granted

To a lonely traveler 

Like me

I smile as you take

My hand and lead me

To the fires edge

All the while trying 

To guess my favorite

Color in spring

Confessions of a working woman. – #memoir #writing by Leona

It feels a lot longer than just a month since I’ve written. Days feel like months and weeks like years. Maybe if I die tomorrow they will become that. I have been holding back my writing because I am afraid. Always afraid. It’s a running theme with me. 

On a bright Tuesday morning, I sang a few songs as I drove into work. As I arrived I wondered if today would feel any different than the day before. Will I have an epiphany to leave it all behind and start a new life somewhere else? 

At this point in my life, I see all the strings that I have left about and how they weave in and out of people, places and things. The longer I stay, the more these strings tangle and stretch making it hard to leave and cut loose. I see how I have weaved these small threads around to where I am now and it seems hard to go. 

At work, the fluorescent light above me in the lunchroom flickers and makes reading almost impossible. I put down my book and decided to start small talk with my coworker. We talk about our favorite holidays and types of candy. I wonder if you can see on my face that I cried in the bathroom 2 hours earlier.

The stall is dark and smells too strongly of air freshener. The air freshener comes in blue pods that look like marbles and are sticky to touch. My hand covers my mouth as I stifle a small cry. The tears are hot against my cheeks. I know why I am sad and crying. It should help to let it all out but I feel even worse as I sit on the beige toilet and try to collect myself. 27 years old and I am crying on the toilet in my work bathroom. Maybe it’s a new low, maybe it’s a weird new high. I can only hope.

“I think we are going to need more yellow toner,” my coworker remarks from across the office. I stop listening to the music in my earbud and wonder if she wants me to respond.

“We are going to need more yellow toner?” I ask recreating each word back to make sure I heard her correctly. It’s something I do a lot; I double-check that people are telling me the things they wanted to say. I find that many people ask questions without formulating them as full thoughts before beginning their sentence. It makes it difficult to follow conversations.

I remember thinking that I must have missed something. I missed hidden words that others knew but I didn’t. It drove me crazy that other people seemed to be able to pick up this language with little to no problem. Even now, as an adult, I sometimes find myself asking lots of clarifying questions. People can assume I am dumb or not listening but its because many people don’t speak their minds. They jump to conclusions and half sentences. Statements with words hanging off. It’s not a bad thing but can become problematic as then I am left with interpretation from my own brain.

My dog runs up to me as I enter the house. He jumps up and tries to nip my fingers playfully. His energy becomes my own as I lean down to pet him. The soft fur and wriggling body are funny to me. I laugh. Somewhere in the apartment, I hear a soft meow from my sister’s cat. It seems like the world has risen and fallen since my morning cup of coffee.

Truly, Truly – a #freeverse #poem by Leona

Prayers my heart starts to

mumble as the dew

forms graceful drops

across the eyelashes

of the late summer trees

It sprang to mind the hopeful

and expectant posture of

a bride in waiting


oil filled lanterns

how we see the changing times

only to be reminded that

in life there is death

in love there is loss

truly truly say to you

the barren garden will

blossom as the noon day


creeps along the ground

there in the slanting rays

it is easy to remember that

goodness and favor

does come to those

who wait as the tides

change and the earth


Have I finally found my home?

Tale of Two Stars – #shortstory #writing by Leona

The blackness of the sky never bothered me before. I always found it enchanting and reminiscent of my mother’s eyes. It sparkled with small stars and galaxies too far to count the distance. Our routine was to spend evenings outside and guide the stars to their rightful place. She would name each one and beckon them from their day slumber. I asked my mother why she did this each evening. It was a task ordained by the gods, she would respond. Nothing more.

The deep night sky filled my waking hours more than I realized. I never knew about the daytime world. I didn’t want to know.

People in the village would leave my mother gifts of fruit and cassava on our doorstep. My mother never let me talk to these strangers even though I would watch them from small crack on our door. Each time they would rest their gifts at the base of the door they would say “Prada Bitarva”. When I spoke those words to my mother, she said that was the name the villagers gave her. I asked about her real name but she told me to call her mama.

As night turned into day, I started to wonder about the villagers and the world of the day. But as my curiosity grew, mama increased my tasks during the evening. She asked me to name the stars along with her and learn the movements that went along with the names. We danced and talked together that I did not mind not seeing the day or more of the villagers.

One day I told my mama that I wanted a friend. She smiled and tapped her nose. I know just the friend you need, she said. Two days later she brought me a small basket covered with a green cloth. I opened the gift to find a small monkey curled inside sleeping. His eyes were shut and his little fingers were curled around part of the green blanket. I squealed with joy at the sight of my new friend. I named him Bravo and told my mother that he would be my best friend. Bravo squirmed in the basket and blink his eyes open. Dark black filled his eyes and I could see my face reflected back to me. His armes reached toward me and I culled him close to my chest.

Treat him well, my mother said. His destiny is tied to yours.