Freewrite to nowhere

 

Nowhere is a place, too,
with leafy trees
and traffic lights.

Someone has to put

dinner on the table

and do the washing up.

There are cardigans to button

and babies' earlobes

to nibble on.

And when the nowhere car 

is out of gas, we walk, walk, walk

past the nowhere coffee shops

and sidewalk tents

and dog parks,

the zinnia pots

chip wrappers,

bird splats

porch swings

wind chimes

ding-ding-a-ding.

In nowhere

we skip

all the way home

and cry and sing 

about all the nothings,

both sour and sweet.

Noodling with words while half-watching a movie on Hoopla

 

In this version,

I'm as comfortable as a sandwich

and can play all the parts:

the shoe

the fire

the violin

the dark.

Green is my thing.

Yellow is your color --

like a crayon sun.

Your rays won't quit.

You could grow

zinnias on the moon

with your spark.

Linda Ferguson

For Annamarie, again

For Valentine's Day, for shoe box mail boxes and construction paper hearts laced with packaged white doilies, for playgrounds and paste and pianos and parents, for long foal legs and new stiff shoes that clacked and clunked down the tiled hall, for Miss Knerr who showed us a black and white film of A Midsummer Night's Dream in 6th grade, for my friend, whom I met that year, just as we were on the brink of emerging from the cocoon of childhood, with those first tender beings still nestled within ourselves.

For Annamarie, on the Death of Her Husband 

\
~ Randal A. Burd, Jr.

“So we grow together
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet an union in partition…”
—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

This is for you,
who once took me in
your wide child’s arms,
strawberry wool,
and tea in china cups,
spools of honey,
your little sisters
tumbling
like golden apples
over your bed,
the snowdrops
of your fingertips
on piano keys,
finding silver yearning
of Für Elise, dreams
unfurling from our pillows
like the peach ribbons
of a surprise party
or midsummer picnics
and the plummy pageantry
of Shakespeare’s rhymes
in the rose garden where
we romped and caught
our sleeves on the thorns
of adolescent naïveté.

Now, across a continent,
as your heart gasps
in grief’s cold tunnel
and clusters of friends
offer you tender
apricots of prayer,
may my voice be
a single petal
floating over miles of time
to land like a fingerprint
of sun on your hair,
for my words spring
from a heart that’s one half
of a double cherry
that still grows,
as ever,
next to yours.

This poem was originally published in Sparks of Calliope: A Journal of Poetic Obsesvations.

A freewrite that wonders if hope is a thing, feathered or otherwise

 January 25, 2026

 

AI tells me there is hope.

It says that hope can feel

distant at times, but that it's linked

to resilience and taking action.

It doesn't mention, though, 

all that's good and pretty.

And what does it say

about the state we’re in

that I would be

Googling such a thing

on a Sunday morning,

with refracted light 

shimmering on the threads 

of a spider web?

Linda Ferguson

A poem by my friend Linda Ann Fraser

Fear Marbh

Off the coast of the Dingle Peninsula of Ireland

A man shaped rock island lies, 

Inis Tuaisceart, the Northern Isle.

They call him Fear Marbh, the deadman.

How does a heart and soul of a man turn to stone?

He’s been in this same spot for as long as time

and man have been around to witness him.

A man who can’t see beyond his rocky bed, 

cannot recognize emotions in himself or

others, he never changes, even when storms

pass by with waves that break over him.

He does not yield, he is deaf to all that

call just like when he was a human?

Is this why his unfeeling heart has 

turned to stone?

If a spark of truth should penetrate

this rock, will warmth and compassion ignite?

How many waves have pounded his side?

The cries of humanity may some day leak

through as the world circles the sun

in our vast luminous universe.

Linda Ann Fraser

1/16/2026

Inis Tuaisceart (In-is Tōōsh-kart)

Fear Marbh (Fear Mar-ov)

Love Song of Pluto and Charon

Here's a love poem I wrote a few years ago:

What can they know of you

or me? They talk as if you were

 

my concubine, following my orbit

with head bowed, three steps behind.

 

No one imagines how we carry

each other’s soul across the river

 

of the divided universe. My blush

is well documented, but not the pleasure

 

we take bathing in the milk of our mutual

banishment. Is our bond science

 

or fiction? Their calculations prove

convergence is impossible. Yet

 

our ice shields are lit with pulses that spike

without ever touching. When I laugh, you

 

feel the breath of snow drops blooming

in the frost, and your tears are butterflies

 

that land on my open palms. Some believe

deities watch and nod approvingly. But

 

from where? Look, even the radiant eye

of Jupiter is blind, a shrinking swirl of salt.

 

There is no above or below in infinity – we both

know hierarchy is a mortal’s dream chased

 

by the tiger claws of uncertainty. And so we float

in our mingled dust, embracing the solar wind

 

and cerulean glow no one sees but us.

published in The Poeming Pigeon: Cosmos, 2020, The Poetry Box

Child's play

Playing with words and colors like a kid with finger paint, not too worried about making sense.

Look

     the lake is lit

                amazing

we have come

            wild and light

                               unpetalled

                                            love

float and sail

                                        astonished

                                                                 impossible

                                                                       excess