The Farmer’s Hen

In the wee hours of the morning, I scream reminding the farmer that it’s no longer time to dream. Using my beak to scratch for something to eat and when that fails, I search the soil with my feet. The Farmer steps out to give me crumbs of feed. I get filled with joy, not…

Second star to the right

The boy never grows upThe tantrums never end Age shrivels the bronze Mediterranean faceYears widen the once chiseled midsection The falsehoods he paints, the games he cheatsThe skeletons he hides, the secrets he keeps A. lost boy. a Malevolent man. By Christine Mooney – Trinity, Florida – United States Chris is a lifelong New Yorker…

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