Thursday, January 18, 2018

Poem: Buried Beneath Hope

Buried Beneath Hope
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

The ground is harsh underneath my hand, 
leaving little red droplets in the dirt, 
and the dirt refuses to let go, 
trying to pull me six feet under, 
where I would be buried alive, 
gasping for air when there is none. 
My hand pushed further into the earth 
but not to where dreams stirred 
but where they’ve gone to die, 
frozen seeds of tomorrow 
in a world torn and broken, 
caught in orange stripes. 

Friday, January 12, 2018

A Brief Review on CBS Show: Me, Myself and I

We think of Time as a mirror or river or even sand.  We wonder if we were to drop a stone in the water, would the ripples bring back the past or whisper of the future?  Would the face we see today show a hint of the child left behind or the silver fox waiting to be born?  If the sand ran out, were we able to say good-bye?  Sometimes, we call Time a friend, but a lot of us see it as an enemy for all the wars that we have lived through and the scars that we must carry, and as Time fades further and further ahead, we worry about the darkest days that still wait for us and remember the best days that have been broken and faded, photographs now tucked in dew-dripped boxes and dusty bins.  If we could just put life on pause for but a moment, maybe we would find ourselves at the crossroads, where yesterday greets today, and today discovers tomorrow.  Maybe, we would see that little boy again with his new family, new father and brother and the girl of his dreams and his inventions ready to begin?  Maybe, we would see him older and struggling as he lives in his friend’s garage with his daughter, stuck in a rut, and trying to find himself again?  Maybe, things would turn around, and Time would greet him with success, only to coat it with a touch of death that would make him wonder about his life once again, and once again, we think about Time.  We think about our life, where we were, where we are and where we are going, and nobody can tell us not even Time.  In the end, it’s just Me, Myself and I.


Side Note: This was a brilliantly written television show that was cut short, but episodes may still be available On Demand.

Monday, January 01, 2018

New Poem: The Dying Breaths of Last Year


The Dying Breaths of Last Year
by, Melissa R. Mendelson
 The dying breaths of last year 
gasp and hold as tight as it can, 
but its grip is melting ice 
slipping away into nothing 
for soon it will become a faint dream 
or a distant nightmare, 
and the new year will burn 
through all that harshness 
those dying breaths have left 
upon our skin.
But it may take time 
to soothe our wounds
and kill the nightmares 
that broke us,
ragged breaths of last year 
with a vengeance not to die, 
but die it must. 
Fade into the white, 
blank pages of another chapter 
of a new year. 

Last Winter of 2017










Photography by Melissa R. Mendelson