Sarah Doughty

“Your body is beautiful. Not just
the soft parts. No part of you is ugly,
no matter what anyone says.”

Your body is beautiful. But not just the soft parts. The rose is only part of the entire flower. What good would a rose be without a little strength to protect itself? The thorns may not be as pretty as the petals, but they serve a purpose. Society has the same tendency to label things as ugly. So try to appreciate parts of you that protect you, too.

© Sarah Doughty

You don’t have to label
everything about yourself
as pretty. But there is value
in appreciating everything.

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Confab With Me

The passion you showed detesting my prose, I wished you showed the same vigor in keeping your words

Copyright © Shantanu Baruah

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Shantanu Baruah,, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content

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Think On This – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon


dVerse Poets – Meeting the Bar – O, Apostrophe

Amaya at dVerse has invited us to consider the creative idea of the apostrophe other than its technical use, rather as its poetic function in creating a change in the poem where the object speaks or is spoken to directly.


Photo: granite outcrop, Nungarin

“No matter how sophisticated you may be, a large granite mountain cannot be denied – it speaks in silence to the very core of your being.”  Ansel Adams

Think On This

In the stillness was the hardness,
a resistance I knew well
of footfall on granite,
what song shall you sing me
I threw, and it rang sharp,
came back the posit,
think on this tenderfoot,
softness cannot abide without
firm boundary,
compassion lies in
strength within,
O that I might be a rock
of such an age of wisdom.

©Paul Vincent Cannon


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davidbrucehaiku: no way to store books

Splendor in Sepia

Charmed Chaos

Jessie Tarbox Beals
America’s first female photojournalist
c. 1904

Making sense of black and white when we fall into the grey
Understanding where lines lie in this dramatic play

Looking through the camera lens with crystal clarity
Creating a somber mood with a stark disparity

Trying to capture what is real not how they wish to be seen
skillful eye looks beyond outer skin, peers into a soul deep

And in the light of the false, a flash takes her aback
and there in sepia -toned splendor with a startled shock
is the real she, peering back at me

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Megha's World

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”
― Rumi

I’m looking fervently
for that limestone shade
crisscrossing lines
where our dreams
as we follow our own trajectory
but still,
they interject;
forming a
a pattern of the love
and its everlasting
ephemeral touch
those criss-cross
that weaves the fabric of love
latching my dreams and hope
in every loop, knot, and hold
that junction where our
though different in the essence,
dance and whirls
to their own tunes
like a diffident swirling dervish
carrying that sweet zephyr of life
to the same song
joined at the hip
I wishfully hope
our life
Photo by Redd Angelo on Unsplash

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Sarah Doughty

“You to keep me grounded, reminding me
that I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

It’s been days since I’ve slept and the very foundation of my reality is shifting. I’m seeing the cracks between worlds now that my weary eyes aren’t focusing on what’s right in front of me. My skin, muscles, and sinew no longer feel just the gravity beneath me. I’m feeling a breeze where there should be none. I’m hearing whispers where there are no mouths to speak. I’m feeling the rain when I’m not outside. I am dreaming, yet I am awake. And the longer this lasts, the more I feel like I’m detaching from my body. Floating away with the storm. So, this is me. At my lowest. When I’m hyperaware and yet numb at the same time. Who knows how long I will remain in this realm of in-between? But I try not…

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most of all ~



the fields
blown whiter now
than first with winter squall
I wonder how they miss us here –
do they miss us
most of all

when evergreen
their branches brush
against an endless night
do they know
how hard the coming back
to a place within the light

an ancient star
once wished upon
when held beneath a worried chill
I wonder how it is
I knew –
how I would miss you

. . .

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