Now, I’m a middle school math teacher. The days are filled with the chatter of students, the squeak of markers on whiteboards, and the rhythmic ticking of the classroom clock. It’s a far cry from the carefree days of camp, but it’s rewarding in its own way.
Just today, as I was walking down the hallway between classes, I caught a whiff of something that instantly transported me back to those summers at camp. It was a familiar scent, but I couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was the faint smell of wood smoke from the cafeteria’s kitchen, or perhaps it was a student’s perfume that reminded me of the bug spray we used to slather on.
Whatever it was, it triggered a flood of memories. I remembered the crackling campfires, the gooey s’mores, the silly songs, and the late-night talks with fellow counselors. I remembered the feeling of being surrounded by nature, of being part of something bigger than myself.
For a moment, I was back at camp, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin and the cool breeze in my hair. Then, just as quickly, I was back in the hallway, surrounded by lockers and students. But the memory of those summers at camp stayed with me, a reminder of a time when life was simpler, and the world was full of possibilities. A phantom breeze, a whispered sigh, A scent adrift, that floats nearby. No image seen, no sound so clear, Yet memory’s ghost, it holds me near. Carried upon the gentlest of winds, a fragrance emerges, Unseen, unheard, yet stirring the soul’s embers.
Fragrant Memories
The baking spice, of cinnamon’s heat, A childhood kitchen, bittersweet. Grandma’s apron, flour dust, A warm embrace, in gentle trust. Golden sunlight filters through the window pane, Cinnamon and cloves dance in a sweet refrain. Grandma’s laughter, a comforting sound, In her loving arms, solace is found.
The damp earth’s breath, a mossy stone, A forest path, where I’d roam alone. Green leaves unfurled, a sunlit gleam, A tranquil space, a waking dream. Beneath the canopy of emerald leaves, The forest floor, a tapestry it weaves. Sunlight dappled, a gentle stream flows, Nature’s embrace, where serenity grows.
The salty tang, of ocean spray A distant shore, where children play. Waves crashing soft, on sandy white, A sense of peace, in fading light. The rhythmic symphony of crashing waves, Whispers tales of hidden coves and caves. Seashells scattered, glistening pearls of sand, A tranquil haven, a timeless land.
A worn book’s scent, of aged and deep, Where stories slept, and secrets keep. Paper’s whisper, a silent call A quiet comfort, standing tall. Within the pages, adventures unfold, Tales of heroes, both brave and bold. The scent of old paper, a comforting embrace, In quiet corners, a tranquil space.
These fragile threads, of fragrant air, Unravel time, and banish care. A fleeting moment, held so tight, A scented solace, in the night. Each scent a memory, a chapter untold, Whispers of the past, in stories unfold. A tapestry of moments, woven with care, Fragrant memories, suspended in air. In the stillness of the night, they ignite, A scented solace, bathed in moonlight.
In the dark of night, the world is full of fear, The shadows dance and move, and all is drear. The trees are like great monsters, tall and strange, The moon is like a demon’s eye, so strange.
The wind is like a scream, the owl is like a wail, The night is full of danger, and I feel so frail. I wish that morning would come, and chase away The fear that fills my heart, and drives me to my bed.
I hide beneath the covers as the darkness grows around, Listening in the stillness for every haunting sound. The walls begin to tighten like a vise upon my chest, And anxiety arises, driving far away all rest. I pray for dawn to break the gloom and turn the night to day, To lift the heavy silence and sweep the dark away.
But then the morning comes, and all is bright, The sun shines down, and all is right. The trees are like old friends, the moon is like a friend, The wind is like a soft caress, not like a scream.
The owl is like a wise old sage, who speaks of peace, The night is full of beauty, and I feel so free. I wish that I could stay in this bright world all day, And never have to go back to the dark of night.
Open the doors, let sunlight flood the dust and gloom, And hide no more, escape this cold and empty room. The world awaits beyond the latch, vibrant and so vast, A future built on courage, leaving shadows in the past. The sun upon my face becomes a promise, clear and bold, A new and brighter story that is waiting to unfold.
I should not take the blame Two steps forward, ten steps back, No matter the path, the light is black. I try, I try, with all my might, But shadows follow in the night.
Do not misplace the scars you bear, Or cast your judgments, sharp and bare, Upon a soul that’s not to blame, For all the hurt, for all the shame.
With silent walls and seeds of doubt. You bring the feast but leave me cold, A story left largely untold.
“Don’t speak,” you say, “Don’t let me in,” As if my presence is a sin. You say I shouldn’t be involved, The mystery of me—never solved.
An afterthought, drifting alone, The furthest distance I have known. The tears fall soft, the heart beats slow, Caught in a wind I did not blow.
You hate me—the echo rings so clear, A constant hum for all to hear. You hate me, hate me, in the dark, Leaving behind this jagged mark.
The threshold of the door is wide and bright, A circle gathers, laughing in the glow, And I am here, caught somewhere in the light, Desiring more than just the names I know. I see the surface, beautiful and clear, The pleasant currents where we dive and play, But oh, I want the ocean deep from here— I want to wash the quiet guard away.
I want the late-night, sitting-on-the-floor, Unvarnished truths, the fears we never speak, To open wide the heavy, bolted door, And show the places where the walls are weak. I long for ties that weather through the storm, The kind of tether time cannot undo, Where sitting in the silence keeps us warm, And being known means being valued, too.
But heavy armor isn’t easily shed, And stepping closer feels like stepping blind. The words I mean to say stay in my head, While careful, safer phrases wait behind. It is so hard to pull the veil aside, To offer up the soft, unshielded part, To trust the spaces where I usually hide And lay the raw geography of heart.
So here I stand, a newcomer at bay, With arms that ache to open and extend. I take a breath, and try to find a way To cross the bridge from stranger into friend.
Every now and then, people look at the analytics of a small blog and I read the report and it says, “4” next to blog. But to me? That doesn’t matter at all.
The point isn’t about massive, viral numbers. The point is that someone out there is genuinely interested in my work. When I look at those numbers, I don’t see a small statistic—I see real individuals who chose to take a few minutes out of their busy days to step into my world. Whether you came for the poetry or the stories, you took the time to read it. And from the bottom of my heart, I pray that you truly enjoyed it and that you want to read more.
The Reality of the Writing Dream
We’ve all heard the complaints in the writing community: “I’m just not making a lot of money doing this.” And sure, of course I want to sell books! Writing is an investment. Between hiring professional editors and handling all the behind-the-scenes production, putting your work out there isn’t free.
But money isn’t the driving force. If I had the chance, I would love nothing more than to write full-time.
By day, I am a middle school math teacher. It’s not physical labor, but let me tell you, it is an intense mental workout! A big part of my job involves working with specialized students and writing IEPs. Ironically, despite being a creative writer, that kind of rigid, academic writing and precise verbal wording is something I really have to push myself to do perfectly.
I often think about how wonderful it would have been if I could have been a stay-at-home, full-time writing mom when my kids were little, drafting chapters while they napped. But life had a different timeline. Now, my youngest is about to turn 13 and is much more independent. Writing full-time now would mean having the freedom to never miss a single doctor’s appointment, school play, music concert, or art show. It would mean being completely present for every milestone.
Looking Into My World (And the Ultimate Compliment)
Ultimately, those 4 to 24 people who click on my blog are doing something incredibly special: you are looking into a little piece of my world. I saw 4-24, and that is because my lowest view is 4 and my highest is 24.
My biggest goal right now is simply to market more and help more people find my work—not for ego, but because I want to share these places and characters with the universe. I want someone to be genuinely excited about the stories I create.
In fact, you want to know what the ultimate praise would be for me?
Some authors don’t like it, but if someone ever loved my characters enough to start writing fanfiction or role-playing in the universe I built… man, that would be the highest honor. To know that my world sparked a flame in someone else’s creativity? That is why I do this.
So, to my dedicated handful of readers: thank you for stepping into my world. I hope you love it here, and I can’t wait to share what’s coming next.
Across the sea, a jungle green, A young man fought, a sight unseen. My father, there, in Vietnam’s hold, A story etched, a heart of gold.
The weight of war, a heavy pack, He carried burdens on his back. The sounds of fire, the cries of pain, Aching memories, etched like rain.
But courage bloomed where shadows fell, He faced his fears and fought them well. For comrades’ sake, for duty’s call, He stood his ground, he gave his all.
And when he came back home at last, The war’s grim toll, a shadowed past. Unspoken battles, burdens deep, Yet in his eyes, a love to keep.
He built a life, a world anew, The strength he bore, shone clear and true. My father, soldier, quiet, strong, In him, I see where I belong.
This ode to him, a whispered pride, For all he faced, for all he tried. A son’s respect, a heart’s embrace, For the hero’s journey, etched on his face.
The lines were drawn in quiet ink, A map of “yes” and “stay,” I feared the bridge would surely sink If I turned the other way. I held my breath to keep the peace, A ghost within the room, Fearing that my own release Would seal a friendship’s doom.
I thought the cost of being me Was more than they would pay, That if I spoke, they’d turn and flee And leave me in the gray. But then the weight began to gall, The “jokes” that left a sting, The way they made me feel so small While I gave everything.
So I stood up, a sudden flame, And watched the masks descend, I finally spoke my truth, my name, And waited for the end. They met my strength with cold disdain, With anger and with slight, They saw my joy as their own pain And walked into the night.
And in the silence left behind, The truth began to bloom: The friends I was so scared to find Were never in that room. For if a boundary breaks a bond, The bond was but a thread; Of people who are truly fond, There’s nothing left to dread.
If standing up meant losing them, I lost a heavy chain, A false and hollow stratagem That only offered pain. The ones who leave when you grow tall Were never yours to keep; It’s better that the shadows fall So you can finally leap.
