misunderstood magic
the flying flock
of crows caught my
attention against the
backdrop of a blue sky
so clear and so blue
it was nothing less than a
song of beauty;

as i watched the murder
go about their way
i wondered where they were going—

they love the ravine
behind my apartment,
i remember once i journeyed
there and as i sang and danced
in the creek they flew
overhead singing songs of their own
happiness;

once a majestic crow welcomed
me into my favorite majestic forest—

i know these beings
are misunderstood and full of magic,
just like me.
-linda m. crate

She is absolutely killing the challenge! How are you doing with the prompts?

red capped grotto
in the mushroom grotto
of red capped mushrooms,
i imagine there sings something
of beauty;

dangerous but gorgeous
full of energy and light
whose wings are anything but fragile—

they say you should avoid the
fae,
but i’m too curious for my own good;
would probably try to watch,
at the very least to see what they were like—

i know better than to give them
my name or my birthday
or make any deals with them,

but surely it couldn’t hurt
to watch them?

i can’t help but wonder about
the creatures
who make such lovely grottos.
-linda m. crate

She is absolutely killing the challenge! How are you doing with the prompts?

break the machine
imagine living life
so well,
death bows their head;
i want an adventure
like that—

so tired of holding on
just to struggle through
another day,
think we all deserve more than to
simply exist;
we were meant to live—

so many beautiful things in this
world that i have yet to
see or experience,

and so many stories i have yet
to write;

never seem to have enough
time of my own to make me mine
so i’m not sure what to do about that,
all i know is i wasn’t born to be
just another cog in their machine;

and i’ll break it if i can find a way to.
-linda m. crate

She is absolutely killing the challenge! How are you doing with the prompts?

our magical selves
shady picnics
beneath the wizened
and wise old maples and oaks,

a blanket of red and white
checked squares laid
out among the blades of grass;
little finger foods perfectly portioned
and preserved to keep the bugs
out—

we sit and tell stories
of old and new,
recalibrating the star dust
of our souls;

as we sing a song of our own—

no threat of work, chores,
or reality to come crashing in;
just us and these blue skies
full of puffy white clouds cheering us
on to be our magical selves.
-linda m. crate