Honey Sticks and Cough Syrup

Beautiful writing from Michael Erickson/The Ink Owl

The Ink Owl

Strong hands pulling down cool cups.

Steam whistling in the evening air.

A cool rag applied to a burning brow.

I know your hands, as tender as a lark on a branch.

You stir in the tea, silver clinking against mug.

Murmurs of songs long sung touch your lips.

With those hands you pluck a stick of honey, clip off the tip and begin to pour.

Gold streams from the plastic stick, mixing gently into steeping tea.

I smell peppermint.

-M.E. InkOwl

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Finding Home

Originally posted on Brave and Reckless.

Someone asked me this week whether I was actively involved with the WordPress community and whether it had positively impacted me.  I didn’t hesitate at all in answering the question: the WordPress community isn’t why I initially I came here, but it is absolutely why I stay.  I have found many things in the WordPress community that I didn’t even know I needed– amazing and generous mentors, favorite writing partners, and a group of talented writers who awe me, push me to be a better writer and provide an endless source of inspiration.  I have found my tribe— other writers who have walked where I have walked, felt what I have felt and do not judge me, but accept me in my fullness.  They have encouraged me daily to be brave, to be loud, to be me.

I have been incredibly fortunate to be involved with several amazing writing collectives since my arrival here at WordPress and to have had the opportunity to network with writers whose work I admire and respect.  This week alone I was able to be involved in two collaborative projects that I am deeply proud of: The Burning Bed and A Room So Still and Quiet It Hurts.  The quality of the writing is outstanding—the quality of the souls and hearts of the writers involved even more so.

I have had the room in the WP Community to be human, make mistakes, stumble, grow, get up again, brush myself off, begin to make amends, and try again.  For a control freak who feels like she has to be perfect all the time, superhuman all the time, this is a greater gift than you can possibly imagine.

I am filled this week with gratitude for the community and the opportunities that WordPress has offered me.  This has become a home where I can write, love, learn, laugh, mourn, be reborn and nurture.  This is why I stay on WordPress.

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

Verses Unspoken

Hello friends and welcome back! I hope you like what is in store for you tonight.

As I often do, I wrote this piece from a  male point of view; and me, I am all girly, girl female.  So, I am not sure why I like writing from this perspective, but I really do. Maybe I like to think I know what goes on in a man’s mind at times.

Settle in for some Friday night After Hours poetry to light up your night a bit.


Verses Unspoken

satin touch1

It was her satin touch

writing unspoken lines

across my skin

verses of adoration

dripping with passion’s fire

igniting desire

in places undiscovered by others

untold secrets spilling over me

whispering through fingertips

the carnal craving of hers

crying for satiation


now at full attention

unable to deny

the thrill of her intensity

pull her on top

my low, ravenous voice


“Let me help you

find this story’s climax

and write the ending

as one.”

Not a Choice

Written in response to Davy D’s “Are You a Poet?”


I am a poet by heart

not choice

not decision

didn’t try

didn’t know

just wrote

and what inked my pages

was poetry by happenstance

words woven by emotion so strong

it could be nothing less

for in poetry

the soul bleeds truth

the poet can’t deny

nor anyone else




Inspiration Wall: A Poet By Any Other Name…/Aurora Phoenix

Prompted by this morning’s post by Davy D and response by braveandreckless at the Go Dog Go Cafe .

she eschews labels

having been singed

by the hot iron

of many a branding

she simply knows

in her bones

infused with wisdom

of ageless sages

her words pour voluminous

from the depths

of the well

that is her essence

anoint the stratosphere

with inviolable droplets

from truth’s aspergillum


You can read more of Aurora’s work at Insights from “Inside”

Inspiration Wall: Recklessly She Declared Truth

Thank you Davy D  for this morning’s inspiration

recklessly she looked deeply inside

saw fire and ice in her heart

smelled iron and cooper in her blood

felt moon and ocean tides tug her soul

knew the hum of words

crawling under skin

burning to escape

knew herself a poet

the short shortsightedness of self-declared authorities

who believed themselves arbitrators anointed from above

be damned

she knew they did not have the wisdom

the clarity

the passion

to judge

all that she was

truth would be hers alone to reveal


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray

Are You a Poet?


I really enjoyed last week’s fun in the café and thanks to you all for taking part and attempting to write the world’s shortest poem. I don’t know if any of them will overtake “Fleas” in the Guinness Book of Records, but a high five to everyone for joining in, you are all winners.

This week I am asking the question “Are you a poet?”

It seems a strange question to ask considering most people reading this post write poetry, but is the art of being a poet more than just that. The thought and question arose whilst I was conducting research for some blog posts and stumbled across a discussion asking whether the title of poet should be restricted.

There were some contrasting views, with one stating anyone calling themselves a poet should be distrusted as, “poet is a title necessarily bestowed on you by others.” Some participants suggested you should only use the term if you were a poet and wrote poetry as a full-time occupation.

Most English dictionaries describe a poet as someone who writes poetry, but is it as simple as that? For example, do you need to have had poetry published, or written a poetry book or won a poetry competition, before you can allude to the title?

In my younger days, I was once told by a teacher to beware of anyone who called themselves an expert or guru as anyone, labelling themselves as such, had stopped learning. Again, it was a title to be bestowed by others. Is it the same for poets? Can someone who recklessly uses the term poet be at risk of arrest from the Poetry Police, or is being a poet something to be shouted from the rooftops?

Are you happy to call yourself a poet, or would you rather let others use the title on your behalf?

Why not grab a coffee and air your thoughts in the café.

Poem: Italian Sonnet “What We Could Become” #dVerse #amwriting #poetry 

Thanks to Lillian from #dVerse Poetic’s Pub for hosting last week’s #dVerse prompt on Windows, looking out and looking in. 

My apologies, I meant to publish this on my blog without realizing I was on Go Dog Go. So bonus poem today! 


Credit: Jade Limcaco via UnSplash


Here I stand, watching the sea, in and out, 

The tide flows, paces itself in and out. 

Though I should be outside in the surf’s shout 

Quiet of the indoors keeps me about. 

By grande window stop, my mind in such doubt. 

Wrapping my sweater tightly thinking long, 

Of days gone by, the future’s pull a song. 

Watching boats sail by, sea birds diving flout, 

Captured fish, tiny sea creatures, I pause. 

Unsure where to start, where to go, no hint —

Of what lies before me, from the before. 

So I wait, I wander, I wait for you, flaws —

And all; unsure if you were a dream or —  

Some hopeful vision, what we could become. 


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Spoken Word Spotlight: Gestalt-Olde Punk/RamJet Poetry


Welcome to Spoken Word Spotlight.  Every Wednesday, Christine brings a writer’s words to life.  This week she brings us a heartbreaking poem about loss by Olde Punk of RamJet Poetry. Sit back, take a sip of coffee, close your eyes and enjoy.

If you would like Christine to highlight a piece of your writing, please contact Go Dog Go through our Contact Form or email  us at godoggocafe@gmail.com.


Grasping convolutions

anything will do really

corrugated steel rictus

pulls at corners

a shadow play

in ritual dusk

down another

glass of slow derision

at the nearest

watering hole

wondering how and why

I am unholy

reconcile I’m alone

with the pictures

we both inhabit

I could not hold

the fire

so now I choke

on smoke

and bathe in ashes

my breath stinks

of rebellion

my words are heavy

and low, lo

unto tomorrow

riveting the compunction

to depart the now

the how and when of it

matter little

respond to extinguish

the embers

of my love, of

your ruin

I absolve myself

of any wrongdoing

It’s stern

your reflection

I return

to the objection

and babe

it’s all gone down

it’s all your fault

it’s not the noun

it’s not this town

the fade of gestalt

that I caught

standing outside

looking in at

your origins

I am spread too thin

and I know I will

not win

impart the devolution

of the anatomy

of we

I am left alone

with the memories

that we both inhabit

I still wonder why you


the wave goodbye

but would not look

in my way

I am disinterested

with what comes next

or the aftermath

of my part, apart

I am full to the brim

of empty

I know I haven’t the strength

to begin, again.

Think I will take

a walk down to the ocean

and see if

a baptism in the cold

salt of seas

can free me

from the loss

of the pictures

we both inhabit