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©2016-2018 by Pat Durmon, Poet. Proudly created with Wix.com

August 26, 2019

It’s August. The land thirsts. Leaves of the willow, yellowing. No air moving.

But at five in the evening the wind marches our way. Not like a thin wind, more like a predator. What’s going on? We check and learn thunderstorms are bearing down on us.

Suddenly, leaves flur...

August 19, 2019

I love the mysterious, little stones that strangers and children leave on benches, mailboxes, porches. Words like Love, Believe, Courage, Hope are written on them. Just reminders, I suppose, in case we lose our way.

Much is wrong with the world we live in. A blind perso...

August 12, 2019

I’ve waited a long time, longer than most authors, searching for options on what to do with a book that’s sold-out, the publisher unresponsive to any inquiries.

I can’t tell you how many times I’d pushed the book aside, like a woman not knowing how to comfort herself ab...

August 5, 2019

I sense that something big is going on, but my husband only says, “I want to let Alex and Zach do some driving today.” (They obtained their permits recently.)

The sausage spits and sputters in the pan. I stay out of the kitchen but watch the two boy-men. One is turning...

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