The Art of Making Lists

Exploring the art of list-making

For this week’s WordPress challenge, I decided to include all three lists in one post. Making lists has always been one of the best ways to declutter my mind, and making lists of these three topics was really fun to think about.


Summer Recollections

  1. reading in the peace of nature out on the back deck
  2. the sensation of the ocean’s sun mixed with salt water on my body
  3. falling in love
  4. long walks in the heavy heat of the night air
  5. iced tea
  6. green foliage as far as the eye can see
  7. wading through creeks
  8. happy, bright colors
  9. bringing back memories of past summers
  10. vacationing in the mountains


First Love in Five Bullet Points

  • Young and lively. He got me out of my shell the very first time we met.
  • Hilarious. I’d never met someone with such a witty and unique sense of humor.
  • Caring. Definitely different from any other guy I’d ever met.
  • Cute. Captivatingly so.
  • Passionate. He was so dedicated to the things he loved–music, friends, and soon, me.


Bucket List

  • Be dangerous: go white water rafting
  • Live vicariously: befriend an elderly stranger and find out about their life
  • Commune with my saltwater heart: go surfing
  • Show love to strangers: volunteer
  • Explore: visit an island
  • Conquer fear of heights: go paragliding
  • Overcome something I’ve hated: be able to enjoy running
  • Live a movie scene: Ride a gondola in Venice
  • Be romantically cliché: eat at a sidewalk cafe in Paris

on journaling

Buried deep in the crevices of this my friend

Lay unspoken dreams, and shadows therein.

White pages have patience the living do not;

Words cannot utter the comfort they’ve brought

Me while wandering silent through unlighted woods,

While in quest of knowing logic the best I should.

The nonsensical ramblings I now call my own

Have inside only me: They’re my own home.

Daylight Persists

Home in lightless sorrow, she 

Dwells among the empty white 

Walls--They hold her secret so

Softly. Perfectly blissful her

Sorrow lives now, closed to all

Outside pity. 

Once a day, routine brings her

One illusion of light in

Hiding: Everlasting Sunshine--a

Bottle of shower gel sits

'Gainst the cool, marble-like wall,

Its odor filling the air. Taking

After its label, it colors the 

Marble's blank stare with its warm, 

Purely golden aroma of daylight.

Try as she may to escape any

Relic of warmness once touched,

Everlasting Sunshine, in various

Forms, continues to tap

  -subtly and secretly-

Into her heart frozen in 


Dominion of Darkness

My soul at all times lurks dangerously close to

The abyss flooded, seeping with darkness, through

Which no mortal can see light, but the abyss creates

Its own deceptive glow. Darkness, delicious, flings wide its gates

And gropes for my soul. Blood, edged in strange glows,

Appears deceptive, yet inviting as so smoothly it flows.

Evil prowling about seems not wrong, but cold

As it brushes past, freezing but bold.

Like moonless night holds protection in dark,

Or the black, darkest dream is sweet, in part,

So feels this evil, this nightmare, abyss. But somewhere deep inside says something is amiss;

I feel it within the presence of blackness felt so long,

But is this really all so wrong?

Why is my very being drawn with passion toward

What I know all mortals should strongly abhor?

Black is lighter than all things white,

But it takes also on a more dizzying height

From whence I could fall and plunge toward ground

Without even uttering the slightest sound.

Notion Floats Onward

Whisperer .

Silent she floats through the trees of her

Choice, and the time of her breezes is none but of

Own; Inspiration and She are as one, unified,

Sighing through treetops who bow with her



Now, O Enchanter, allow me to see all the

Signs of your work! Where you’ve come all the leaves have been

Shaken from their limbs; where you’ve left even branches will

Proudly remember departed stalks. Some boughs have



Wanderer .

Gently and scarcely felt by beholders,

She glides on toward others, gathering

All the aromas from previous hosts, so to

Sprinkle on new prey, who gains from the woods left by



She could almost feel the rain outside her window– tap, tap, tapping against it–as Mary sat in the kitchen sipping her tenth mug that morning of coffee. It was way past noon, yet she was still in her ratty bathrobe and bunny slippers. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all. What even mattered anymore? The axis of her being was now on trial, and who know if it would be found true and worthy?

There was nothing to be done, and try as she may to be strong, there was no escaping from the fact that she alone was the victim. Nobody would ever approach understanding these feelings. She wouldn’t let them. She felt a weightless, yet at the same time breath-taking oppression pushing down on her head and radiating throughout her heart and stomach. Her mind filtered nothing, and every thought came pouring in all at once, making her feel that the only solution was reclining her head back against the wall.

The kitchen wall was chilling, but she didn’t notice. She glanced down at her steaming cup of black coffee . . . no, not steaming . . . ice cold. Her hands felt frozen from gripping her white mug, and she stretched them with difficulty in order to release them from the grip. She felt her mind slipping away. Why must love, in all its initial promise and glory, be so desolating?