Welcome Back Rara


Head over to the Stories site to wish Rara a welcome return to the blogosphere.

Originally posted on Stories that Must Not Die:


It is with much joy and love that the Stories crew get to welcome one of our own back to the blogosphere. She is an inspiration, a light in a dark world, a smile and hug when nothing else will do. She lifts us up together and makes us all better as a whole and as individuals.

So, however you know her – – Rara, Radha, Radhika, Ra, The Amazing Blogging Dinosaur – – please take a moment and leave her a welcome back message in the comments.

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Let It Be


Rara is free. And I have it on good authority she is sneaking around the blogosphere to see what everyone has been up to. Check out the last of her series over at Stories and feel free to leave links for “all the things” she has missed in the last year.

Originally posted on Stories that Must Not Die:

This is post 6 of 6, and concludes the series of poems and prose that Rara sent to be shared with the Stories community. 

In a bit of good news, she was released early on July 18th.  

Still, if you can, and you haven’t already, please donate to the Rara Relief fund.  Every little bit will help her get back on her feet.

He wouldn’t be caught dead
In brick-ugly maroon, he declared

And I asked – –
Would it make the stars fade?

YES.  He said,
With a certainty most reserve for big truths.

(But then – he never believed in measuring truths.  Or dreams.  Or possibilities.  Or the cosmos.)

He wouldn’t have been caught dead
in a brick-ugly maroon box – –

but then he was,
and in appreciation of the way he let them be

– – limitless – –

the stars let him be right…

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desert kings

Greasy lights, casting dully from hanging oil lamps, smudged the sparkling fog while glints of teeth and flashes of eyes marked the coyotes’ path.  The time for calling to the heavens had come and gone and the pack slunk to their den to shelter from the heat of the coming day.  It had been a hard night, as most were when the moon was hiding in the sky, and their songs had been low and passive, more from a sense of obligation than of celebration.  They didn’t worry, though, because they knew there would be nights again when they could raise their voices in a beautiful cacophony and boldly remind the world of their presence.

It was only a matter of time and, despite the ever encroaching advances of men, the pack knew they had plenty of time.  They had ruled the deserts and hills long before the apes had learned to use tools and the coyotes instinctively knew they would regain their crowns once man had built tools they couldn’t control. The fools would wipe themselves out.  They had forgotten their place in the world and the coyotes laughed in the fog, the snarls and grunts bouncing awkwardly against the pre-dawn.  Oh yes, they would rule again.

The comforts of their dens welcomed them in and cradled them together in snuggled and nuzzled slumber.  They dreamed of skies filled with the fire stars their ancestors had known.  They dreamed of the giant moon beaming with returned joy.  They dreamed of running through scrub brush dotted deserts reclaiming ghost towns faded to dust.  Their invisible crowns rattled but the earth swallowed the sound.

One by one the oil lamps were extinguished as the sun stretched over the horizon and the lights were no longer needed to battle the dark.  A slight morning breeze running down from the creases in the high plateaus sent them creaking on their stands but their minders didn’t care.  Tools had blunted their senses.  Neglect had dulled their instincts.  They could no longer feel their doom squeaking from the wrought-iron chains.  Even if they could, as the coyotes already knew, it was far too late.  Man might hang on for a few more generations but the tools of their destruction had already been created and unleashed.


(Guest Post) This Too Shall Pass



Originally posted on A Sign Of Life:

The following is a guest post from Rara, sent to me a few weeks ago. If you haven’t yet, head over to Stories and read the 6 part series of poems sent in to us by her.

One of my husband’s favorite poems was “Sunbeam” by Charles Bukowski. It intros:

Sometimes, when you are in hell
And it is continuous, you get a bit giddy
And then when you are tired beyond being tired,
Sometimes a crazy feeling gets ahold of you.

The poem chronicles Bukowski’s job at a packing plant called Sunbeam, and how on an especially hellish day, he randomly shouted, “Sunbeam!” It caught on, others joined in the shouting and laughter, and magic was made. But, Bukowski lived an unrealistically-real life — not one of episodic Lucy-like shenanigans — so the manager came in and made them stop.

I’ve never had a job shred my hands…

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Whatever it will be…


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