I know how to say hello, connect, but I don’t know how to stay connected. And I reach out, only to be turned out. You meet me once, evaluate, then move on. It’s the repeat of a disposable song. I’m recycled over and over as the threads hang from my shirt. Sure, you’ll meet me for coffee. I got the autopilot set to my favorite bookstore. Then you announce you overslept as I sit waiting. And when I jam, move, dance, it’s my own beat, or silence in my head as my eyes slightly shut half looking to see if anyone else shows up. I slowly sip the hot contents of my cup, looking down at my phone, scrolling to see if anyone can make me laugh.-AKC©9/26/19


Love remains in turbulence
Drafts of doubts from time to time
Then back it comes in reassuring waves
That strength between two surging
Connectivity linked
Again in sync
Dancing slowly in the darkness.
Angela K. Crandall

Early morning musings

   Simple songbirds sit singing while I lie in bed running my hands across the sheets. I put my pillow over my head to drowned out their happiness, joy, cheerful banter. Late evenings don’t mix well with wildlife in the morning. Perhaps next time I’ll tell my friends’ goodnight before the clock strikes an unsavory hour. I’ll have the will power to pull back and say no. For now, I’ll get up, and dress my coffee with a generous amount of creamer.

Angela K. Crandall


Mid-Day Ramblings

Everything feels the same
No forward momentum
There is no change
But everything is changing
Even I am moving further into my life
Each step leading to aging
I am writing, serving what I feel is my purpose
Still, it is stagnant
Not, ripening like an apple
But I will rot
We all die
I attempt to live in each moment
And when I’ve risen
Someone pulls me down
Their words, thoughts actions I’m told to ignore
And when I rise above them, the hope lasts maybe a month
If I’m lucky I can brush their thoughts or views aside
Exhale and try to make things matter
This voice that screams for you to listen
And then you’re told you want attention
We all want attention, to be heard
Or would we rather
Sit back and turn on the television
Ignore the things turning around us
It’s hate, beauty, and the uniform we are forced to wear
Society’s standards are not mine
And I type on my machine
I’m in no race
Click, click, click
Words with meaning to sometimes only me
And I wonder if they glimpse at all, peak at what is underneath this skin
Of a beating heart that would bleed
For those who wish to speak
I know what it’s like to linger in the sidelines
To stop, not speaking, to not interrupt, to be polite
Because if you stumble over them, push them, or try
You have no manners
While neither will I.
Angela K. Crandall

Hiding scars

I am lost, and I can’t give you anything. I’ve handed over so much of myself already. I give out hope like candy, treat others with as much dignity as possible. I’ve only lashed out when harmed, or to defend my heart. Yet still, I feel as if people walk over me, stomping on me without having to use a word. That I can be there for everyone, do the right thing at the drop of a hat, and when I turn or point it out they just walk away. Afterward, I’m the one who is playing the victim, caused the problem, created a violent act. This why I keep silent even when in pain because they would say it was bullshit; me hiding because I know your words and reaction will hurt me.
Angela K. Crandall


 The chill of the cold winter air blasts through my clothes.
I stop to look up at the trees as they sway, hoping to stay put and not get blown away.
I pull my coat closer to my core fighting the wind, squinting to see, as all the snow blows sideways at me.
I’m treading, tramping, and pushing my way along the snow drifts. It reminds me of a mighty plow, or a little doggie running right now.
Smiling to myself, I keep on.
Homebound, ready for my hot chocolate, a blanket, my chair. Oh, and a sweet little kitten who is waiting for a snug comfortable lap.
Oh, I can see it! My cozy house, a light a lite. So I skip up to the door, pull out my keys, and get in quickly before I continue to freeze.
The grey kitten stands at the top of the stairs with a mutt by her side. He lets out several barks as his butt starts to fly, back and forth so fast he falls, then stands up.
I try not to laugh as I take off my coat, gloves, and hat.
Those two are a hoot. A comedy act and I’m ready to settle in for the night with that.

Angela K. Crandall



I’ve been away typing.





Wondering if the outcome will be




Into illusions in heads bringing them to life.

Will you feel every fear she faces, hope, needs, or desire?

How about welcoming these strange events with open arms?

Or will you toss the book aside wondering why you started at all?

Will you be appalled or fall in love with the main characters wishes?

These are my questions I ask myself as I write what’s inside, put it all down, daring to be the writer I wish to be.

Angela K. Crandall