Showing posts from September, 2020


 By Rudyard Kipling Editor's note: Sometimes we will not have creative works available for our weekly post. Thus, we will occasionally choose creative works in the Public Domain that have impressed someone on the editorial staff and can add to the immersive nature and spirit of The Pensieve.  We consider the following poem to be simultaneously vivid, inspirational, and accessible, making it a fantastic introduction to the power poetry can have upon a reader. In this particular poem, Kipling focuses on becoming, especially in giving good advice to children. Although he ends with a male reference, it clearly can be good advice to daughters too. It seems like in this recent age of divisiveness, Kipling's words can again bring comfort that we are on the right path.  If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by wait

On House and Home

By Kelly McDonald There are now 33 of us, in seven families—17 females and 16 males—of all ages. There are also four dogs residing among the families. When we all come together at our house, the family home, it is both exhausting and exhilarating. A dozen different conversations and interactions all play out at the same time. Little girls whisper and giggle to each other as they run about the house, asking grandma if they could peek into her workroom full of dolls and stuffed animals. Boys roughhouse and play, running about, kicking a ball that mysteriously appears, nearly knocking a hole in the back fence. I grit my teeth as I struggle to keep from uttering a harsh response. Our children and their spouses gather and gab with their siblings as the grandchildren’s dynamics play out around them. Beverly moves from family to family, catching up on the lives of each member. I stumble about the crowd, finally settling into loading the dishwasher after dinner. We built this house twenty-seve

Creation Story

 By Maren Loveland           He makes the light and the great old ocean and the Word, but I have the dirt, the ground, the chthonic underbelly, and sustenance of all. I have the jewel-toned beetles and cavern cathedrals and the slick blesmols, the translucent jellyfish, and the elegant otherworldly bats. The velutinous darkness I see when I close my eyes and look out is what I make: that moment of descending into something unknown, with limitless possibility. Black calla lilies, thick root webs, lithe olms, young coyotes with protruding rib cages.            But before I make the earth, I try to enjoy this night and remember my sliver of time before the hard work of creation. The time of loving, and crying, and walking through snow floating down like tiny newborn stars. The time of waking up to the bright marmalade sunrise shining through the bathroom window and whispering to the daytime moon. I was a lover eating rabbit stew, wondering how I could rupture so violently, so completely,

News Radio

By Elizabeth Smith The highway roars. The seat belts flap. I push my head against its rest and listen to an alto voice announce among the rush: “A Beirut burst has smoked up buildings—threw all glass to mist and lives to rubble. Sky rains ashes over mountain pines. A sick man enters clinic, maims his doctor by machete, hammers in the skull.” I pick left lane. I brake and turn. The corner sign displays red spray paint, “I can’t breath.” I miss red marks on spelling quizzes. Reporter times out, “That’s your world this hour.” Speaker is off. Welcome, peace. My backseat baby coos. This hour, my world is fine blue sunshine views.