By Ronda Simmons There once was a writer with Block Who needed to stop and take stock. Her prose was a mess, Her nerves were in stress, She wanted to hide in a rock. She reread her draft with disgust. Her literary dreams dashed to dust.
by David E Sharp My children can argue about anything. Sudden shouts rise through the house to alert the family that a disagreement has reared its ugly head. My job is to intervene before violence erupts. In theory, I want to give them a chance to work things out on their own.