Monday 31 August 2020

always, always freedom: a found poem
                        the life of maya angelou

by Sister Lou Ella Hickman

and origin st. louis
not yet eight years old  
five arkansas years
her nomadic journey
a litany:
 1940  san francisco
 a cocktail waitress  a prostitute
 madam  a cook   and a dancer
1944 a son
late 1950’s new york   
harlem’s writers guild
porgy and bess 
studied danced with martha graham
cairo  later ghana
 california  again   a feature film
(one of the first african american women)
roots   poetic justice  how to make an American quilt
down to the delta
her life: maya angelou and still i rise
poetry volumes  “On the Pulse of Morning”     professor
medal of freedom

always   always   freedom  the caged bird sang

Taken from “Maya Angelou: American poet, memoirist, and actress” Encyclopedia Britannic online.

* * * * *

Sister Lou Ella Hickman’s poems and articles have appeared in numerous magazines and journals as well as four anthologies. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017. Her first book of poetry entitled she: robed and wordless was published in 2015 (Press 53).

Sunday 30 August 2020

The Art of Falling

by Julia Wendell

Come off a horse enough times,
and you learn how to fall—
as it is with snow, rain or love,
all goose-down, no elbows.
The horse spooks at a leaf, knocking
you sideways, saddle slipping—
and well, you’re going down again.
Relax, you’ll get used to it.
Relax, you say to the lobster,
just before plopping him
into the roiling pot.
Relax, you say to a friend,

on the eve of another bender.
You say it to yourself,
when falling off a barn ledge
onto the concrete shed row floor.

It’s easy to imagine
a soft landing.
But when your mother sinks

into her pillow in her final hour,
she knows she’s not falling with grace.
Blah, blah, blah, she mouths,

flicking the back of her needle-bruised hand,
as if to brush away a gnat,
as the priest lowers his head

to trace the thumbprint of oil,
first up and down, then sideways,
on her glistening forehead.

* * * * *

"The Art of Falling" originally appeared in Poet Lore.

Julia Wendell's memoir, Come to the X, has recently been published by Galileo Press. Her most recent book of poems is Take This Spoon. Her poems have been widely published in such places as American Poetry Review, Nimrod, Prairie Schooner, Crazyhorse, The Missouri Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Aiken, South Carolina, and is a three-day event rider.

Saturday 29 August 2020

God’s Waiting Room

by Catherine Arra

When I retire and move to Florida
I’m going to float on two neon pool tubes, visor in place,
towel securely clipped to lounge.

I’ll say,

Hey, whatta bout those poor slobs up there in New York
& Jersey buried up to their asses, 4 degrees
Geez almighty, do we have the life or what?

I’m going to set the weather app
to Chicago, Detroit, Buffalo. Ha!

I’m going to sniff out early bird specials
and say,

Whatta meal, I have to tell ya. That cup of soup, I mean,
more like a bowl
or you can get a nice salad, always fresh an
a choice of entrée with three sides, not the usual two,
dessert, coffee
oh, an yeah, a drink, yeah, a real bar drink
an all for 9.99. 
You believe it? Was outta this world, let me tell ya,
an I’m tellin ya, that steak, it just melted in my mouth
an the wife
she had the tilapia—nice an fresh, she said, grilled just so
not all dried out.

When I retire and move to Florida
I’m going to have it my way.

Whatta life, I’m tellin ya.
Worked 40 stinkin years for this.

Nah, an I ain’t gonna notice your little baby lizard
sunnin on the terrace
an I didn’t feel bad when I took off the end of its tail—
I mean, what the hell—it was an accident.

An I don’t give a frig about that bird noise,
oh excuse me … songs.
Just close the damn door.
Whatta ya always talkin at me about the sun risin an’ fallin
makin the edges of livin an dyin?

For Chrissake, go write a poem or somethin.

Me, I’ll just wait here for the old reaper, enjoyin myself,
an when the bastard shows up, I ain’t gonna give him
the right time of day neither.

* * * * *

"God's Waiting Room" was originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review and is part of Catherine Arra's poetry collection (Women in Parentheses) (Kelsay Books, 2019)

Catherine Arra is the author of (Women in Parentheses) (Kelsay Books, 2019), Writing in the Ether (Dos Madres Press, 2018), and four chapbooks, the latest being Her Landscape, Poems Based on the Life of Mileva Marić Einstein (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her poetry and prose have appeared in numerous journals online and in print, and in several anthologies. Arra is a native of the Hudson Valley in upstate New York, where she teaches part-time and facilitates local writing groups. Find her at

Friday 28 August 2020

After Divorce

by Catherine Arra

A new narrative
without labels, husband—wife.

A flooded washout
no ownership
claims, entitlements
polarized showdowns
walk twelve paces, turn-draw-shoot.
Muddy waters settle.
Capes, masks, and superheroes
return to Marvel Land.
Barbie and Ken
to the cardboard box.
Mommy and Daddy
to their beds
out of ours.
We’re walking
a trestle bridge
above the old canal town
where water and tracks cross.

* * * * *

"After Divorce" is from Catherine Arra's poetry collection (Women in Parentheses) (Kelsay Books, 2019).

Catherine Arra is the author of (Women in Parentheses) (Kelsay Books, 2019), Writing in the Ether (Dos Madres Press, 2018), and four chapbooks, the latest being Her Landscape, Poems Based on the Life of Mileva Marić Einstein (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her poetry and prose have appeared in numerous journals online and in print, and in several anthologies. Arra is a native of the Hudson Valley in upstate New York, where she teaches part-time and facilitates local writing groups. Find her at

Thursday 27 August 2020

Say Her Name

by Kathleen Murphey

Black Lives Matter,
George Floyd was murdered at the hands of police,
the video of his death forcing Americans to see
systemic racism in brutal detail.
Floyd is the latest of too many Black boys and men killed.

But lest we forget, Black women suffer too:
poverty, rape, abuse, murder, discrimination,
incarceration, and so much more.
They too die at the hands of the police,
but we rarely hear about that:
            Danette Daniels (1997),

            LaTanya Haggerty (1999),

            Kendra James (2003),

            Kathryn Johnson (2006),

            Shelly Frey (2012),

            Shantell Davis (2012),

            Malissa Williams (2012),

            Miriam Carey (2013),

            Gabriella Nevarez (2014),

            Aura Rosser (2014),

            Michelle Cusseaux (2014),

            Tanisha Anderson (2014),

            Alix Christian (2015),

            Meagan Hockaday (2015),

            Mya Hall (2015),

            Janisha Fonivilie (2015),

            Natasha McKenna (2015),

            Eleanor Bumpurs (2015),

            Tyisha Miller (2015),

            LaTanya Haggerty (2015),

            Margaret Mitchell (2015),

            Kayla Mooae (2015),

            Tarkia Wilson (2015),

            Sandra Bland (2015),

            and Breonna Taylor (2020),

the latest in too long of a list.

A list that doesn’t include Black trans women killed by civilians,
            like Riah Milton and Dominique “Rem’mie” Fells and
            Monika Diamond and Pebbles LaDime Doe and too many others,
            all who should have the opportunity to live past thirty-five.

Acknowledge the pain.


* * * * *

Kathleen Murphey is an Associate Professor at Community College of Philadelphia. She had her first play performed as part the Philadelphia Fringe Festival, P Pan and Beyondland, with performances at the German Society of Pennsylvania on Saturday September 15th and Sunday September 16th, 2018. More information about her and the play can be found at her Website,

Wednesday 26 August 2020

The Coat 

by Pat LaPointe

See this coat. When is it worn?  Is it the only coat? It can be worn for Sunday services? Is it good enough? It can be worn in the rain. How does it look when it’s wet? It takes too long to dry. See the buttons. They get loose when they catch on the car door. It’s too hot to wear it in the car. Why not wear a different coat? Why wear a coat at all?

See the homeless woman. Her coat; the stains, the tears and no buttons. Was she always homeless? Does she sleep on that box?  Does she have food? Did she ever have a job? What kind of job did she have? Did she ever have a house? Where did she live? Why isn’t she there any longer? Did she have children? Are her children looking for her? Does she sleep in that coat? Is it warm enough for her? Why doesn’t someone give her a coat? Should you give her yours? Then what would you wear? You have more coats.

See the coat. It rained the day of the wake. It didn’t get very wet. It was cold. It had to be kept on. She didn’t like this coat. Should you apologize for wearing it? She won’t hear you. You should say it. Now you can have one of her coats, maybe the dark one. So much darker than this tan coat. Would she be mad that you took it? She hardly wore it. It was for special occasions. Can you wear it now, just anytime you want? It’s very clean. Your coat has tears and makeup stains where they all hugged you and cried for her. She can’t hear them. Shouldn’t they be crying for you?

A girl had coats but wanted a new one. The one she wore most was not good enough any longer. She took it off at Burlington Factory and laid in over a rack. There were so many racks she perused. Would she remember where it was left? Five racks, ten racks until: “Yes, this is it! This is the best.” Where was the coat she came in with? There it was! A woman was nearing the exit with it in her arms. Her hair was ratted, her clothes soiled and meant for a warmer season. She wasn’t wearing a coat. Did she have a coat? Did she need that coat?  The girl looked the other way. She didn’t want the woman to see her. The woman rushed out the door. The girl wore her new coat home.

Is it ever just a coat? Isn’t there always a story of where it’s been? Would you tell it to the one who now has it? Do you think she would care? Would she think you wanted it back? Could you blame her? Everything she’s ever owned has been lost or taken away. You have many coats. There are others that are cold. You can give more. They are only coats you have. You can only choose to wear one at a time. They have no choice. Not for which coat to wear or anything else in their lives.

* * * * *

Pat LaPointe is the editor of the Changes In Life monthly newsletter for women. She facilitates women’s writing groups online and on site. Her anthology of women’s stories, The Woman I’ve Become: 37 Women Share Their Journey from Toxic Relationships to Self-Empowerment, was published in 2012.

Tuesday 25 August 2020

Palm of My Hand         

by Nina Rubinstein Alonso
In the hotel corridor Miguel notices a sign by an open door, gold letters with a curlicue border, “Palm Readings, Pandit Sharma.” We see a man at a mahogany desk, dark eyes behind thick lenses labeling us strangers. He glances at his Rolex then gestures toward high-backed chairs. 

“We’re leaving Delhi soon, but if there’s an opening?  My mother knew a London palmist.” 

Mr. Sharma writes his fee on a business card, and Miguel nods accepting a slot Thursday afternoon.

I’ve heard the story, never sure what to make of it. “What are you doing?”

“Leah, my mother’s palmist predicted she would meet a non-Brit, travel ‘across the great water,’ have four sons. She married her Spanish professor, moved to Argentina, gave birth to four boys, fled Peron, reached London, then the States. Meditation isn’t the only path.”

“But this palm reading path is paved with rupees.” We’ve been together for years, and Miguel’s usually skeptical. 

The Delhi Emporium displays beautiful handmade things. We buy an inlaid box, two small rugs and a carved elephant, then rickshaw through a maze of scooters, cars, bullock carts and over-loaded bicycles to the zoo. There’s a white tiger, Asian elephants, Indian rhinos, emus, and we wander until smog-heavy heat flattens us. Monkeys are everywhere, inside and outside the zoo, in trees, on the hotel roof.

Back in our room Miguel’s sipping chilled tonic water, smoking a joint procured somewhere in the hotel. At the ashram in Shahjahanpur there was no ice, no tonic water, no ganja. I came to India to meditate with Babuji, but now we’re tourists visiting the Red Fort, museums, temples, The Taj Mahal, dodging street vendors and pickpockets.

While he smokes I go downstairs to hotel shops— jewelry, shawls, saris— impulsively buy another salwar kameez, pink with apricot embroidery, not wanting to leave India, nervous about meeting the palmist.

Mr. Sharma’s magnifying glass hovers above my left palm, counts creases on the outside of my fist. “At least one child.” 

“Fertility problems but we hope to adopt.” His words sting, years of doctor visits, test after disappointing test.

“I teach ballet,” I say, which he ignores.

“Your career line shows several types of work, sometimes more of one, sometimes more of another.” He almost says something else, but changes his mind and shifts his magnifying glass to Miguel’s right hand and says, “Chemicals, chemicals.”

I think of the ganja, the cigarettes, the wine, the drugs he’s experimented with, while Miguel soaks it up, quasi-hypnotized. 

“Only one wife,” Mr. Sharma adds, noting Miguel makes friends easily but struggles to find direction in life, elastic topics that fit many hands.

I say, “I came to India for meditation, but you never mentioned that.”

“Yes, spirituality is strong in your hand, but I didn’t want to emphasize it because you’re young and too much meditation can pull you from the physical world, even make you hate sex.” Mr. Sharma’s expression is serious, but I’m wondering what he’s choosing or omitting. Is he merely a nimble fraud uttering impressive phrases? Our sex life happens to be good, dammit.

And what did he mean ‘only one wife?’ He didn’t say I’d have only one husband. Is he implying I’ll outlive Miguel, marry again? My thoughts are so tangled I miss his last words.

“Gives me plenty to think about. Thanks,” as Miguel counts rupees into Mr. Sharma’s hand.

Whatever it was, it’s over.

We’re at the hotel’s roof-top restaurant, Ming Palace, pink tablecloths, coiled pink glass bangles garlanding the ceiling. Miguel’s smiling as if he’s seen a good movie. 

“Couldn’t believe it when he said ‘chemicals, chemicals!’”

“Maybe he smelled the pot you’ve been smoking?”  I’d like to cancel the idea anything visionary happened. Miguel’s sipping Rosy Pelican beer, nothing like a man who’s heard a death sentence.

As the waiter sets down platters, I remember meeting a man who saw the Palm Leaf Oracle.

“Predicted I’d divorce, live apart from my son, move to another country, return to the States and start a new business. I forgot everything, even when my marriage came apart, my son stayed with my wife, and I moved to Munich for work. Only found the notes before returning to the States, maddening because I couldn’t see where anything was going. Might as well give an encyclopedia to a baby.”

“You’re blaming the oracle?”

“Not about blaming, just blundering because predictions are disconnected, incomprehensible.”

“Something wrong?”  Miguel notices my blank stare.

“Last year at a seminar a man talked about the Palm Leaf Oracle in Chennai, forgot what he was told, later realized everything happened as predicted.”  I’m picking up a green pea pod with my chopsticks.

“Doesn’t mean our reading won’t help us.” Miguel’s sipping his beer. 

“How can it help to be told you’ll have only one wife?”

“Well, if I lose you, I won’t remarry.” He leans close and kisses my cheek.

“Lose me? I thought he meant I’d lose you.” The flip of meaning stops me cold.

“Well, guess you could see it that way. Think you’d marry again? Maybe we’ll appreciate each other more, knowing the possibilities. Doesn’t mean either of us will croak next week.”

I drop my chopsticks, rush to the bathroom, puke in the pink marble sink, run water to clear the mess, but can’t clean fear. I’m ghostly in the mirror, fried in psychic hot oil, but where does it lead? Whose death sentence? Mine? Miguel’s? Why obsess about the future, the ultimate lock box with no password? At the table, I pick up my chopsticks, try to focus on ‘now.’

Miguel’s in the shower when the phone rings, a close friend on her way to the ashram.

“Uma, I need to talk. I could rickshaw to your hotel?”

“No time, Leah. Leaving soon to catch a train. What’s the matter?”

“Miguel wasn’t into meditation, then wanted a reading with the palmist at the hotel.”

“I have friends who consult astrologers and psychics, seek messages from spirits. But what about interpretations and predictions? Who to trust or believe? Not someone who charges thousands of rupees,” Uma sighs.

“I met a man who saw the Palm Leaf Oracle, forgot what he was told, but insists everything happened as predicted, and what about Miguel’s mother’s reading? He says it all happened.”

“Well, I’ve heard this sort of thing a lot, Leah. Better avoid astrologers and fortune tellers, in business to make money, want you running back for the next prediction. It’s a product, purchase and sale. Writing Guruji may help.”

“I shouldn’t have gone.”

“But you did. Got to catch a train, but I’ll call when I’m back. Don’t fret over it too much.”

Miguel comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy white towel, dark hair dripping, and I kiss his freshly shaved, handsome cheek.

“You’ll get your new outfit all soggy,” he says. 

“It comes off.”

In bed we pull into deep honey, though for a moment I wonder, ‘Why now?’ But I love him, I just love him.

For the trip home I wear a black t-shirt and jeans as my Indian clothes feel too bright for the long flight to London and the gray hours of lay-over before boarding again. I pack my bangles so they won’t trigger airport sensors or get lost in the security shuffle.                                        

Buckled in, I can’t relax, can’t read. Miguel sips beer, puts on ear-phones and falls asleep watching a western shoot-em-up, images flashing across the screen, bodies falling off galloping horses. I try to meditate but get distracted by the steward rattling trays and glasses, lights snapping on and off, a baby wailing, drunk men guffawing.

Change is all we’ve got, birds taking off, waves breaking on the shore. I lean on Miguel’s shoulder, close my eyes, sleep.

Months later our packages from Delhi Emporium arrive safely, but Miguel’s been complaining of back pain. The first doctor says it’s pulled muscles and advises therapeutic exercise, then a chiropractor tries adjustments. The next doctor runs tests and discovers ‘atypical’ lung cancer, leading to rounds of chemo and radiation. Though we’ve completed a home study for adoption, we’re forced to cancel. I’m hoping for a cure because he’s so young, but nothing works, three years repeating cycles of pain, fear, disappointment.

On a sunny day, July 18th, my darling Miguel stops breathing in the blankness of a Boston hospital. I’m with his brothers and elderly mother who says I’ve taken ‘magnificent,’ care of her youngest son. But he’s dead.

As the doctor pulls the sheet over his face and pats my shoulder, I notice the bedside photo of Babuji is gone. Someone stole spiritual comfort from a dying man, sickeningly common hospital theft. My nephew Marc drives me to my apartment, keeping up a stream of talk, but I’m silent, wounded, hollowed out by grief and loss.  

The Delhi palmist?  Forgotten. Months pass before I open the closet where Miguel’s jackets are hanging, find postcards from the Taj Mahal we never got around to sending, my journal and Babuji’s letters on thin blue airmail paper. I sit on the floor crying as I read what he wrote about palmists and astrologers:

“Mind is only confused by so-called oracles, mere charlatans preying upon the vulnerable. No one knows the number of their days,” signed with love and prayers.

My mother-in-law’s palmist story was baffling, but supposedly true. And, though forewarned, I forgot the palmist’s predictions even as the dark sword lifted and fell.

Much happened as predicted. He’d have only one wife, me, and, yes, chemicals and more chemicals, but were these merely chance arrows hitting the target? The palmist touched some topics precisely, others ripple like multiplying mirrors.

‘Mind is only confused by these so-called oracles,’ unless we give up trying to understand, stop trying to ‘solve.’

The carved elephant we bought in Delhi is on my desk, and maybe sometime I’ll reread my journal. Can’t yet.

Uma was with me when I sprinkled Miguel’s ashes by a granite boulder under a huge oak.

Whatever people want to believe, there’s no such thing as ‘closure.’ Miguel is permanently part of me, though his death left me blank empty, surviving mechanically.

In a few months I’m going back to India, but no palmists, no oracles, no predictions.

* * * * *

Nina Rubinstein Alonso’s poetry has appeared in Ploughshares, The New Yorker, Ibbetson Street, U. Mass. Review, New Boston Review, Constant Remembrance, MomEgg, Sumac, Cambridge Artists Cooperative, American Poetry Review, Bagel Bards Anthology, Black Poppy Review, etc.  Her stories were in Southern Women’s Review, Tears and Laughter, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Broadkill Review, Peacock Literary Review, etc. David Godine Press published her book This Body, and her chapbook Riot Wake is upcoming from Cervena Barva Press. She says, “Palm of My Hand emerged from mystifying experiences in India.”

Monday 24 August 2020


by Tina Barry

We recognize our father,
even with his edges blurred,
and the baritone that once curled

around our names, lost
in the hush 
of the hospital’s language.

He’s comfortable, the nurse tells us,
pointing to the bag of elixir,
that, drop by drop, ushers him from this life.

Remember? My sister wonders later,
after coffee, after sharing what little
of him we have to share. 

Who could forget the phone call
from his mistress, mother snoring
in flannel beside him.

A single blip at 2 a.m., snatched
from the receiver, a siren
in the silence between our twin beds. 

I had covered the mouthpiece with my palm
as we listened, expecting,
even then, the dark rumble of death.

* * * * *

Tina Barry is the author of Beautiful Raft (Big Table Publishing 2019) and Mall Flower (Big Table Publishing, 2016). Tina’s poems and fiction have appeared in numerous literary publications such as The Best Small Fictions (2020 and 2016), Drunken BoatConnotation Press, The American Poetry JournalNasty Women Poets: An Anthology of Subversive Verse and A Constellation of Kisses. Tina is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and has several Best of the Net nods. She is a teaching artist at The Poetry Barn, Gemini Ink, and

Sunday 23 August 2020

Blossoms from the Azalea

by Christine Terp Madsen

It started the day you died,
this awful ransacking of your life.
Your daughters needed your will, your wedding ring.
We pull through your drawers and cupboards,
to find our lives entwined with yours.
I stare forever at the rows of thread,
the others rustle hangers and forks.
We strip the bed of your sheets,
decide who wants the chairs, your piano,
who fits your clothing.
For years I worry of breaking one
by one these kitchen dishes now mine—
my terror of losing the memory.

We are intruding.
We are tearing apart
the careful package of your home,
carrying it away in little parcels,
thinking to keep you close.
Can you forgive us crying
in these rooms for the last time?

I will return in the spring
for blossoms from the azalea.
Who can package the smell of these rooms
or the cracks in the front stoop?
Here is your wedding picture, here is
your brother at twenty, me an infant,
here you stand with your teenage daughter.
Your life is young and old and gone all today.

* * * * *

Christine Terp Madsen is a writer and editor. She has written a novel and a memoir, both unpublished, and had short stories and poetry published in eight different magazines. She lives with her spouse and their son in Moretown, Vermont.

Saturday 22 August 2020

The Fiercely Rising Woman

by Aimee DuFresne 

For the woman who wears a smile on her lips and has found genuine joy even in the mist of great despair and heartache.

Her lips release words of love and kindness when she senses someone's suffering and offers salve to their soul.

Her heart has shattered open but she still believes in beauty and light, even when she is surrounded by darkness.

She who holds hope in her heart, no matter how tiny a thread, the glimmer of this shred she holds sacred.

Her laughter shakes the seeds of pain from taking root in her soul.

The woman who walks into any room and lights it up with her inner glow, making heads turn and hearts shift to a higher vibration.

To the woman who has been beaten down by harsh words, inexcusable actions, or indescribable fears. Yet refused to remain down. Instead she stood up, stronger. She erected boundaries, at first in a struggle for safety, but soon within its confines she would create her new kingdom.

Digging her feet in, finding her foundation and moving forward with greater grace and ease, releasing the struggle as she allowed Spirit to run through her veins and gather the pieces of her shattered heart, making it sparkle brighter than ever before.

The woman who opened that shattered sparkling brightness to choose love over fear. Progress over pain. Passion over perfection.

The woman that is you.

Perhaps you think I’m not talking to you. Rather the reference is to your soul sister, your fearless friend, that other woman. The one you yearn to be but feel hopeless to attain.

Your kingdom is in ashes. Your heart is heavy. Your vibration flatlined.

My darling, that is all part of the journey. Rain and rainbows. Love and loss. Joy and pain. Each co-exist.

Where you are now is crucial. It is taking you where you most want, and need to be.

Your heart will shatter. Transform the scars to shine like diamonds, radiating sparkles from the depth of your being to shine out into the world.

You will lose at times. Friends, lovers, people, pets. You might endure deaths, divorces…loss of health, wealth, and sense of self.

Allow the loss, feel it fully, and let it lead you to the place deep within your soul that knows the truth. You are infinite. Love is infinite. Life is infinite. Loss is only an illusion.

Feel your feelings, dive in deeply. Allow anger, resentment, grief, fear, loneliness, hopelessness rush through your veins, igniting your cells. Stay with it, not leaving it to seek shelter while it embeds in your soul. Stay with it, as it courses through you, at last releasing.

Leaving you empty. Open to possibilities.

Fall back to love, strengthen your soul.

And rise, rise, realizing the army of love that surrounds you.

For you, yes you, are a fiercely rising woman.

And when that realization sweeps over you, and only then, is when the emptiness is filled. Overflowing. Cascading light, laughter, joy, and love, run through you, each cell igniting the next.

You have arrived.

And when eyes of the grief-stricken girl look up to you in awe, you lean down and whisper gently in her ear. And the gift shall be hers too.

* * * * *

"The Fiercely Rising Woman" was first published by Rebelle Society January 9th, 2016 

Aimee DuFresne is an avid storyteller, experienced speaker, and author of Keep Going: From Grief to Growth. She follows the creative inspiration within, pairing it with coffee in the morning, wine at night, and has a fierce determination to uncover joy in this wild life.

Her writing has been published in various online and print publications including Rebelle Society, MindBodyGreen, and the Chicken Soup for the Soul series (The Joy of Less and The Empowered Woman), in addition to making guest expert appearances on a variety of podcasts, radio and television programs.