A feeble attempt at poetry — I walk that fine line between soccer mom and trophy wife. And it makes me wonder why life doesn’t come with its own how-to manual or tutorial or maybe an unabridged playbook for the formerly single, slightly misguided female. Thank you to the editors of The Daily Cuppa. It is a welcome oasis for readers and writers. A special note to editor Katie Michaelson, you are a beam of sunshine and a breath of fresh air, along with all the wonderful editors and contributors at the The Daily Cuppa.

Micro-Poetry — I’ve been told it’s a far better life as a minimalist to downsize despite outcries from a hoarder who has double fisted everything, even string to save just in case for a rainy day that never comes, despite the downpours. © Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry — decibels ring like white noise listen He has selective hearing or should I say listening? I know sign language and with one flick of the wrist he knows exactly what I mean. © Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry — There are always choices options alternate routes to the desired destination. There are escalators turnstiles roadblocks mayo hold the mayo sugar equal tequila but the morning holds but one sunrise and the evening, one sunset and one crusty moon in a distant sky, and the world spins as if it had no choice…

Poetry — We live in two different worlds glass houses broken into We shop along the avenue blurry mirrors, pristine walls with wainscoting in the halls You don’t quite understand me and I don’t know you from Adam, please tell what does that mean? are we connected with an apple or some fig leaves…

Poetry — First, he told me he loved me. Then, he hid the sun, the moon and the stars. Perplexed, still, I patched the holes in his socks and shined his shoes to make them look brand new. He told me there was no other who could care for him through thick and thin, good…