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Balance At the Barre Between Two Couplets, 1975-1988 The core of balance, strong and deep Secrets that the barre would keep. I learned the lesson there in youth A steady, undeniable truth. The metal rail felt cool beneath my fingers, a cold, firm contract with gravity. It wasn't just the height of the leg in the battement, or the perfect angle of the arabesque. It was the mental discipline of the tendu, pushing the foot out a thousand times until it was effortless; the unwave

Nativity, at Night, A Christmas Poem  Inspired by the Art of the Same Title of Geertgen tot Sint Jans, 1490 (Written for a poetry contest) Dedicated to Dana Adkerson Beneath a Northern star, his life cut short,  Geertgen tot Sint Jans, of Netherlandish sort.  An oak wood sheet, his genius would proclaim,  He built his Christmas mystery for fame.  Inspired by faith, the artist sought to spread  The holy words that Saint Bridget had said.  She saw a light no earthly sun could

La Pietà: A Villanelle for Good Friday, 2018 By Anne Hendricks, M.Ed. and Edited by John T. Hendricks, Ph.D.  (In Style of Dylan Thomas) The marble breathes a mother’s heavy grace, To hold the silent Word upon her knee. The light of Easter hides its morning face. No lines of anguish mar his quiet face, From every debt of soul and flesh set free. The marble breathes a mother’s heavy grace. She keeps her station in this hollow space, A monument to love’s dark decree. The light

What is a pangram? A pangram is a sentence that contains every letter of the alphabet at least once. Pangrams are often used in typography, calligraphy, and testing fonts, as they provide a comprehensive representation of the alphabet. What is an example of a pangram? An example of a well-known pangram is: "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog." This sentence includes all 26 letters of the English alphabet. The cozy, fluffy Easter bunny jumped over six quick, waxed

Easter Sunday in the Deep South has long been a day of tradition, family gatherings, and, notably, the wearing of special dresses. These dresses are more than just clothing; they represent cultural values, social status, and personal memories. Reflecting on my own childhood in the 1970s and observing how Easter dresses have changed over the decades reveals a fascinating story of fashion, identity, and community in this unique region. The 1970s: Classic Elegance and Tradition

The morning light fell soft and still, Upon the stone and window sill. A sudden brightness filled the room, To chase away the quiet gloom. An angel stood with wings of white, Reflecting God’s eternal light. He spoke a word of grace and love, Sent down from holy realms above. Though startled by the heavenly guest, She felt a sense of peace in her chest. "Behold the handmaid," Mary said, A s golden rays shone round her head. With a gentle heart, she gave her vow, To which the

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” — Matthew 6:34 (New King James Version) In the quiet of my study in Corinth, Mississippi, these words are not merely a suggestion; they are a retaining wall. The silence in this house has a physical weight, the pressurized echo chamber of a modern sociological craze that has redefined the American family's landscape. I am the mother of an only adul

March arrives on whispered rain, A silver hush on field and lane. She lifts the frost from brittle ground, And scatters green where none was found. Soft winds untie the winter’s seam, And wake the buds from fragile dream. O March, step in with gentle light Unfold the day, grow longer night. #March #Spring

For Farah Pahlavi, crowned once in Persia’s light, Now walks in exile’s tender night. From Tehran’s rose and mountain air, To distant shores of grief and prayer. She mourned Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, her sovereign, lost to pain, As cancer’s shadow fell like rain. A daughter, Leila Pahlavi, fragile as a broken dove, And Ali-Reza Pahlavi, both claimed by sorrow none could shove. Her children raised on foreign land, With borrowed tongue and trembling hand, Far from the call of home

For Farah Pahlavi, cowned once in Persia’s light, Now walks in exile’s tender night. From Tehran’s rose and mountain air, To distant shores of grief and prayer. She mourned Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, her sovereign, lost to pain, As cancer’s shadow fell like rain. A daughter, Leila Pahlavi, fragile as a broken dove, And Ali-Reza Pahlavi, both claimed by sorrow none could shove. Her children raised on foreign land, With borrowed tongue and trembling hand, Far from the call of homel

From 1979 to 2023 I lived in Griffin, Georgia and never belonged. Forty-four years is long enough to raise children, to memorize the turn of every street, to know which pecan tree drops first in October and which church lets out earliest on Sunday. Long enough to bury a dog, to plant azaleas twice, to learn the rhythm of cicadas and the red dust that settles on porch rails no matter how often you wipe it away. Long enough to be known. And yet— I was always slightly mis-shelve

I never imagined that I could fall in love with a dog. I always embraced the idea that dogs drooled and cats ruled. The house was quiet. Mr. Popcorn, my tabby, had passed a few weeks ago, and I still felt the hollow ache of his absence.  Fifteen years.  Fifteen years of soft purrs, dough making, and the quiet companionship that no human ever quite matched. He had been there before marriage, curled up on the sofa while I studied in grad school, his warm body a comfort against

Daughter of the poet, the bard of mountain folk, I read the work he left behind inked ghosts breathing through my hands. Editor, poetess, archivist of his soul, I bound his voice in amber so time could not erase him, so Henry might someday hear him. His name is a cathedral; mine, a whisper caught in the pews. I edited his thunder, while my own voice starved in the margins. How does a daughter sing when her father’s song still fills the valley, when every echo answers in his n

Somnolent. In the soft descent of lids unto cheeks, in the body’s yielding to the hush of bone and breath, I reach for the arms of Morpheus as one reaches for a grave’s cool earth— not in despair, but in aching need. The night will not have me. It keeps me pacing like a restless tenant in a house lined with ghosts, each corridor echoing with old names, old loves that never learned how to die. Insomnia calls me out upon the moors, where grief roams feral and barefoot, crying H

Daffodils peek, butter bright, February whispers winter’s bite. Sunlight teases, warms the ground, Then frost returns without a sound. Tender shoots in yellow cheer, Hesitate: Spring is not yet here. Copyright Anne Hendricks, M.Ed. #Meccanjourney #spring #winter #poems

The Little White House, Warm Springs, Georgia – April 1945 The air smelled of pine and damp earth. Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd stood at the window, watching the afternoon light settle over the Georgia hills. , Inside the small cottage was quiet except for the faint scratch of a paintbrush on canvas and the slow, labored breathing from the wheelchair beside the fireplace. Franklin Delano Roosevelt smiled at her, though his face looked thinner than ever. “Don’t fuss,” he said. “You

The woman came to Millhaven when the river began to rot. That was how folks described late August, when the Chattahoochee thickened and slowed, and the cypress knees rose like knuckles of the dead. Her name was Clara Beauregard Finch, and she was seventy-eight years old, dressed always in mourning black though no one could remember the last funeral she’d attended. She was still beautiful, even in mourning garb, with her white hair long. Whispers of blonde could still be seen

Virginia Hill came into the world under a Georgia sun that burned mercy out of the soil. Her mother washed clothes for white families, bending over tubs until her back curved like a question mark. Men came and went, but none stayed long enough to leave a name worth remembering. “Ginny,” her mother said one afternoon, wringing out a shirt, “you got two choices in this world. Scrub, or sell.” Virginia watched the water drip from the cotton. “I’ll sell,” she said softly. “But I

Derby, 1556 Joan Waste had never known color. To her, the world was a tapestry woven of sound, scent, and texture. She knew her mother’s face by the unique warmth of her palms; she knew her father’s presence by the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots on the floorboards. The church bells were her sunrise and her sunset, marking the boundaries of a world she navigated by grace. They called her "poor Joan," but she did not feel poor. She felt chosen. While others squinted at ink a

She said yes on Valentine’s Day and regretted it by morning. The regret came with daylight and the smell of burnt coffee. It came with the quiet side of the bed and the faint indentation of David Harper’s dog tags on her collarbone, like a bruise shaped by memory. He had shown up on her porch in uniform, February cold clinging to him like the war already had. He was leaner than she remembered, eyes older, smile the same reckless thing that had ruined her once before. “Just co