Poems and Stories by M. Bernstein

                 The wind howled a mournful cry across The Whispering Ashlands, a desolate wasteland that stretched further than any eye could see. Dust devils danced like restless spirits, kicking up grit that stung my face. My enchanted cloak, usually a comfort, offered little solace against the biting wind. It shifted subtly, mirroring the bleak grey landscape, a testament to the futility of color in this forsaken place.                 I, Seraphina, hunter of things that creep in the shadows, followed the heat. Not literal heat, but the thrumming warmth emanating from the amulet nestled beneath my black leather armor. The Iro, they called it, a relic passed down through generations of my family, a beacon that burned hotter as I neared my quarry. And now, after months of relentless pursuit, it felt like a miniature sun against my chest.     ...

I was starving when we met. Starving to be seen,      Starving to be heard,             to be touched.   I was starving to be happy, Starving to laugh, Starving for joy,              to be a woman. I was starving for light, Starving to be free, Starving to escape,              to be myself. Then the wind blew the door open, Tearing down the curtains, Blinding me with light,              hope returning. You saw me.              You heard me.                          I laughed and felt joy. Then you came to me, When I struggled. My mind saying one thing,       my heart another. You reached for me, Pulling me even further from darkness. Your touch so gentle,              and lov...

As I gaze at my hands, I see my mother's hands from when I was young. The same hands that held mine, As we walked through the park, The same hands that guided me, Through the ups and downs of life. Those hands that worked tirelessly, To care for our family, And yet, still found time, To hold my hand and comfort me. Her hands a safe haven, A place of love and care, Where I felt protected, And knew I belonged there. For every time I look at my hands, I am reminded of my mother's touch, And I know that she will always stand, With me, through life's highs and such. I see her in my hands, In every wrinkle and every line, A reminder of the bond we share, A bond that will forever shine. So as I gaze at my hands, I am grateful for my mother's love, For it lives on in my hands, And in my heart. By M. Bernstein (Poem and photo first published in The Sandhill Review: Art & Literary Magazine, Spring 2024, by Adams State University.)