Bobbi Sinha-Morey Debuts

Off The Grid

The postal worker we once
knew sold her mobile home
to live in a cabin off the grid,
and now her perfect life was
just like this: a crowded firelit
kitchen, her face warmed by
a teacup’s steaming rim,
the world an utter comfort
and a balm, a quiet life with
her husband. Easy talk without
the TV on, windows etched
with soft rain. Raspberry pie
made from scratch, hazelnut
coffee in the morning hours
when she is all alone,
listening to Randy Travis on
the radio. In the den her
husband’s gleaming violin
sits cradled in its stand, and
in the shadows of her desk,
her laptop’s subdued pulsing
glow. She takes her daily walk
at four p.m. in the woods,
fresh mountain air all around
her, gathering and cleaning
mushrooms in her kitchen,
sensing a deep down symmetry
in every blessed thing.



The Scent Of Easter Lilies

Far back in her eyes there
will come a light, the fragrance
of candles, especially when
she comes to call on someone’s
doorstep, mostly out of loneliness.
She wears the scent of Easter lilies
on rare days, hoping the few people
she sees will breathe it in, a little
heaven in themselves. At the heart
of it she spins her wheels when
she’s at home, and she’s socially
inept when it comes to answering
the phone. Not that many people
come to see her, and she orders
her groceries from home. Tapioca
is the one delight she can afford;
she savors every spoonful before
bed, a globe of goodness in her
heart before she sleeps. One day
when cool rainwater doesn’t
wake her, tapping on the roof
of her brick house, she isn’t
discovered till three days later
and her dust is in an urn on
the shelf of the undertaker’s
house, never to be scattered,
never to be given away,
never given a prayer to reach
the open door of heaven.



For Rene

In the whole world, it is
a gift that wasn’t given to
everyone, and she’d found
it on her own: a gingerbread
like house surrounded by
a white picket fence tucked
away in a cul-de-sac on
Aspen Lane, and, in front
of it, a garden a Wiccan
would adore with a water
fountain, an old-fashioned
wishing well, a Japanese
stone lantern by the door.
A two-bedroom home just
the right size for her and
behind it a path that led to
where blackberries grow
and a small patio for visitors
who drink tea and like scones.
She moved in, a lady all alone,
her legs so skinny they remind
her of stringbeans, and she
wore high heels, even when
snow as on the ground.
Now wind murmured all
around her, and every morning
she’d let her circle open to let
love in, the sun waking her up
in her duvet, making her feel
she’s breathing in the glow
of heaven.


Bobbi Sinha-Morey lives in the peaceful city of
Brookings, Oregon. There she writes poetry in the morning and at night, always
at her leisure. Her work has appeared in a variety of places such as Plainsongs,
The Path, Taproot Literary Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Page & Spine, and Black
Fox Literary Magazine. Her books of poetry Crest Of Light, White Tail, and
others are available at In addition, her website is
located at, and her work has been
nominated for Best of the Net.




About vision791

Pushcart nominee Jeanette Cheezum has been published on several online writing sites and in fifteen Anthology books and four poetry books. Three of these books have made the New York Times Best Sellers list. Awarded The Helium Networks Premium Writer’s Badge, Bronze Creative Writing Award and a Marketplace Writers award. Recently she has published thirteen ebooks at Barnes and Noble and Amazon. You may find a list of some of her work at
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