The Call

Walking to the rhythm of the streets on a hot summer night searching for the part of me I lost in the dark.

It’s the moment when you look up from your footfalls and realize it’s time to see, time to breathe.


City lights flashing by
Wish I could say I knew what it meant to not deny
My life
My heart
My circumstance

An unfortunate willingness to do the dance of denial with a smile
until I realize my body has stopped
my breath paused
my life in the purgatory of my own creation.

To walk again
With new eyes and a restless heart, I start to see the world again
The streets no longer dark but lit with the light of life
The light of dreams I thought long dead
Placed in a covered box buried beneath the concrete.

No more

Dancing now to the rhythm of the streets on a hot summer night taking in the air and the life around me. Laughter wafting like spices from windows and doorways. The breeze answering the call for a soothing touch.

Now I can see the small answer to the big question that’s been plaguing me in the dark.

Its no secret I’m new to this listening to the world and it is calling out to share its moments with me.

I hear it now, the voices clinging to hope, knowing the dance is shared and opening the world to itself and to me as I begin to see.



April’s Crying

The sound of raindrops pang
As I ache for the sun.
Stop hiding!
Bring me the warmth you promised.
I observe the gray skies and falling rain
and green becomes my favorite color.
Dreaming in the psychedelic hues of summer
I cry…
Bring on the tropics, the turquoise seas;
Imaginary adventures…
Come out, come out wherever you are!



Finding True North

There is poetry in
the heart of every human.
The form it takes is as
diverse asthe actual souls it inhabits.

For some it comes in words,
to others as math,
but it is deeper than
the plane we live on; broader
than our minds’ collective

It is the roots by
which we cling, giving
us foundation. It
grounds us, gives
us purpose and
feeds the essence of
who we are.

There is no correct form.

It is the
creative map of
our DNA as
we alone know it.

We search for poetry our
entire lives, driven
by its essential and
invisible projections
of the soul.



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Silver St., Southie

This is the land I come from
the land of
broken tar,
cracks in the sidewalk.

The place where roaches are squatters surviving a desperate home filled with spackled dreams.

She erased the young lovers from the mural on the wall
leaving just an empty tree
never to be climbed again
an artist whitewashing her future.

The land of white knuckles and fight clubs; of white men with dangerous pasts and drunken futures all too close and personal.

A city of tears and required loyalty to false gods.

paints the streets
with dreams of escape,
of knowledge beyond
the corners and the cracks

I watch from my second-floor window, the souls that stroll past the burnt out warehouse across the street mirroring their young and angry lives.

Me. Hiding.

Afraid to see myself as the same hollowed out wasteland whose heart smells of burnt wood and mildew.

I hold my innocence and integrity steadfastly close shutting out
the pain of
dying dreams,
lost expectations.

Laughing at my intimate lonely world filled with fantasies so not to cry.

Free Myself…

Patch the wounds
Fill the cracks
Plant the seeds that will sprout from new and fertile earth

A tree
never to be hollowed out,
rooted in acceptance.

I will climb
Out of the fear
Into the future



#artist #nicholedonjeartist #southie #southboston #boston #nyc #newyorkcity #ny #yonkerny #yonkers #photogrpahy #poetry #writing #art #lifelessons #personalgrowth #dogmomma #activism #feminism #theatre #director #connection #selfcare #selflove #acceptance #compassion #curiousty #creativity #courage #trust




We try
to soften the blow
with bubbles
that snap and
make us giggle
as we pack
and unpack
our memories,
long damaged
from the traumas of our past
and fears
of the future.


A laugh.
A sigh.
A jump.

Then back into the box it goes,
intentionally leaving
behind a small
squishy scrap
so that we can…


with fondness
and not pain.



The Book

As she swept
the book out from
her lap so came
her secrets
all interpretations of
trickling down the binding
and arousing
her spirit.


I love when I see something and the words spill forth in pure inspiration completely out of my control. This poem came to me after seeing a provocative image a friend posted on Instagram with the note…”Many interpretations…all accurate.”  Thank you, Vesta


Bookstore Poet


Reaching toward indecent exposure
My body writhes inside.
Gasping with each incomparable breath,
Waiting to exhale with no relief.
Heat relieving pressure
Where hands play conforming to my shape.
Bodies melding in the molten fire of one being;

A metamorphosis.

Artist: Bob Dilworth (painting segment)