forgive me

Lune #12 of 25

forgive me, my love,
let’s make up–
calm these stormy seas.

*A lune (rhymes with moon) is a very short poem. It has only three lines. It is similar to a haiku. A haiku has three lines, and it follows a 5/7/5 syllable pattern. The lune’s syllable pattern is 5/3/5. Since the middle line is limited to three syllables, it is often the shortest line of the three. This makes a lune curve a bit like a crescent moon.

For the next twenty-five days, except Saturdays and Sundays, I will share a lune with each of you. This is Lune #12 of this project.

The Gift of Humility

Art by Loni Thompson via

God has a way of
sitting your ass down
when all you want to do
is ignore your body’s pain,
push through its topsy turvy
attitude, and rage against
your limitations. You want to
show it that you have the upper hand.

You don’t.
You want to believe that you do.
But, you don’t.

One morning, you’re fine.
The day is just like any other,
you fill your body with the
needed iron and Vitamin D it lacks,
you eat a hearty breakfast,
drink a cup of coffee,
and bounce your way out of the door.

The next morning, you’re blocked.
The bed locks you in.
Your back cramps up — spasms,
you brace yourself for torture.
Your left leg tightens.
You know this pain.

You know what’s coming.
You try to get up, try to
beat the rush of thunder
that rattles your bones, your
own personal storm.
You know the rain . . .

The pounding and
howling winds.
You also know, it will pass.

You lie back down,
caress the bed that caresses you,
and try to close your eyes.
You take this moment.
You free yourself from
work, running errands,
editing, research, publishing,
and saving someone else’s day.

You swallow that saucy pride
of yours and realize, finally, realize
that today is the day
you better try to save

Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.


Sarah, gut-puncher in so few words. I connected with this piece so much. I simply had to share this one.

Heartstring Eulogies

“My heart was laid bare
and your name was carved
into its walls.”

The silver blade flashed against the moonlight and though I couldn’t be sure, I thought I heard it sing as it sliced through the air. It was as if the silver were alive. And it danced to some melody only it could hear. When it connected to raw flesh, it cut with precision down to the bone in one clean swipe, leaving behind a searing, white hot pain that wouldn’t let go. That’s what it felt like when I first laid my eyes upon you. It was as if your soul cut through every defense I had like it was nothing. In an instant, my heart was laid bare and your name was carved into its walls.

© Sarah Doughty

Somehow being so vulnerable made me feel free.
It was exhilarating.

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the artist remembers being unknown

Nude woman sketch drawing by Lavi Perchik via Unsplash

a reflective poem

the artist —
he sketches women
who won’t look at him.
I watch him create worlds
with charcoal and the
press of his fingers.

I buy his art
the next day in a Mom and Pop
art boutique around the corner.
I tell the shop owner,
“I used to know him,”
that was a long time ago.

he blows dust from
the pages, the artist —
sketching women
who won’t look at him.

“I used to know him,”
but I don’t anymore.

Originally published in Intimately Intricate via Medium.


Creative content straight from the mind of an innovator trying to shift the world with her writing.