New Blog Page!

woohoo( I in no way own the above GIF I found it on the internet)

Hi Everyone,

It’s a new year and time for a new layout!  Please take time and explore!

Wishing everyone a happy new year moving forward.


Cheyenne E. Mitchell


John Keats

Unknown (I in no way own the above image I found it on the internet nor have I written the Poem portion of this blog below that belongs to John Keats.)

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.”- John Keats

When I read words such as these, my mind cannot help but wonder at the joy and the pain that Keats must have known in his relatively short life upon this earth.  I unfortunately know all to well the quiet still hand of death that touches the lives of many of us.  Who takes away lives too soon, or just when that person’s soul needs to be released?  Death never is an easy thing to understand and oftentimes feels as though there is no way to recover from the pain to those that it leaves behind.  However I can take some comfort, as small of comfort as it may be, in poetry such as this, for I know that I am not alone.  Here centuries later the fear of death, unrequited love, never fulfilling your own expectations, was felt as truly then as it is today.  And though this is often thought of as a taboo subject and one that is not necessarily a thing you associate with poetry. It is a comfort to think that it doesn’t have to represent the end of everything, but a beginning of a new chapter.  Here, of course, I do not necessarily refer to a physical death but of closure in life.  Here Keats I feel try to explain to us in almost a romantic way (for that was the genre/era in which he wrote) that it is “ok” to explore the idea of ones own mortality… He is not trying to conjure the idea of suicide but more of where does he fit in to in comparison to the world as he understood it. Perhaps he wants us to explore the idea of what would happen if he did or did not take some chances before his mortal life ended?  Perhaps I digress. Perhaps, I read too much into this poem?

Until next time when I return to more literary talk, I remain respectfully,

~Cheyenne E. Mitchell

‘On Christmas Day in the Morning’


little-girl-holding-doll-photograph-early-1900-s-pleated-dress-white-hair-bow-52d46dfdd38004983f0db5e3c4573cfb(I in no way own the above image I found it on the internet)

I once knew a little girl; we shall call her, Lizzy. Lizzy was an ordinary child with ordinary friends and a fairly normal ordinary childhood. Lizzy loved to play games with her friends, draw, dance and just have fun. She did however have one thing that was not so ordinary. She did not celebrate most holidays, well that is to say not in the same way that most children her age did. She did not like Halloween, as she was very timid and found it to be too scary for her. When October 31st would come around her little friends would ask her all sorts of questions as to why she would not partake in trick-or – treating. “ Do your parents tell you that you can’t go?” or are you just a baby and are afraid?” Not wanting to admit she was indeed afraid she would just pretend like she didn’t hear the questions and went about her business.

Once Halloween was over and Thanksgiving approached Lizzy would clap her hands in excitement she loved everything about, Thanksgiving. She loved giving thanks to God, being with her family, making paper Turkeys and eating as much pie and stuffing as her little tummy could hold. Thanksgiving was the only holiday that Lizzy ever spoke of. It wasn’t a surprise therefore, neither to myself nor to our other classmates when we discovered that Lizzy did not celebrate Christmas either. She didn’t have a tree or receive any presents. Lizzy would go to Church services and then she would serve with her family at a local soup kitchen.

We were too old to believe in Santa but not old enough not to enjoy receiving gifts. One day as the school bell rang I gathered my books quickly and followed Lizzy home. I was determined to find out what Lizzy’s mystery was. Why she didn’t celebrate Christmas. I was becoming good at being a sleuth she didn’t even notice me as she climbed the stairs to her home.  It was a modest looking home, it had a whitewashed fence around it and gray trim ran over the eaves of the house. I saw her shut the door to her home as I tipped toed up the stairs to the front porch and crawling on my hands and knees I peered into the window to get a better look. There I saw the sorriest sight I ever saw. It was a large empty room with just a few chairs and an antique table. Lizzy’s Grandmother rocked in her rocking chair frantically knitting as her mother sat on the phone with an antique dealer trying to get him to buy her table. I would later find out that Lizzy’s father was ill and lost his job and the family was selling everything to try to get him to a hospital to receive treatment. Tears began to well in my eyes as I looked at the scene before me. Despite everything the family was happy; happy to be together, happy to be helping someone who they loved with all their hearts. Hearing someone coming I ran home, ran home to find my own mother and tell her everything I saw.

My mother is one of those rare doers in the world who helps all that she can in any way she can without anyone ever knowing that she was the one to do it. My family never had much, either, but like Lizzy’s family whatever we did have, we gave to those who needed it more. And this wasn’t any different. My mother rallied into action, gathering our neighbors and supplies, we waited until Lizzy and her family left for Church Services Christmas Eve and sneaking into the house we decorated it. Filling it with toys and furniture, and every good thing to eat. We left a little anonymous note on the antique table in the center of the room with a check paying for the impending hospital bills. Quickly everyone left the house and made their way back to their homes; all except me. I stayed behind anxiously waiting for everyone to return home. I left a special gift just for Lizzy, a china doll. I overheard her telling tales about her china doll she would dress in its finest clothes. However the day that I followed her home I realized her China Doll named Molly was an imaginary doll. My heart broke when I realized this so I gave her my favorite doll with her prettiest dress and I couldn’t wait to see Lizzy’s face. The family came home went inside and were in shock at the sight before them. Lizzy’s reaction did not disappoint me she was so happy, it made me feel as if I were the one receiving the gift.

My mind often returns to that day when I look around at people receiving gifts, none look so happy as that little girl who despite giving everything, had nothing but was still always filled with joy.

I hope your days are filled with as much joy as that little girl who had nothing, but yet had everything.

Until next time when I return with more stories, I remain as always respectfully,

Cheyenne E. Mitchell

Happy Christmas Quote

“Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home!” ~Charles Dickens

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!  I look forward to bringing you new stories in the New Year.

Very truly yours,

Cheyenne E. Mitchell

A Guest- Poet

Much has transpired since I have last written to you my dear reader.  Somethings that are unchangeable, others that are changing still. For now my own words have been stifled so I leave you with those of one of my favorite authors; Oscar Wilde.

I hope to bring you new stories soon, my dear friends

Until next time when I return to more literary talk, I remain, respectfully,


~Cheyenne E. Mitchell


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“Her Voice”

THEwild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,

Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun,–
It shall be, I said, for eternity
‘Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done,
Love’s web is spun.

Look upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
And the wave-lashed leas.

Look upward where the white gull screams,
What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
On some outward voyaging argosy,–
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.

Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,–you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.” ~Oscar Wilde

The Slithering Serpent

images (I in no way own this image, I found it on the internet)


I walked outside to a bright and sunny day, unusual considering the amount of rain that has been consuming my hometown. The sunlight poured down over my pale and wearing face. Standing perfectly still I let the sunlight soak into every pour slowly rejuvenating my spirit. It has been years since I felt a summer sun such as this one.  I stood still for a moment or two longer before I noticed a very peculiar smell. It was an earthy but pungent smell, a smell you would perhaps smell if you were standing in a cucumber patch. Quickly I ran for shelter inside my car, which was the nearest thing to me, once inside I locked the doors, for good measure.   Memories came flooding back to me I had smelled that smell before.

It was early summer and the sun shone brightly. Blinking in its light, I lay on my stomach in the soft grass picking daisies and four-leaf clovers. Bandit, my grandfathers black and white cat, climbed on the small of my back purring as he tried to pull the lace off of my little white socks. I was about five years old at the time, and daydreaming about eating FroYo with grandpa. Suddenly I was disrupted from my day dreaming by Bandit who jumped off of me and began meowing at the ground. I remember wondering at the smell of cucumbers right before my Grandfather, who was drawing a few feet away from me, picked me up and ran into the house with me under his arm while I clung on to Bandit. Once inside my grandfather explained to me that if I ever smelled the distinct smell of cucumbers when there are none, that it there is a good chance that there was a poisonous snake nearby.

My grandfather being my grandfather went back outside and disposed of the snake.

Now I sat in my car peering over my steering wheel I saw it… the snake a large black poisonous snake. No sooner than the snake left so did that peculiar smell. I slowly made my way out of the car and into the house.

So, Dear Reader, if you smell the pungent smell, a smell you would perhaps smell if you were standing a cucumber patch do yourself the favor of leaving quickly.

Until next time when I return to literary talk I remain respectfully,


Cheyenne E. Mitchell

What is Love?

5224528892_6e491cb797_b ( I in no way own the above image I found it on the internet. The original painting/illustration was done by Norman Rockwell for the Saturday Evening Post circa March 17, 1956)

What is Love? This is the age-old question that I was requested to ask a large group of three and four years old. As I sat in the children’s day care facility waiting for them to come in, I wondered what kind of response I would receive. I wondered if they would even talk to me at all. I finished setting up my equipment and turned around to see one very little girl and her mother standing behind me quietly waiting for her interview. I invited the little girl to have a seat next to me. I started off by asking her name and how old she was. She told me that her name was Bella and that she was four and a half years old. When I asked her what she thought Love was, she thought for a while then after settling on her answer told me “Love is when my mommy makes daddy lunch.” And so went the day, each child filed in the room with a different thought on what love meant to them.   Some looked at me with bewilderment, others, answered with answers beyond their years, and others some answered with the sweetest of responses. Now you may be wondering why I was addressing a bunch of children with such a question.

As many of you, my dear readers, may know by now I have a sister, a sister who insists on including me in everything she volunteers for, whether I want to join in or not. Any of you who have an older sibling will understand exactly what I mean I am sure.  For those of you who do not have an older sibling it is simple; if they are involved in a project you are forced to help whether you want to or not, and if you do not want to help you are guilt-ed into it. Well thus is true in my family. This being said, my sister, has for the past several months been teaching a Saturday morning art program to children ages three to four. It was her goal to have the children create their own artwork centered on the themes of love and friendship and at the end of the program she was going to have an Art Gallery opening for them and their family and friends. Part of the project  was to record the children saying what they think love is and then playing it at the gallery as part of the Art Installation. I was given the task of playing the interviewer.   I am happy now that I reluctantly agreed to help my sister, for if I did not I may not have ever been able to see my sister in a new light. You see when you have lived with someone for twenty something years you some times take for granted all their wonderful attributes. You stop seeing their talents as something wondrous and you start to see it as part of their personality, something that just makes them who they are and you no longer see it as a gift. My sister has many gifts she can sing, draw, illustrate, and tell me when my paintings are out of perspective. But she also has an undeniable gift for teaching.

I stood in the back of the classroom as the drawing portion of the class began to watch and observe. As I stood there I watched a gaggle of children file into the room and run and scream with delight as they saw “Miss. Jasmin”. For that one moment that my sister stood in front of them attempting to open their little developing minds to poetry by poets such as Langston Hughes and Emily Dickenson explain how poets are artists too, I saw a look of understanding wash over them, I saw them ask questions and take part in a pretty heady conversation, for four-year olds. Now these were not a bunch of prodigies, they were average children with a spark for learning, and my sister was able to bring that out of them. As I stood there watching this, my heart swelled with pride, and being the sentimentalist that I am I began to cry. And of course not wishing to alarm the children with my tears I excused my self and set up my equipment for their recording of “What Love is”. You see those children taught me something that day. They taught me that love does not have to be this hard-hitting question or grandiose gesture. Love true love is simple and pure it is simply (to quote the children) “Helping one another, being kind, sharing with your brother, making daddy lunch” and simply just caring for one another and seeing their good with their bad.

As I write this it is my truest hope that each of you know or have found some love in each of your lives. For love is not always what you see on television, sometimes showing love is simply helping your neighbor or holding the door for someone.

Until next time when we return to more literary talk, I remain as always respectfully,

Cheyenne E. Mitchell


** names were changed