20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


Pretty Pink and Reds



We came across this beautiful site on Christmas Day
Stand right out PINK

I see Deer browsing the tops of what I call Lichen really not sure yet what this is I must look it up unless you know.

It was one of many gifts I got. Today these are under a foot of heavy wet SNOW



One of our Pair of Cardinals I know you can see the pretty Red male can you find her?

Oh and do you notice the SNOW lol


Blooms Compete With Folage


Yes it is fall in these parts

Leaves changing colors

Falling now from their branches

They are not alone in their beauty

Plants such as this are showing off as well

The best part is when the winter is upon us

These will be even more beautiful

Dry and Brown yes

Beauties non the less


Perhaps you noticed …

… a different look around here.

And … there is more to come.

In the days ahead we’ll adjust and tweak and redesign in little bursts and fits as time allows, to make 20 Lines both more reader-friendly as well as begin promoting our Contributors’ work.

Look for exciting stuff ahead.

If I don’t have your Bio, send it!  If I already have your bio, send me more about your art!  I cannot wait to feature each of you in the coming days.  The talent here is amazing, and I want to make sure we travel and explore in ways that best share our journeys.  With each other.

Come with me.


(For the Weekend Challenge)

The weekend nears. Cool temperatures, warm sun
combine almost like sheets of yesteryear
hung on the line to dry. A freshness here,
anticipation of her birthday fun.

Granddaughters grow so fast. She’s in that stage
where dolls and teddies still compete with clothes,
lime green her favorite color now. She shows
her readiness for middle school, the page

about to turn. On Saturday her pool
will fill with splashing girls and boys who come
to help her celebrate. This grandma’s numb
with utter disbelief. Who made the rule

that they must leave their childhoods far behind?
I guess for that I’d have to go to church
on Sunday, ask God: How should I now search

to know the answers to such questions? How
am I to understand ships on the sea
or planes that hover in the air? To be
a seeker means, He said, is just to bow

to Me. I hold all answers in My hand.
Please, My sweet child, allow Me, let me give

you all of your desires so you can live.
The world is ordered from the small to grand.

And speaking, as He was, of grand, I said,
“My little granddaughter…” Shh, wait. I made
her, crafted her with skill like Chinese jade.
Don’t question. Watch her grow in faith instead.


The Painted Man

The Painted Man ~ SwittersB

Fuzzy thinking in life. Few things seem certain at times. Memories of old…were they what I believe now? Glimpses of long ago are layers of impressions covering over myself. Some are good, some are not so good.

Layer upon layer seems to cloud an honest assessment of reality. The present is often met with borrowing from the old. Sometimes intuition tells you not to trust the old pathways. Too many mistakes. But, one can come to a stand still if that happens too often.

It helps to strip away some of those layers, to discard them. Like a remodel, the layers are peeled away and a foundation, the bones, are exposed with hopefully not too much damage. 

Sometimes there is a charm to the old. But when the layers start to peel, bubble, lift…a little remodel is in order and a good thing. Positive energy and outcomes.


I am watching the happenings in my backyard.
Birds hop.  The grass needs cutting.
I’ll get to it but I am enjoying its gentle hedonism.

The soil is losing its poisons, I suppose,
things bloom where they didn’t before
and you can hold the blue of the air in your palm.

You grew from beneath my feet
and wrapped yourself around my heart

and I skip these stones across your pond
hoping at least the concentric ripples reach you.


Pedestrian Crossing

He explains that the
chirping crosswalk signal
is meant to help the blind.
We are paused on a corner,
in the dusk of sundown,
in fading light.   We step
off the curb, disregard
the fact that the signal
tells us not to cross.
Was I blind?  the hand is
red, palm open like high five,
stop, don’t cross,  and
I am faltering, quick steps
uneven, teetering in heels,
I realize we’ve stopped traffic.
His stride doesn’t change,
has the unapologetic gait
of confidence and age.
You wouldn’t dare hit
Fred Chappell, crossing the street.


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