20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers



Crafted surely

as any cathedral

this stem

a flying buttress

upholding glory;


of thorns

that might stain

with scarlet



Each petal

a testament

to marvels


wrapped tight

around a core

of mystery’

and the fragrance

the odor of sanctity/

Susan Dean Wessells

1 Comment

Winter Sunlight, by Susan Dean Wessells

Thin and pale
at morning,
like water
from melted ice
pooled along the walk.
How possible
that there is warmth
in this?
Growing in strength
throughout the day,
pouring through the window,
leading me to bask
and drowse
in focused heat.
Now strobing
through trees
on my afternoon drive,
this light strangely sharpened
in its daily course
toward night.
Susan Dean Wessells

1 Comment

In Search of the Poem, by Susan Dean Wessells

The words are hiding
from me

I awoke,
certain they had summoned me;
but now
they have crept
out of sight,
engaged in their endless game
of hide-and-go-seek.

I search
under the thesaurus,
beside the dictionary,
but for all the words there
none adhere to me.

Then this notebook opens
revealing a welcoming page
and from my pencil lead
the poem bursts forth,
snickering quietly to itself.

Susan Dean Wessells

Susan’s muse has bitten her! and we are the lucky recipients. Thank you so much for joining us here, Poet Susan, and sharing your work. — Melissa


Taking My Medicine, by Susan Dean Wessells

Fish oil capsules slide right down.
Neurontin follows after.
Wellbutrin and Abilify
turn sadness into laughter.

Furosemide sticks in my throat,
I choke upon it daily;
while Trazadone at night I take
to greet the morning gaily.

Coreg and an aspirin
both for my heart I’m taking,
A variety of vitamins
are another cocktail making.

I take a few prescription drugs
that help me remain placid.
Omeprazole magnesium
protects from too much acid.

Let’s not forget the insulin
at breakfast, lunch and dinner.
It keeps my blood from sugar highs,
but doesn’t keep me thinner.

Susan Dean Wessells


Meditation with Cat, by Susan Dean Wessells

as a wizened nun
he nestles in my arms,
regarding his universe
with a contented sigh.

Mandalas of dust motes
morph new designs
while phantoms unseen
(by me)
draw his unblinking gaze.

Head tucked in
and upside down
he sleeps
(and softly snores).
I cradle him,
by his absolute trust.

A study in serenity,
he instructs me
in the zen of being.

“It seems if there is a cat in the house of a poet at least one poem will be generated extolling the feline. This is my de rigeur cat poem.”  — Susan Dean Wessells

1 Comment

Free Fall, by Susan Dean Wessells

Thirty years
(and counting).
I am falling still.

Sometimes the sky
is achingly blue,
and the memory of clouds
brushes white against azure.

At others,
create the bouncy castle
in which I jump
and play.

Then are those gray days,
rent with lightning,
drenched with rain,
when misery enfolds me
and I long for solid ground
on which to make
soft landing.

Susan Dean Wessells

Susan Dean Wessells has been writing poetry since ethe age of eight. Her life has been rich with varied experiences which nourish her writing. In 2007 she realized a lifelong dream of being a contestant on the Jeopardy! game show. She is currently writing a novel about vampire nuns.


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