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Spring Snowstorm

By Mo Conlan

I lie down in this field,

Snowflakes hitting my face

Like so many words

That make a whole poem.

 This snow is not cold,

The cold has gone forever.

Beneath its soft white,  

green shoots are starting up.



Not a moment too 

soon I find the first crocus, 

drink in the green buds. 

~~Mo Conlan,


Welcome to our cafe and magazine

   This is a non-commercial site dedicated to writing of all genres and to the pleasures of reading. Please explore our more than 260 pages of writing.

When we began this site several years ago, we had only a few dozen or so readers. Now we have readers from around the globe and commonly, more than 10,000 pages read per month.

The origin of our readership changes from month to month. Keep reading. Keep writing!
~ Kathy, Mo and Patty


Kathy reads 

Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee
from the perspective of a writer
who has had to "kill her babies."


Hail the sun dipping

below Mother Lake; come back

early tomorrow.


~~~~ Photo by EyeSeeLight

Keep On

Keep singing that song,
The one about beauty, hope
And love. Just keep on.

Visit the Daily Haiku archives


Goodbye Cancer
Patty describes her journey through Cancer-Land

- The only thing I am not behind on is haircuts.
- The only reading materials in the surgeon’s office are cancer magazines and a coffee table book on Spring Grove Cemetery...

Read the rest of Goodbye Cancer

Chapter One


Side Effects


Red Shoes ~ A story for middle children and for those who love the color red


By Mo Conlan

There was a little girl named Margretta Todd who loved the color red.

The bedspread in the bedroom she shared with her sisters -- Loretta, Henrietta and Tootsie -- was red.

The ball she tossed with her brothers -- Horace, Morris and Boris -- was red.

Most of all, though, Margretta loved red shoes. She wore red play shoes, red boots when it rained, red clogs in the garden.

She wore sturdy red work shoes when she helped out at the family's business, the Todd Family Zoo.

Margretta even had a pair of shiny red patent shoes for dress-up….

Red Shoes
~ read the rest



Here is an excerpt from, Babies' Breath,

Kathy's award-winning short story contained in her anthology of the same title:
"My heart burned as red-hot as the ancient round stones edging the fire-pit and my tears sizzled and steamed like spit when they fell into the flame." Read on here.

Kathy answers questions
for blogger, Betty Meyette,
about Babies' Breath
at this link: Meyette's Musings

Kathy's five-star-reviewed
short story collection
can be purchased by clicking :

Babies' Breath


How I Became a Redhead ~ Short fiction by Mo



Perhaps you've wondered about the writers here. If that is so, here is a mini-autobiography of each of us. The three of us agree that writing about ourselves is the most difficult task we've entertained.

Maureen (Mo) Conlan

Patty Lawrence

Kathy Coogan


A report
from the real world by Patty
A guide to The Office

More wit and commentary
Inside Patty's writing log



The latest Ace Spade, PI, story from Mo

Has Ace Spade Found His Olive?


New book: "Tai Chi Therapy: The Science of Metarobics" ~
Read the preface


Visit Mo's Art Gallery


Vase with gold and red


Visit The Cafe Blog.

                and subscribe to the Cafe.

To discover what makes us tick,
click on

Mo, Patty and Kathy


Note to visitors:
The stories, poetry, essays and artwork
on this site are copyrighted,
owned by the writers and artists.
No commercial use of them by others is permitted.


by Mo Conlan

My mind is balky.
I need to do some haiku –
Break words down to bits.

Haiku is just right

When don’t really want to write ---

Calming to the brain.


I’m a stick-el-er
About the syll-la-bage-ing –
Five, seven, five – no more.


The problem being
What this short is worth reading?
Try to say something.


Nature is a theme –
Aha, I’m on to something –
Cypress, ginkgo, birch.


That’s no good at all.
Though small, a poem should sing –
Weave together things.


It should be at least
In some way poetical;


If I could have just
One more syllable per line,
This baby could soar.


Some poets will fudge –
Expand or squeeze up a line.

Somehow, I just can’t.


I’m girded by form.
It wraps me in an embrace
Of words and tight space.