Kale Sinclair

Joined May 2021

296 stories

Bio

Author | Poet | Husband | Dog Dad | Nerd | Zen Practitioner

Find my published poetry, and short story books here!

https://a.co/d/0ezEBBdk

https://parksidebookshop.com/item/Br9rkAVtiGlGYHNAQwFEPw

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Stories (296)

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Bagels and Snowballs
I’m at a loss for describing the beauty of moss on snowy tree trunks during winter’s frost. I tend to find myself lost, wandering across
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets
The Orchid | Chapter One
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. Blood seeped from the soil beneath the roots of our trees. The sky blackened during the brightest hours of the day, and the people of the realm collapsed into a delusional state of desolation.
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Fiction
Crunchy Powder
Golden rays radiate glittering pathways between the slow sways of the evergreens. The Lapis lazuli lake smiles back at the sun
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets
Frosted City Flakes
A nipping change in barometric pressure prods its frosty tongue at the ever warming planet. A gentle kiss is blown by the servant clouds,
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets
Specks of white
Skin hardens while waves of goosebumps blanket the various surfaces to shield the flesh and bones from the fleeting frost.
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets
Questions
If you knew that a tree could feel pain, would you still cut it down? If you truly knew how heavy an empty palace was,
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets
Salted Sails
Harness knowledge as a salted sail at sea harnesses the wind, and you will surely discover new lands with plenty of adventures
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets
Piñata
His life was a monstrously shaped piñata. A dream filled idea fueled by a distant father. Trapped within a body soldered to fit the stigmata,
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets
Footstep Blues
The blues rattling around inside of my brain are the root causes for the slippery slopes of pain my heart tries to traverse during the deluges of rain.
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets
Murphy The Swamp Monster. Top Story - November 2024.
“Run!” I screamed, as the ground shifted and erupted around us. Still half stuck in the muck, I watched as the rest of our group, led by the glowing button, fled deeper into the forest. I held no blame for them because there was nothing they could do to save me. Large chunks of dense mud and sticks fell all around my position, completely cutting me off.
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Fiction
Graveyard Blues
These tattoos on my skin have seeped deep into my bones. If I melted into a skeleton tonight, you could use the ink to carve my name
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets
November in New England
The last orange leaf ascended from its high perch. Winter’s arrival.
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Poets