The Living Race

Life got in the way of
living—

Some trudge to survive,
others scroll through it—
numbed.

All racing time,
chasing filters of
inevitable loss.

Death waits at the finish line,
scythe in one hand,
stopwatch in the other,

whispering:

“All that way,
and not one deep breath.
Tell me—
would you have danced this race
if the crowd didn’t watch?”

© 2025 WolverineLily 🌺

Rusty Adventure

Drudges and thralls
caged in clocks,
welding days into years.
Wages unlock gates
for … a holiday.

They fly across the world
to stand on borrowed ground,
marvel at the same sky,
bronze in the same sun,
convinced it’s better.

Yet back home,
the same Earth is
dimmed, diluted,
dull.

Why?

Is it receipts they admire,
or the story they post?

Conforming to filtered joy,
oblivious to their own.

Why reach for foreign rust,
when gold gleams beneath their feet?

© 2025 WolverineLily 🌺

Author’s Note:
A sunset got tangled in street cables above the lamps. Not a postcard-worthy view, but perhaps even more beautiful. What’s the point of faraway wonders before exploring your own backyard?

Broken Wing and the Middle Finger

“Hello,” I answered, shutting the trunk of my car.
“I think Nellie broke her arm. She fell from a structure on a playground, and she can’t stop crying. Where are you?” he asked, urgency spilling through the phone.

In the background, I heard my daughter screaming at full volume. It was the most devastating roar I’d ever heard from her—deep and loud, like a whale, but screechier. I felt a sudden rush of heat, as if someone had poured boiling water over my head.

Damn. She’s hurt, I thought, starting the engine. I gripped the wheel tight and took off.

“I’m in the car. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I forced the words out through my tightening throat.
“We’re waiting for an ambulance,” he said, his tone mirroring mine. “Hurry,” he added, and hung up.

My heart was pounding. I accelerated, but soon got trapped behind an old lady driving fifteen miles per hour in a thirty-five zone. I followed her while Nellie’s cry echoed in my head, louder than the speakers in the doors. How badly is she injured? What if she fell on her head?

For a few blocks, my thoughts raced at the speed of light, while my car crawled like a turtle. I was tempted to honk, but this lady probably was too old to hear it anyway. My frustration boiled inside until Granny stopped at a red light, nearly rear-ending a white Mercedes. I swerved to the right lane, hoping to pass both cars when the light changed.
A few long seconds later, I finally got the green. I hit the gas like I was auditioning for Fast & Furious—minus the fancy car.

I looked into the mirror to see if I had enough distance to change lanes, but then I saw… a hairy arm and a middle finger coming out of a white Mercedes! Like a reversed palm tree flipping me off from the jungle of traffic. I tried to ignore the gesture. My daughter’s screams still resonated in my head so, surely, I could not care less about an asshole in a Mercedes. Yet, I was pissed. Pissed and frantic.

I wanted to be with my daughter. Shit. I was pushing past fifty! A speeding ticket now would kill me. No way, I couldn’t afford to lose a second.

I stopped at a red light and saw the white Mercedes slide up to my right. No more palm trees waving. He must’ve thought he’d lost the race to a blonde chick in a dusty Subaru, now idling for a rematch. Then the window began to roll down, revealing Mr. Asshole with dark shades and an even darker attitude.

He shook his head, adjusting his flashy glasses (or just showing them off in the most ostentatious way), looked at me, and spoke: “You couldn’t wait, could you?”
Wait for what? I thought. But I hadn’t said anything—not for another three seconds.

Then I took a long breath and said two precise sentences, both of which would’ve made my mother gasp and a pirate proud.

I watched his jaw drop, the black stubble blending into his black T-shirt.

I stared at him for a moment. Still. Then winked.
“Nice talking to you. Drive carefully.” The light changed and I drove off, leaving behind a faint, fading ‘Oh, uh…’

When I finally got there, I saw an ambulance driving off. Red lights flashing, siren wailing. My stomach turned.

I followed them to the hospital. Doctors confirmed: My angel broke her wing.

© 2025 WolverineLily 🌺

Author’s Note:
This happened a few years ago, on Max’s birthday. One I’ll never forget. 🙂

Her Black Mirrors

She struggled to sit,
bones shivering,
staggered—

A feeble growl
a warning, stay back.
I held her eyes—
black as shungite,
two mirrors of agony,
pleading.

I’d pray against needles,
a quiet, natural end.
I couldn’t—

She battled upright,
for one last exchange.
Her blackest pools
reflected death itself,
hurling an awl into my heart.

I knew.
It was time—
her—to go,
mine—to let her go.

Now,
no barks for a mailman,
a leash chimes on a hanger,
a tennis ball cornered in silence.

And I—
I still see her pain,
engraved in my eyelids.
Two mirrors—
death staring, haunting—
burned into me
like black ice.

© 2025 WolverineLily 🌺

Author’s Note:
It’s been years; time has moved on, yet this has never left me.

Ghost in the Valley

Atop my heart,
where its two hills bend inward,
lies the valley.

You sit astride—
a stubborn knight,
neither advancing,
nor dismounting.

Why do you remain?

I never invited you,
fearing your sword,
its blade honed on our silence.
I left the wicket ajar—
a slit to watch you—
watching me.

But three kin torches at my gate—
scorched your sight,
ignited your fear.
You fled like a coward,
left my depths unclaimed.
Your halberd scraped my hollow;
its echo—a cathedral bell,
tolling the coarse-silk wound.

Or is it me—
my longing—a magnet
latching your armor,
stabbing me?

It’s me.
I refused to let you go.
I stranded your ghost
in this valley.
Its shroud blinds me.

© 2025 WolverineLily 🌺

Author’s Note:
I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.

Unveiled

If I revealed my raw self to you,
peeled the makeup,
stripped the cloth from my body,
Bare—
unfolding every crease
carved in silence by time—
the eternal butcher,
dragging a dull blade across my skin.

Would you meet my eyes,
lock them in yours,
and embrace all I surrender?
Or would your gaze slip,
chasing youth in someone else?

Would your fingers trace the map
my face has become,
my eyes—Sirius at midnight—
guiding you into the gorge
where I’ve buried all my love?

If you leaned closer,
beyond the façade of scars,
you’d hear the crackle.
Would you let its warmth
burn through your defenses?

Yet, if you falter and turn away,
my heart—a resilient pendulum,
will endure stabs of every sway.
With or without your love,
in all that I am,
I will remain.

© 2025 WolverineLily 🌺

Author’s Note:
This piece took nearly a year to complete. It demanded brutal honesty, many attempts and revisions. It’s about aging, the courage to face it, and the fire of love that refuses to die—even when love itself has long been buried. For anyone who’s felt this way: this is for you. Only a few will understand.

I’ll probably tweak it again someday, but for now, this is it.

 

‘I Agree’: The Price of Your Child’s Click

Would you let your child sign a contract with a corporation that profits from her/his image, tracks their location, collects their data, and limits your ability to sue in court?

No? Then, you must understand what happens when your child begins to scrolls.

One click = a legally binding contract.

That’s all it takes to hand over their digital rights and, sadly, yours.

My daughter is almost twelve, and she’s been begging for a phone. “Everyone has it,” she says.
But I grew up without one, so one question keeps bugging me: Is my child old enough for what’s coming through that screen? Because, let’s be honest, a phone today isn’t just a device to make a call. It’s an admission ticket to a digital universe! It’s a portal into an adult internet, strangers, cryptic algorithms, and hidden contracts.

What scares me the most is access to the unknown. Even if I forbid certain applications, she will eventually install social media because all kids do! And although platforms like Instagram, TikTok, and Snapchat require users to be at least 13, it’s incredibly easy for children to bypass this rule.
Kids lie about their birthdate. No parental verification nor ID checks exist, so one click—”I agree”—gets them in.

But wait, does anyone ever read what they agree to? Most adults never do, so we can’t expect kids to read the terms.

Yet, this one blind click binds them into a legal contract with the platform, permitting the app to access their phone and track their location. Moreover, it limits the ability to sue the company in court, often forcing you into private arbitration, even for potential privacy violations.

Moreover, this “I agree” click opens the door to instant feeds—the content parents may disapprove of: perverse images, violent or sexually provocative clips, and strangers that may influence your child more than we wish for. Sadly, neither you nor your child have much control over the screen. The platform’s algorithm decides what shows up.

Once the account is live, multiple predators have a direct line to your child through comments, likes, or an instant DM. You might think their profile is private, but most platforms still allow message requests from strangers—and your child might not even know what’s safe to open.

The Children’s Online Privacy Protection Act (COPPA) is a federal law that’s supposed to protect kids under 13 from online data collection. Other laws, like consumer protection rules, unfair practice regulations, and even state-level privacy acts, also apply to kids and social media platforms. Still, most platforms aren’t verifying anything, and much of the responsibility lands in parents’ hands.

So, how old should your child be to get a cell phone?

I don’t have all the answers.
But if they have one, check it regularly. See what apps they’ve installed. Look at who they follow and what’s showing up in their feed. Talk to them, even if they roll their eyes.

Finally, before we hand over the phone, we need to understand the rules and consequences that come with it. Read the terms. Because once they say “I agree,”—it’s a contract.

© 2025 WolverineLily🌹


Note: This post is for informational purposes only and isn’t legal advice.

Misdialed Date

Chicago 2005.

It was a mid-summer day. The sky was as gray as a billionaire’s suit, and the sun refused to show its smile.

A pounding echoed through Amy’s apartment.
“One second,” Amy called, barely cracking open the door. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, she juggled the door knob and battled her rebel hair with her free hand.

“What are you doing here so early?” she squinted at the familiar face.
“Early? It’s almost eleven,” Dan replied, nudging the door open and striding in as if he owned the place. Clearly, he was no stranger to Amy’s apartment or her couch.

“Yeah, but do you remember how late you dropped me off last night? I went to bed at ‘this morning o’clock’.” Amy yawned, trailing Dan to the living room.

She peeked outside, noticing the sky screaming an overcast mess.
“This isn’t beach weather, is it?” Amy observed the trees bending in the wind like a morning yoga pose gone wrong.
“Nope. Looks like we’re not the only ones hungover. But we can do something else,” Dan suggested, already commandeering the remote.

“Coffee first. I need to wake up,” Amy declared, holding her index finger and heading to the kitchen.
“And maybe a bagel?” Dan called, settling into the couch like it was his living room.

“How’s George? He ended up driving Rita home, right?” Amy’s voice floated over the sound of brewing coffee.
“Did he? Man, he was smashed.” Dan flicked through channels.
“I hate when he drives like that,” Amy muttered. “The party was nuts, and George got totally wrecked.”
“Good for him. First big night since his breakup,” Dan replied.
“I know. After everything with his ex…” She paused, considering a thought.

“Do you think he hit it off with Rita?”
“What?” Dan’s eyes were glued to the TV.
“Maybe he’s still at Rita’s?” Amy teased, walking back with two steaming cups of coffee.
“You think they… no way. They just met,” Dan scoffed, accepting his cup.
“I don’t know, I got a vibe,” Amy smirked, pulling out her Motorola flip-phone. “Let’s see.”

She dialed, putting on her best ‘Rita’ voice.
“Hi George, did I wake you? Just wanted to thank you for last night…” Dan’s eyebrow arched in surprise as he listened to Amy’s voice, a perfect imitation of Rita’s, turning more flirtatious with every word.

“Are you busy tonight?” There was a long pause. George talked while Amy was nodding.
“We should totally go rollerblading later.” Amy winked at Dan, who was watching her with his jaw wide open. “Great. Pick me up at 5.” A short pause. “Okay, see you then.”

Dan nearly spit his coffee.
“He can’t think you’re actually Rita, can he?” Amy hung up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “He’s got a rollerblading date with ‘Rita’ at 5 tonight.”
“No way. He fell for it?” Dan laughed loud and hard, disbelief coloring his tone. “This is gold!”

*

George parked his Altima outside a modest single-story house, the smallest on the block, with a well-tended lawn surrounding it. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror and headed for the door.

It was exactly 5 o’clock. He rang the bell and waited with anticipation.
“Hi,” Rita greeted him, not stepping aside to let him in.
“Hi, ready for rollerblading?” George asked, his body shifting nervously from one foot to another.
“Rollerblading?” Rita looked puzzled. “No, I can’t. I’ve got other plans. You should have called earlier…”

George’s face fell as he stood awkwardly at her doorstep, mixed feelings swirling within him.

Both stared at each other in silence for a moment. Something was off.
“But you called me about it this morning…”
“I didn’t call you today at all,” Rita frowned.
Flustered, George apologized and retreated to his car. What else could he do? His anticipation dissolved into a confusing blend of disappointment and embarrassment.

He was about to start his car when his phone rang.
“Rollerblading, huh?” Amy teased.

George groaned.
“It was you? I thought Emily set me up.”
“Nope, all me. Sorry, George, I got carried away. I owe you a big apology—I’ve gone too far.” Amy’s voice softened, yet she struggled to stop laughing. “I can’t believe you fell for this!”

George shook his head, even though Amy couldn’t see him.

“Come over, I’m ordering pizza,” Amy added.
George sighed. He couldn’t decide whether he should scream with anger or laugh. He put the key in the ignition and drove off.

Amy and Dan couldn’t stop cracking up as they awaited George’s arrival to clear the air and get a full story.

“You two watch out; just wait for my comeback,” George grumbled as he walked in. “I’m warning you. You have no idea what is coming at you,” he announced, unable to suppress a smile at the absurdity of it all. “I mean it.”

“Good to see you without your rollerblades,” quipped Amy, extending her arms to hug George. “Please, don’t be mad at me.”

“You ordered pizza; I brought beer,” said George with a smile, closing the door behind.


Author’s Note:
Meet the real Amy and George—they are actual people. In fact, I’m Amy, and George is my friend Matt. This is the only picture I could find of us from many years ago. We are standing in water, awaiting alligators (at least that’s what the tour guide told us). What you don’t see is the boat on the other side, filled with a bunch of ‘chickens’ too scared to step out, including Dan, who took this picture. And finally, yes, I really did set up that rollerblading prank date. 🙂

Meant to Bloom

I was meant to bloom—
unfurl, sing, and shine, not
be tended or trimmed, not
molded for duty and possession.

I was meant to bloom, not
decorate an entropic cave, not
drizzle in vain someone’s emptiness
with the sweetness of my effervescent petals—
infusing their spoiled, sour strands.

Even in the drought,
I drank rainbows through my veins.
My tendrils breathed warmth into soil,
while the sky hid behind clumped clouds.
I stretched toward muffled sunlight.

I was meant to bloom.

And then it rained, not
to nourish or cleanse.
Poured.
Unstoppable—
the ground swelled,
my petals sagged,
roots dislodged,
my garden drenched to swamp.

Yet I stand, sturdy but hollow.
They nest in my shade,
leech my youth,
and — call it love.

Slowly,
quietly,
I sink.

Still—

Dreaming of butterflies,
even a wilt can reach the sun.
Single ray ignites its desire.

Butterflies will come
And I will bloom…
as I was always meant to.

© 2025 WolverineLily 🌺


Author’s Note:
Not everyone who stands tall is thriving.
Not every flower is there for you to pick.
For every time you bloomed in silence, offered too much, or were mistaken…
This one is personal. 🌸

Think Your Work Is Protected? What You’re Missing About Copyright ©?

Today was a big day. I received the official certificate of registration for a book I wrote and plan to publish. It’s now protected under U.S. copyright law.
I’ve often marked my posts with © 2025 WolverineLily 🌺, but I started wondering… do people actually know what that means, or any text surrounding the © symbol? And does official registration change anything?

The answer is yes, and it matters more than most realize.
Let’s break down copyright basics, the meaning behind my little signature mark, why the Copyright Notice is important to creators.

What is Copyright?
Copyright is a legal right that gives the author control over how others use their work. It belongs to the person who created something (a photograph, story, or poem), and protects that work from being copied, shared, or used without the creator’s permission. There are a few limited exceptions (e.g., fair use), but in general, if someone wants to use your work, they need your permission.

Here, I’m keeping things simple and focusing on literary works (poems, stories, and blog posts). But copyright goes beyond. It applies to any original work that’s fixed in a tangible form, meaning it’s written down, recorded, saved, or otherwise captured in a physical or digital format.

However, writers must understand: ideas alone are not protected under copyright law. Only the original expression of those ideas are covered. So, if you write a story about vampires, pink dragons, witches, or talking cars, it’s the story itself (the structure, language, scenes, and dialogue) that’s protected. Not the general idea of your characters.

Copyright protection depends on how you develop and express those ideas, not the themes or concepts themselves. Think of it this way: there are countless books about dragons, right? Still, you can still write your own without infringing. Even if you invent a totally unique dragon, only your specific expression of that dragon in your story is protected. The idea of a pink dragon with yellow horns that sings opera is not protected — only the way you write it.

When does this right begin?
The moment you create something and save it in a physical or digital way. Whether you write it down on paper, save it on your computer, or record it — you automatically own the copyright. You don’t need to file anything or fill out forms. For example, when you write a blog post or poem— the right is yours the second you hit save. Copyright protects your ownership from that moment.

But what about this © symbol?
The © symbol stands for copyright. You’ve probably seen it on books, songs, and websites. But here’s the key: the symbol itself doesn’t create the right. It simply indicates that the work is protected by copyright.
It’s a way for an author to say:
“This work is mine. I created it, it’s original, and I hold all the rights. You can’t copy or use it without my permission.”

If you’re a writer or blogger, using the © symbol is optional — but smart! You don’t need to use it for your work to be protected. Copyright exists automatically once you’ve created the work and saved it in a tangible form. However, adding the symbol to your posts or stories sends a clear message that you are the creator, and others cannot use your work without your consent.
And no — you don’t have to file anything to include a © symbol under your work.

What’s all that other stuff next to the © symbol?

The © symbol can stand alone or appear with a name, a year, or additional notes. This combination is called a copyright notice.
Let’s unpack different types of copyright annotations and what they mean. Starting with mine.😊

© 2025 WolverineLily 🌺
I use this under my poems and stories. I include it for two reasons:
One, I like to think of it as my signature — a personal mark that goes below my work.
Two, it puts readers on notice that I am the creator, the work is mine, and it can’t be used without my permission.
It’s like leaving my fingerprint — a clear way of claiming ownership.
Instead of “WolverineLily,” I could use my legal name (or a pen name), but I prefer not to. I chose to keep things casual and on-brand 🌺.

There are also different versions of copyright notices you might see. Let’s look at a few examples and what each one means:

© 2025 WolverineLily
This is a basic copyright notice (a little more formal without the flower). It includes the symbol, the year of creation or publication, and the name of the creator or copyright holder. You do not have to use your legal name in the copyright notice—a pen name, brand name or a corporate name are fine.

© 2025 WolverineLily. All rights reserved.
Here, “All rights reserved” adds a layer of legal warning. It emphasizes that no one can copy, use, or distribute your work without permission.
It’s very similar to the previous notice, but with a stronger, more traditional message, reinforcing that the copyright owner retains full control over how the work is used.

© 2025 WolverineLily. All rights reserved. Copyright Registered.
This version lets people know that the work has been officially registered with the U.S. Copyright Office. Sometimes, this kind of notice may also include the registration number.
Registration offers significant legal benefits, including: proof of ownership, eligibility for statutory damages, and the ability to sue in federal court.

Here’s the key: you can’t file a copyright infringement lawsuit unless your work is registered.

If my work is already protected, why register it?
It’s true, copyright exists the moment your work is created and saved. But registering it gives you real legal power. You can’t sue for copyright infringement unless your work is registered (this is a big one). Early registration lets you claim statutory damages and attorney’s fees, and it creates a public record that helps protect your rights.

In short: registration isn’t required, but if you want full protection, it’s a smart move.

If you’ve written something amazing, it’s worth protecting — Register it! It gives you the strongest legal shield. But, of course, you won’t register every single post. So drop that © symbol. It’s a tiny but mighty statement: “This is mine.”


This isn’t legal advice — just basic info to help writers understand their rights as creators.