Sisters of the Page has been on the web since 2007. We have featured the works of Misti Rainwater-Lites, MK Chavez, Judy Brekke and Craig Sernotti.

SOTP is a place where we promote female writers, artists, and photographers. This is our goal and our emphasis however, from time to time, we will open the page to our male counterparts in order to showcase some of their works.

Please feel free to click on our archive for past works. It is located at the bottom of each page. If you have comments, please post them under the artist's work, General comments may be directed to the editor at midulcevida66@gmail.com.

Abusive and deragatory comments will not be tolerated and will be immediately removed.

We hope you enjoy your visit. Thanks for stopping bye.

Juliana Vargas
Editor-Sisters of the Page

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Tres Mujeres

By Juliana Vargas

I have no graves
No mounds of dirt with too green grass
Granite headstones bleak and gray
Nothing to remind me to shed tears
Mourning day in and day out

The women in my life
Were not meant for dirt
For rainy days
And bawdy plastic flowers

Instead I will adorn this place
Bright ribbons of rainbow silk
Like the ones her old hands would braid in my hair
So I could dance in a brightly colored skirt
The younger had sewn
Full and round to swing under the eucalyptus tree
As the scratchy record played
Children dancing in the fine country breeze

Young and old clapping time to the mariachi music
Laughing and smiling
Reminding me always who I was
Even though I sometimes wanted to forget

Afterward, I would sit and write my long missives
For my other special lady
She took such pride in my abilities
And my well manicured hands

Waiting for me to follow through
Promises of a visit
Long talks under warm blankets
She held my hand till my sleepy eyes
Revealed sweet dreams
Her fat little dog nestled between our tired legs

I don't find the beauty of my women in mounds of dirt
I find them in my memories
I find them in the light of the candles
I find them here on this table draped in bright ribbons of rainbow silk

Where I celebrate the great loves of my life
The joy of my youth
My special ladies

such sorrow

by judy l. brekke

my toes tingled
with prickly pins
cotton balls wedged
between them
I walked without feet

grandma wore soft
flowered gingham dresses
covered with a cotton apron
nylons rolled to her ankles
touching muddy tennis shoes

her smooth face soft
like a newborn child
surrounded by
small curls in thinning
brown-gray hair

she paced around
the heavy oak table
tears wetting cheeks
a telephone rang
intense sobbing

wild youngest son
in his 30's
fishing in calm waters
with two sons
falls forward

aluminum boat
glistens in morning sun
drifts back to shore
bewildered sons'
eyes vacant

inner-tubing neighbor
floats to fishing boat
sons silent
father's respiration gone
shrouded in death

grandma held me close
her damp cheeks
touched mine
we rocked each other
to dispel death's grip

grandma's gingham dress
and cotton apron
comforted me
shielded me
from such sorrow

(first appeared in Juice 2006)

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Rapport Glimpse

By Tina

Yet unforgotten

A tale of two sisters
Unified in many dimensions

A trail,
a webbed

Portrayed and Relayed

Suffice endearment
sacrificial growth
multiplied and earthed

Shed tears of blood
healed strength

Shimmering rays
basking our souls

Follow that glow
To the abundance of light
Love is the light
The Way

Tina is a new writer. This is her first appearance in Sisters Of The Page. Please give her a warm welcome. She can be found at http://www.myspace.com/tinakatt

Covetous November

By Misti Rainwater-Lites

Covetous November

I want the moon’s blank immunity
the night’s crisp immensity
the easiness of the shadows
how they fall and splay
without a thought.

I desire the deep sleep of the dead
a slumber without itchy dreams
no lotion can soothe.

I am a witch
endlessly burning.
Every day is at stake.
Every second a stake
in my raw hamburger heart.

I bleat for blessings,
beseech the God of the Howling Wind
for some solid
to stand on.
The candy skulls on the altar
mock me in their sugar and sequins
as the crimson candles glow.
No one is eating
my offerings.


By Gloriane Conover

Dented heartsick hurting heart bursts


Woebegone water to gush out of eye's aqueduct


Full frazzled face

Severe multiple chest spasms stab

All 32 partial-white whites vibrating


Limp arms fumble through kitchen cabinet toward

The non-doctor recommended necessary remedy

I gulp Pro-meth-a-zine-MD

To immerse this fickle downtrodden mind

Firmly packed with regrets

A bulky anchor of regrets

Weighing my neck down

Assisting the Cervical Vertebrae

In forming a permanent bow

Toward the spiritless soil

Toward your new home

The home that causes

Weeping words to become wordless

Because vocal cords are laminated in lament

Unrestrained yelps are all I can offer

Plunging to my knees

Pounding on the carpet

Surrounded in a plethora of photos

A measly mosaic of memories

Coming to really realize that there is

No actual skin to grip

No hair to pin back

No oxygen left

And you are not coming back

You can tell Gloriane how much you love her work by visiting her on Myspace at http://www.myspace.com/88917299

Father Of Mine

By Nicole Z Lilly

He sat there, bottle in hand
salivating for relief
selfishly escaping
the worlds crumbling crutches.

I blew out my sixteen candles
wishing I could step into
Cinderella chariot
with him by my side.

Guilt clutched his heart
attacking his mentality.
I was an anchor to
his last breath of life.

See Daddy was never there,
never real, not part
of the birthday scene.

It weighed on him like
a lead suit to the soul,
More like a straight jacket
keeping himself safe from himself.

As I turned sixteen,
he turned his back on life.
Bottle of Jack,
his gunshot goodbye.

Robbing me of a chance to
tell him that I love him
inspite of the abandonment
more importantly that
I forgive him.


By KM Sutton

Decomposition is nothing more

Then the dissolution of a complex being

To its most simplistic essence

The rotting decay is a buffet for

Parasites and insects

Devoured by bacteria living off the death

Festering above or below ground

Does it really matter?

Nothing is more

Disgusting or incomprehensible

As the vile odor

Of the putrefaction

Of my soul

The de-evolution of a relationship

Is always

Nothing less

Than a very personal


Ryden's Girl

By M.K. Chavez

I will bleed during commute hours,

on the buses, on the trains,

while watching movies,

over buttered popcorn

and bon bons, everything melting

together, all leaking

slowly onto the floor. The soles

of my shoes will make sticky noise

when I leave and walk down the street,

picking up good men

for money, bleeding on paper

and white linen.

I'll bleed spirals

when we make love, I'll decorate


I'll sit next to you.

Next to you.

Next to you.

And next to you

I'll bleed.

I'll cook dinner, fold laundry

blood flowing and bubbling,

bleed blossoms for fancier functions.

Arrange all of my flowers

for you.

Previously Published in Word Riot


Poet MK Chavez writes about strippers, the beauty that can be found in ugliness, the mystery of feeling bad about feeling good, little birds, big consequences. Her work has been anthologized and is published online and in print. Virgin Eyes, a chapbook of poetry is being published by Zeitgeist Press, fall 2007. Most recent and upcoming publications include Poesy, Poems-for-All, Snow Monkey, Instant Pussy, and Underground Writers. You can find out more about her poetry at www.littlebrownsparrow.com

in memory

by judy l. brekke

she walks down the aisle
immaculate coifed hair
china doll face
lips smile curtly

she walks down the aisle
head held high
no tears
no sorrow

she walks down the aisle
behind the casket
of the husband
she left a year ago

she walks down the aisle
no pain or agony
for the loss
of the man who forgave her

she walks down the aisle
children shuffling behind
whose are they
now that dad is gone

she walks down the aisle
loving wife
cheating wife
neglectful mother

she walks down the aisle
he forgave her
i cannot
today or tomorrow

Mormon Girl

By Melissa Hansen

Pioneer woman
across the plains

polygamy blood
burstin’ veins

grandma baby
soakin’ grains

plain flour

bacon fat

singin’ songs
across the plains

pushcart shuffles
tired and maimed

pneumonia babies
hemorrhagin’ womb

pioneer woman
don’t fall too soon

follow a man
sky burnin’ bright

lost in the hills
rollin’ light

wagon rides

eyes behold
crimson tides

pioneer woman
tired and worn

you somehow

and I am born


Melissa Hansen is not a Mormon, but she was born one. As of now, she lives in San Francisco where she writes stories and poems and works at libraries. She has published and forthcoming work in various literary zines. Currently she is into her husband, her graphic novel, and dissecting her previously written poems, resulting in built poems and forced poems, as well as writing in her sleep poems. She also likes poems. You can visit her at www.myspace.com/quicksecret.