Friday, April 17, 2020


Image of the Day: The sound of a leaf blower and the small chimes in my front yard.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig. Well, I'm starting to go a little stir-crazy. How are you all doing? I'm so glad it's at least Spring, and we can enjoy the beautiful daffodils and other blooms just starting. I think if this Coronavirus happened during, say, November, it would have felt ten times worse--all that darkness just amplifying our solitary-ness.

I have a poem here in Midway Journal. I tried to do a poem a day this month, as it is National Poetry Month, but did not make it. I got a handful of poems, luckily, but it felt particularly onerous to try and write daily. I'm working from home and feel chained to my computer anyway. Maybe May or June will be a good month for that. Who knows when we're ever going to be able to hang out at a bar again, soon.

Another Sunday

Tina Schumann

The bacon laid to rest. The belly of the dishwasher satisfied
at last. Oh, satiated coffeed world with your mind
how have I come to you again?

In the crash of weekday waves breaking
that hefts this ball of earth, its rotation part ritual,
part benediction. How I covet the hours

of banal and quiet tasks; picking up the magazines,
shaking out the doorstep's mat.
or fathom a future form. From here it's nothing

more than alliteration of motion. Though the calendar
all attempts at formulation remain null.
Tomorrow I will don my grease-coat of complaint,

and admire the way the shore so soon becomes
the ocean floor.

And the eggs have been broken.

in reverse and your soft body bound in flannel sheets,
on the splintered porch, in the gravity and weightlessness
we will spend in the endless hedge grove

In the yellow state I am in I cannot divine the day
pinned to the kitchen wall gapes in silent notation,
my lab-wear of ego. I will stand in the doorway

from Verse Daily

Wednesday, March 18, 2020

This Shifting Landscape

Image of the Day: the green shoots of daffodils.

I hope you all are doing well in this shifting landscape. My son and I are working/schooling from home. I'm trying to get outside and run/walk my dog everyday--at least the sun has been shining and the weather fairly warm.

Three poems of mine are up at Apercus Literary Journal. It feels odd sharing poems at this time, (well, odder than usual) especially these poems that seem relatively frivolous and not, well, more timely or more serious.

My brain is full of Coronavirus news as I'm sure yours is as well. My work is frantically trying to shift to an online format, so I'm learning new stuff, like how to have a meeting in Zoom. I'm reading Station Eleven, which is very apropos for right now. It's hard to not keep thinking that the worse hasn't even started yet! So many of my favorite places are closed for business for the unknowable future. But then I think how healthy I am, at least right now, and try and breathe.

Here's a lovely poem by Kelli Russell Agodon, from Verse Daily.

Love in the Age of Broken Constellations
In the planetarium,
the universe is everywhere.

The man who controls the stars
has pressed the wrong button

and the milky way spins
around the ceiling, across the viewing

chairs and onto the floor.
A girl holds hands with Orion.

She is the first to unbuckle his belt.
The universe has never been

so close, never been part of her skin.
Her boyfriend reaches over her shoulder,

Vega is under his fingernails.
She leans in to kiss him

and the room lightens.
Where there were hands, now

there is emptiness, where there were stars—
white paint returns, the bare curve

of the dome missing its verses.
And what remains—

a mural of the virgin praying
for darkness, a saint whispering

for night to circle again,
to land quietly in his lap.

Tuesday, November 12, 2019

A Good Kiss

Image of the Day: The dark ducks fluttering in the cloudy morning early November, black shadows in gray sky.

I'm not being very successful keeping this blog updated. This blog, like my poetry, happens sporadically, I guess. Yesterday, I received two rejections, which brings my grand total for the year up to 58. I'm really hoping I can get into the mid-sixties by the year's end, but we'll see. I think I got 6 poem packets accepted, so that's on par for my usual stats. I will be attempting a Poem of the Day in December and January, when things are quieter for me. I did one in October and got a handful of poems, but not much.

I do have a few Origin Poems out. One is here in Mom Egg Review. Two others are in Lily Poetry Review, a new-ish print journal, which I'll add here. Not the best picture.

Here's a poem from Verse Daily by Amie Whittmore. 

Kissing Meditation
        —after Adam Phillips
If kissing is the mouth's elegy
to itself, let me always mourn:

at dawn, when sleep frosts lips;
at noon, mouths indiscreet

as unlocked rooms, or at dusk,
lips two fading fires

quenched by each other.
Best, perhaps, midnight's kiss,

redolent with dream-craft,
or those drunken tongues

sloppy in their tangos.
There's bitter plum

of last kiss, unknown until
it's past, half kiss and sly kiss,

clumsy firsts and toothy
near-misses, forgotten ones

floating back unexpectedly
like snapped water lilies—

mouths cannot be tamed
and thankfully so.

No kiss completes.
Multiple as self,

they abate narrative.
Lawless, we unfold.

If you've enjoyed this poem, you might want to check out A Constellation of Kisses, edited by Diane Lockward. It would make a great Christmas present for someone, well, pretty much everyone, I think. Who doesn't want a good kiss?

Saturday, June 1, 2019

Have the Sunshine

Image of the day:  The creamy blossoms of my Asian Dogwood Tree lit up in sunshine.

It's so nice to have the sunshine after this miserable Spring of rain.  But the sun's here now, baby!  We had a special visitor to our suet feeder today in said dogwood tree--a pileated woodpecker!  It was the size of a small hawk and had a very pointy red head.  Gorgeous!  I'm going to try and keep that suet feeder full all the time because we get such interesting birds:  the pileated woodpecker, Baltimore Orioles, a rose breasted grosbeak. So many birds in their gorgeous colors!

I have a poem here in the fabulous Redheaded Stepchild Magazine.  You should definitely peek at all the other poems in there because there are some that pack quite a punch.  I've joined yet another write every day group and I'm trying to write in a series about my uterus.  We'll see how that goes. I haven't been writing or reading much poetry at all so I need to get back to it.  I've got Martha Silano's Gravity Assist right now which is awesome.  I need to get to a good library.

The God That Shares My Body 
        For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
        Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
        Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that
                quiver in the sun,
        So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth .

we've become a split
in the sky & the earth

        doesn't drink of our blood
        today, only our fresh

water. only joy that is deeper than
us, only small rivers

        of gospel cutting themselves
        into the ground after a storm

From Verse Daily

Saturday, March 16, 2019

The Owl Isn't There

Image of the day:  Upon pulling up my blinds in my kitchen window, a barred owl sitting in the Asian Dogwood tree, not five feet away, turned its brown head and looked at me.

This wasn't todays image, though, it was last Saturday, but that was so awesome to see that owl and to just stare at each other for a few minutes.  I called my family over and they got to see it to.  The owl could hear us talking--it turned its head as each of us said something and looked at us.  Now, every morning, I'm disappointed because the owl isn't there.

I have a poem up at Mom Egg Review as part of their Mythology Vox Folio.  I'm super excited--this poem is from a series I wrote in February during a Poem A Day thingy.  I was writing poems with the title "Origin Story."  I'm hopeful that more of them will find their way to being published as well.  And now, I'm gearing up for April's Poem a Day, too.  April being National Poetry Month usually brings a lot of chances to find prompts and groups to write with.

There are so many poetry books that I want to read.  It's funny how sometimes, I can't find anything that interests me, and then suddenly, there are way too many books to possibly read.  Looking forward to Ada Limon's The Carrying, Martha Silano's Gravity Assist, and Jennifer Richter's Threshold, which has been out for awhile, but I haven't got it yet.  Soon.

Fascinating, the Parts of Us

that attain immortality before we do,
as if we'd sculpted ourselves into skyline
against the first gasp of night. I want to steal
the hair of everyone I've ever loved, shave it
right onto the pillow from their unsuspecting sleep
and carry it to the top floor of my obsession.
I have trouble letting go, it's true. In an elevator, I'm
the last to push my floor, and I drink five bottles of water
at a time, scattered all over the house, afraid that if I finish
them, I'll die. Same with books. Lately I've been
reading about President Antonio López de Santa Anna,
who ordered a full military burial for his
amputated leg. He dug it up
to transport from one home to another,
paraded it in an ornate, royal coach.
I dream of sparrows lifting the ten pounds
I lost last spring to the sun, pinking the edges of the city
with what I used to be. Body that I can barely keep up with,
you owe me nothing, not even your parts. Yet, I'm so hungry
for the vanishing lamps of your intelligence
I could eat my own tail,
could pull my own lightning from the sky.

XVI Fall 2018
From Poetry Daily

Sunday, February 17, 2019

My Four Beating Green Hearts

Image of the day:  Quick bird-shadows skating across the sparkling snow.

It's been awhile since I posted here, but thought I'd try and do so a little more.  I haven't had a lot of poetry acceptances as I took a "Top 25 Challenge," submitting my poems only to the top 25 tiered journals this past year.  A fun challenge but relatively futile.  This year, I'm aiming for 100 rejections again and this article explains the reasoning for attempting to do such an ambitious submissions project.  It certainly does inure one to rejections, which is a good thing when submitting poems.

I do have a poem here at Radar Poetry, with a reading (not my best) that doesn't match up to the published poem. (The art matched with the poem is spectacular, though!) I submitted an early draft of a poem that got accepted, but I had since revised said poem, and when they asked me to record it, used that version instead, by accident.  So here's the revised poem you can read and see what revisions I made:

Self-Portrait as Burgeoning New England Summer

I begin as pine tree rubbing myself against another pine

making noise like an opening of many forest doors

I begin as terra cotta pot of hot-pink impatience petals

            waiting for the hummingbird’s sword-like beak to enter me

I begin as a finely woven trick of web catching the sun’s lit thread

            and the hunting roly-poly bug

I begin as the yellow shooting star of cherry tomato bud

             a promise of juice inside your mouth

I begin as the fledging phoebe begging in the birch tree

            feed me  feed me  feed me

I being as the eager breeze chasing the apocalyptic horse-fly

I begin as the innocence of a pea-pod, ready to be peeled and reveal

            my four beating green hearts

I'm reading Tunsiya / Amerikiya now as well as The Line Becomes a River.  I've just started both so we'll see if I actually finish them.  

Your Quiet Outpost

And here is the sea and the agave already in flower
and along the colorful embankment teeming with life
are thick beehive tombs built into the cliff wall
and I look inside at timeless laughing girls
with dark, damp-stained hair. A similar girl
flanked your Ionian coast (a bee glistening with honey
shone in her eye), and she left
scarcely a trace of her name in the shade
of olive trees. There's no one to save you:
From the look on your face, you know
that one day is the same as others.
A sudden light transfigures
and closes us in this lonely circle
of empty moon—where Hades
rushes past your quiet outpost.

Salvatore Quasimodo
translated from the Italian by Julia Older
Mid-American Review
Volume XXXVIII, Number 2

Monday, March 5, 2018

Heron Tree

I have so enjoyed working as an editor for the Heron Tree volume 5 edition.  I learned so much from reading submitted poems!  And realized what a LOT of work being an editor is for a literary journal.  The people I worked with are such thoughtful, caring readers of poetry.  It really impressed me.  Anyway, as a sort of thank you, the founding editors of Heron Tree, Chris Campolo and Rebecca Resinski published a poem of mine (and Matthew Burns, the other editor for volume 5) and is up right now.  Thank you to these fabulous editors for letting me being an editor for this year and for publishing this poem!

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

A Redheaded Stepchild

I have a new poem published in the fabulous Redheaded Stepchild Magazine, whose mission is to only publish poems that have been rejected before.  I love that concept!  It is such a beautiful journal as well.  This poem of mine had been previously rejected by Thrush Magazine, a journal I hope to get into one day.

Thursday, November 16, 2017


Image of the Day: The sound of a leaf blower and the small chimes in my front yard. Home again, home again, jiggity jig. Well, I'm sta...