Poem 131: A Response to Rejection

today i got the ‘no thank you’ letter from my masters program of choice. rather than feeling sad i was happy to have that year finished so i could move on. when i decided to apply i had no idea how far i would be into my art or into my identity as a writer, and now i can say i truly appreciate the experience, and the push to be better. 
A cage cuts the day into edible slices,
Beyond clever vexed lines reclined am I
Safe from uncertainty, worry bee at ease.
The cage, gilded and gaudy, is a humble place
And the simple charm of the unpainted side
Where I reside is not a bird song but a long silence.
With loneliness at the heart of all envy
I took to the sky of eyes and wondered aloud
What mad rapture must be just out of reach.
Wild the mind unkind that pictures this absence.
Not thinking I held my left hand over my beating heart
And unscrewed it from the hinges.
Grey green city dove, thumb beak pinky wings
A bird in the hand slips so quickly through the grates.
When it was long out of site I would wait by the side
Of a cage made of ambition, envision the flight of my hand.
It was infinite there in a whispering wish
The potential to be great became greedy, and I
Felt designed for this purpose of finally escaping.
But I was empty there, a heart wide open with hope,
And I spoke to myself in the dim hours of how lovely
A bird out of hand must be in the wakeful world.
So when it wandered home with your deepest regret
I must admit I was nearly relieved. The waiting aches the most.
The missing pieces of me, the art of my soul, ached.
Knowing the answer is no feels better than choking on hope.
I sent you my latter hand, the one that holds my soul,
And it was not your reply but the stillness,
the hollowed year that fueled the fear–
Now that we are here, with one hand on the cage
I know that the pieces of me I sent away to be seen
And judged and cooked and skinned and soiled
Belong better where they began than in the grand design.
That a bird in the hand is greater still; greater still.


Poem 129

We stood in a circle and held a hand of a hand of a hand
Where it was quiet. Where there may have been a shout
On the nape of my neck, sharpening the hairs to spindles.
Hush now, hear the linger of a long lapsed shriek.
I am waiting for anyone to speak, to pierce the circle with
A weep, but the silence weighs like a body draped across
Our swinging arms. I am waiting for the frenzy to begin.
I am raking my toes in the dirt. I am tugging the skin on my nails.
I am chewing the tip of my tongue. I will wait for the frenzy to take us.

From within my heart rhythm’s begun.


Postcard Poem 12 – Wish on a Fish

Dear readers,

I enjoyed the first postcard so much that I made a second one. This poem has been deemed finalized in the early stages of the editing project (now on phase two). And in making this second one I evoked the use of typography to distinguish the different voices in this poem as a conversation.

There are two clear voices in this poem. The question and answer format comes through only via the second voice, a believer of sorts who explains the situation in a unique light. The changing fonts are not a mere exaggeration of the high points of the poem but also a demonstration of a second conversation, happening outside the page. The voice repeats implied questions as a simple serif font while the cadences of exaggeration can be seen in the typewriter, script and brush fonts. Now whether the speaker is speaking to his or herself, a book, a listener, a group or an apparition is not to be revealed. but in allowing the type and spacing to play into the poem a new perspective can come to the forefront.

OR maybe I’m reading into it. You be the judge. Emjoy and Keep Writing (or Designing, whichever you muse decides!)

The Postcard with the Most-card

So I’ve taken things to the next step with the sharables, trying to make the poems feel tangible and interesting. And then Vistaprint kept emailing me about deals and all that. And how can I pass up a good deal!

I also was reminded that there is a postcard hanging on my bulletten-board of favorite things from a conference in college I attended where a woman wrote a lovely poem about mountains and women and all that. So I’ve decided to take Vistaprint up on their offer and make some postcards of my favorites in order to bring to poems to life.

But as my loyal fans (hi mom) I wanted to share first!

If you are interested in making your own postcards you can enjoy these for a total of $20 or less. Theses will be heavy matte cardstock, which is a little extra. They can have envelopes if you want and I’ll just get 50 but you can get more for less per peice. It’s not a bad investment for those of us who are looking for a little extra umph.

There will always be a loss with poetry. How do you make it real, how do you get it into someones hands with low cost or without publication and the issues there, and how then do you make it visually stimulating in a world of instigram and twitter?

You hand it to them! Problems (for now) solved!

Keep writing and start designing, you never know what you might invent!


Poem 77 RevisedPoem 77 EditedPoem 77 Original

Poem 118

Tips Talk—giddy guilty gelt,
Talk about respect, empathy
Eye to eye parallel pathos…
Tips in a jar—crowded, unkept
Bent into angles,
Tips talking amongst themselves
To themselves, about worth, value
Reasonable compensation, rightful spikes
Of indifferent dollars to make up the space
Between new sneakers and holy soles.
Tips talk a big game, make service more personal,
Don’t take it personally if I forgot to grab cash…
Twenty, ten, fifteen, here’s a penny
And three dimes, no time to fumble around
For a fare share, anything that clinks is an insult,
god I hate change, here take it… how generous
generations depend on a few here and there,
could you spare a couple off the top,
Me neither. Not before, but now? How far?
Won’t bend forward for a quarter on the black top
But I’ll bend backwards for a nickel in the tip jar.


Poem 77 Revised

And why bother with plants in barrows when
—A clay face furrow, flanked and filthy
Droughts the boughs of brightness—
Dark snow in winter hoarding all along
The absence of spring. What now fills
The evening with ink and begs for sleep
For silence
                  There are plants in barrows, surely,
Whole pantries full of patient blue eggs.
Carving spring from the naked woods
By butter knife takes all winter.
Hooves collecting flecks of color in cupboards
To cushion the salient seeds. Blanche beasts
In blank places stir now despite the snow…
While you were sleeping, while you slept.

Poem 49 Revised

It was the knife that warned of mortality
when it pulled ink wells from skin cells,
And it catches you off guard, every time
how sharp it is, how plain the sound of pain.
A ringing, an overtone droll and you pull
your heavy hand away from the dish rag,
always startling how easily it slices.
The human skin so much like butter.