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.


Poem 45 Revised

Mama Hydra
In her jewelry box of
Vacant shells
Rough cut gems
Scatters lights
With impatient hands
Pulls furrows
From the floor.
A carpet rippled by
Careless bare feet
The sea-bed wears ridges
calling me home.
I trust the compass
Steady marking north.
No worry whether
I follow the needle—
If I will arrive. Love
Is trusting the magnets
Letting them pull
Metal from my pores.
Permitting their gesture
To be finite in purpose,
A beacon guiding me north.
But when the moon passes
Ten thousand tides from tonight
That hand with a compass
Will point to
The under-bellied pole.
Turned over white like an
Expired fish.
Will they be wrong?
Magnets in the core swore
South. How
Could this compass be true?
My soul. My hand,
My helpless compass waits
On ridges of the seafloor
To shift again, swallow up
Old peaks and valleys,
Someday ten thousand times over
No longer constant,
Every needle set to change,
Whispering South,
Mama Hydra—inspecting her treasures—

Sends a call

For new directions…

Will you trust the compass?

Poem 40 Revised

The Death of Jane
The mother of my mother lives
In a small space by the seaside
Or would have had the breeze
Not whipped her through the windows.
She’s the farthest person I know
From where I’m standing,
At the horizon, stringing stars.
Burning down to the embers
One remembers moments twinkling
Freckles on the nose of the night sky.
Waiting for a sign, knowing we would miss it.
Hand over hand, ashes in the sea.
The mother of my mother calls nightly,
Leaving no words of comfort,
Only the dry dream of dust draped

Across the curtain, stringing stars.

Poem 89

because i am the self proclaimed unofficial poet laureate of Michael Foote’s death, because we are all so far apart and won’t be coming back this fall… because the ache never goes away, we just learn how to live around it. I love you, I always will… love, Mama Bear!!
            When theglow from the streetlights is low enough
            —ephemeral even—Iunlace my shoes ad dig toe-ward in the grass.
            I waitthere
            until I cansense the pulse beat roots
            imagine myoak atop a sprawling mound
            long beforethe insects or half abandoned pencil nubs of fall.
I am small,
            but itbegins regardless
            as ifcarried by breezes, a pilgrimage of pieces
            pennies withgreen-grey edges
            pea coat buttons
            couch cushion mints
tumbleweeds of crumpled worksheets,long lost before due dates
single socks in technicolor
tiptoeing across dog eared pages ofpicture books
a purple gel pen
a half filled journal
maps to treasure buried in thebackyard
shards of mirror
snippets of photos
a single useless key
It is everything I’ve ever lost…
Loved, remembered—hours spent searching, countless tears
            a locket
            a small Minniemouse figure.
            a letter
            a birthdaycard signed in cursive
            a ring
            a barrette
When you’re small every loss feels raw, essential, laborious
they collect at first by my heels,but quickly it is my knees brushed by handkerchiefs and headbands
            I could wade through—but I don’t daremove…
            waitinstead for the inventory to be complete:
            a threewheeled suitcase
            a promdress with a misaligned zipper
past due college acceptance letters
a roped coil of my long dark hair
a map from trips unplanned
the front door to our unpurchasedhouse
            the crumpled calendar leafletsto mornings slept away
I make no haste surveying the damage
            —theartifacts of a privileged life—
            the scrapsof me the universe saw fit to take away.
            Thispile-mole-hill-mountain-monument is everything I’ve ever lost…
and everyone.
            Thereperched high in a rusted beach chair, the silhouette of a straw hat andoveralls.
            I couldwade through—but I don’t move.
            I am solidas this tree, barked to its flanks
            buried ineverything I think I’ve lost.
I watch for vital-signs. wait for you to move
readjust, sigh, smile
or for the morning to reach across the lawn
and make it all tangible,
but it never does.
I wish I had known;
consumed by anguish over lost legos
—I wish I had been told by someone older, wiser, more worndown—
that some losses are deeper than others:
some carve at your soul.
What I would give to brush aside the strings of florescentglass beads and…
but I am small—barked to this tree.
What I would give to dig my nails into twenty-two years
and climb to where you are,
shake you conscious
beg you to stay
—but I am small, brittle as my grieving tree…
            I’ll nevermake it, I’ve put too much between us, I’ve trust you out of reach
If only—
            If only wewere face to face:
            you in youroveralls, me sprawled across the green
            I couldknow then
            with certainty 
            that the things the universe takes away make it out of this place
            transcendtheir own trifleness
Sometimes when I ache for you I remember all the things I’llnever lose
            a wheezinglaugh
            a whiskeylaugh
            a handprinton my shoulder
            a bear-hug
and I sit Indian style with my back to the world waiting forthe buttons to scatter
the love letters to slip silently into the deep
for the man atop my mourning pyre to raise himself
onto his legs and cascade calmly back to the grass
            I wouldstand and extend my fingers
            I would abidewith sturdy roots
            for you toput your forehead against mine and breathe again
            I would holdyour whiskered cheeks in my palms and say what I always meant to say…
Go now.
   You are not lost.

Poem 79

from last spring… it was spring today so it seemed appropriate
A cucumber could not taste as sweet
As arm hairs in a long forgotten breeze
Carrying chattering laughter of weather and what not
Across untidies—ever eager spring—comes grass
From eye level the down low dirt colors summerness
Becomes the pressures on elbows straining this afternoon’s
Latest failed attempt at slashing to to-do list
Waiting for the sun to prefer certain patches, clockwork
The excuses to-do nothing collect armies
Of cross hatched spear-seedlings: a barracks
Against the wide view of impending calendar crossing

Poem 77

Dear readership,

I appreciate that you have yet to abandon ship. I’ve had a few shocks in the last few weeks and the blog fell through the cracks. Since this was made mainly to accompany a project, and that project is nearing it’s deadline, I will be posting less and less (though more frequently than November and December. Thanks for sticking around.

I promised 100 poems and you will have them… they might just be a little last minute 🙂

from reading a VW

And why bother with plants in barrows when
caughtup in the button-loop and suspended
is a clay face furrow, flanked and filthy–
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
butterknives takes all winter…
hooves collecting flecks of color in cubbords
to cushion the sawdust and seeds. Blance beasts
in blank places stir now despite the snow–
while you were sleeping; while you slept.

Poem 77 PostcardPoem 77 RevisedPoem 77 Edited


Poem 68

To a very dear friend, Miss Gill, whose last words to me in writing were: See You Soon!!
She wrote.
All the corners of the globe my fingers refuse to acknowledge:
Russia’s bowed forearms, the himmalayan rowed molars, 1000 pinhead islands
kissing the forehead of china; with the flick of a finger
I could send them blurring backwards and with
The prick of that same hand I could jolt the whirling wheelbarrow at once
And rue the very wish for such control.
With the impatient end of a paper-clip I could gnaw tectonics within them
Draw the lines so many times traces by hands and fingers
Cracking the surface, cracking the scull
With the muzzle of a mouth and the grating of un-teeth
Could chew the waxy ends of a life almost finished and pressure the fibrous bones
To stretch beyond themselves as overbanked clay might in remembering more malleable days.
There they stood collecting salt on the toes of their shoes.
Grabbing at the whistle of someone else’s ambulance. They will not release the name.
Come away,
come away from the crooked tiretracks, the fallen letters.
The westward setting sun on the eve of the desert threatens the grass funeral daily.
Who will water the petunias now?
There, with the dancing hand of a conducting symphony only to silence
the trumpeting palm across the wheel.
A collection of fifty predetermined casualties lines up in her body now.
Who will water the petunias?
How will they lift her from the pavement?
How does a body fall when the exertion of force flutters through every molecule?
How does a body land if the breathing beast could slow, could feel could sympathy; breath.
No one apologizing, scratching of pens on paper.
The sound of a loud and important voice detailing protocol.
How does that body fall?
With out grace.
The voice in the walls is whispering about geography.
There are seven continents. There will be a quiz on their names. Spelling counts.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
With nothing important to clutter the table. I pick at the corner of my nametag.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My mother pulls the pan from the oven. Steam and salt in the air.
There is tapping of fingernails familiar on the newly granite countertops.
I am not so concerned with the continents. I am now fascinated with connections.
Universities draw maps of the globe in the language of relationships.
How the grass grows in India.
Pieces of the leftover knowledge.
Erase thoroughly.
Erase everything.
Pencil shavings and nothing on the desk but the name tag with the letters all there.
All the right letters. Someone took great care to pay attention to the letters.
She went outside to get the letters and the mail truck rounded the corner.
The letters weren’t there, not all of them.
Not the one in my drawer I had been meaning to write.
Someone was paying close attention to the letters.
It would be blistering, the black baking flesh.
The kind of afternoon where the sun sat in the center of the eye until quite suddenly
someone reminded you it was eight thirty and you turned out the lamp in the kitchen.
Backwards, a face face down facing china, digging their heels in about digging all the way to get
there digging for conversation with the faceless masses, if I could dig from china
starting at twelve fifteen three weeks ago I might have cracked the crust in time
to catch her from the fall if all the clocks in china were timed to the right moment I still would have called a minute or ninety too late.
So sorry.
So sorry indeed to be leaving this on your macheen.
Pleese don’t teese me with the message about calling mee back.
I’ll wait by the phone. Some time soon you’ll tell mee about the close call
in the street where hee almost didn’t look up in timee.
Almost. Almost everyone forgot the letters all the letters were always in the right place.
Every EE in Emilee. She had to get the letters, I know this to be true.
I counted on my fingers the colors of the crooked countries.
We wrote them will rotten-egg markets and called them by name to the walls,
who whispered to us of the iron curtain and the Persian wars.
Paperback-parchment history landing among the dust missed
by the mere syllabic recognition of places I’ll never go.
I scrape my nails across mustard Egypt and candy red Cairo.
Clutch the toenails of Canada as she rests her weight on the pole.
It was whole. The globe,
when the plates cracked open like the surface of an egg.
Could cook an egg on the sidewalk in such heat.
It could spill out like the unholy confession gulped down by the sudden-end…
you know how these things tend to go.
Flowers and weeds. Stuble and seeds.
These are the broken contemplations gardened from our Tuesday afternoons.
Someone waits by the door for the shouting to subside.
The thick slick slap of a hand on the pavement.
The hum-drum roar of the brakes.
Catholicism means there are no mistakes. And what
do you tell me then, when the lights flicker from the timers half ancient,
the perfect way to end a sentence is with a verb:
She went.
I’m not quite sure where they go
when they are shaken from their fibers.
They walk (across the sidelong pathways).
She looked (perhaps left and not right)
He checked (to make sure he was headed in the right direction)
I called (and left a message without enough verbs)
Crying tastes like bile. Lying tastes like spenda.
Someone aught to flower the petunias.
Someone aught to read the mail.
In a drawer with the photos and the postage stamps.
Below the calendar and beside the atlas she
as the living to the living about all the important things:
Flowers and seeds, stubble and weeds.
Needs. And greeds. And heeds and pleads.
She wrote (my mother should water the petunias).