Published: Fixator Press

Photograph by Aleathia Drehmer

I am happy to announce that my poem “The Language of Flowers” is up for viewing at Fixator Press.

Thank you so much to editor Jonathan Butcher for taking this piece. Be sure and tool around once you get to the website and read all the other great poetry there.

Thanks for reading. Be kind and support the small press.

Published: Open Skies Quarterly: Volume Five

I am pleased to announce the release of Open Skies Quarterly Volume Five: Anniversary Edition. My poems I’m No Green Thumb, An Anarchist’s Tombstone, Jal Tarang, Elm St. Park-Independence Day, and Quiet Violence are included. A big thank you to Keith Sparks for including me in this print edition.

This 410 page book is available through Amazon for $15.

Open Skies Quarterly Volume Five is also available as a free PDF Download here.

Thank you for reading and supporting small press.

Published: Spillwords, July 2021

Aleathia Drehmer

I am happy to announce that my poem “Reverb and Retribution” appears in the July 2021 series of poems at Spillwords.

Please stop by and read some of the great works they post there on a daily basis. There is always something new. Thanks for reading. Be kind. Support the small press by buying books of poetry.

Published: Upcoming Work

Photograph by Aleathia Drehmer

Hello, lovely readers. I have a lot of work being published in the next six months and I want to do a quick shout out to promote these presses while I wait for my work to appear. Please stop by their magazine and read the great poems they publish there and support other small press writers by buying books and sharing work you like.

I will have two poems appearing in Impspired Magazine.

I will have three poems appearing in M 58 Poetry.

I will have five poems appearing in Piker Press.

I will have a poem appearing in Spillwords.

I will have two poems appearing in Cajun Mutt Press.

Lastly, My poem “Lofty Notes of Pine” was chosen for a Stand Out anthology at Red Penguin Books which will appear in print some time this year.

Check back here frequently for updated links to my poems if you’d like to read them. Take care of yourselves. Keep writing.

Published: Anti-Heroin Chic, June 2021

Photograph by Aleathia Drehmer

It is my distinct honor to have a poem included in the June 2021 issue of Anti-Heroin Chic. There are some amazing poets in this issue that really blew my mind with their raw truth and story telling skills. There is powerful work in this issue. You can read my poem “A Poem for the Lost Poems” here. But definitely check out Victoria Ruiz, Krys Walls, and Carrie Elizabeth Penrod.

Published: Heroin Love Songs XI

It is my great pleasure to be published in Heroin Love Songs XI, both online and soon to be in print. My poems Cracked Roads and Empty Skies, I’ll Lose It All in the End, The Wisdom of Johnny Cash, and W to the Third Power are available for viewing at Heroin Love Songs. Please stop by and read all the amazing work by other featured poets as well and support small press when the print version comes out. These zines are a labor of love for most editors and they appreciate your support. Thanks to Jack Henry for including me in this issue.

Published: South Shore Review

Photo by Aleathia Drehmer

I have the distinct pleasure of being a part of a wonderful new literary magazine called South Shore Review. It is based in Nova Scotia and is filled with great fiction, essays, non-fiction, and poetry. It features beautiful photographs and art. If you would like to read my poem, “Our Labored Breaths,” then click the hyperlinked title. They do have a tip jar linked to the website if you’d like to contribute to the work they do.

Thank you for reading.

Poem: I Once Dreamed of Bob Dylan

I’m pulling this one out of the way back machine. It was originally written in 2008 and published somewhere, though the place escapes me without searching records. I’ve always loved the power of dreams to tell me something about myself. I can still remember this dream even though it has been 13 years. I hope you enjoy.

I once dreamed of Bob Dylan

I once dreamed of Bob Dylan
in a tree house, one walled,
and built from looking glass.

The old man spoke to me
as leaves colored like imminent death
drifted and swirled, their reflection
a knowing torture, and he said 

                                                   blankly:

“You must walk the highway
to get to the by-way.”

I blinked twice,
flashing sea stones
at his face (cracked and dried
like mud in noon sun)
as he pointed to the lines on mine
that had not  been written yet.

Poem: The Fine Art of Vigilance

Photo by Aleathia Drehmer

The Fine Art of Vigilance

This replication, this hidden secret 
beneath my skin unlocked by 
the sun has me searching 
for shade and shadows.

Everything that grows
needs light and warmth.
It’s a power we all
take for granted.

I feel my mind fall into obsession
about times of day and UV index
about covering every inch of my body.

A hole in my face slowly fills in
with new skin and new life, the margins
deemed clean but suspicion lingers.
What happened once, can happen again.

Purple circles outline more areas of worry
like small targets the universe has given me
to remember the fine art of vigilance.
No more long walks on the beach
or sun filled moments in any season
or carefree days taken by the hand at whim.

There are only hats
                        and SPF
                        and being unfashionably
                                                        overdressed.

Poem: this is somehow sad and beautiful

Photograph by Aleathia Drehmer

This is somehow sad and beautiful

I realized no one has missed me
or my words as I faded from the poetry scene
silently as I arrived.
                No one noticed I was gone
                no one knocking at my door
                  or requesting anything of me.

I had settled into my life before
where poems rushed out
because I would die if they stayed;
                no longer writing to be seen
                  or heard, after so many years of invisibility.

I miss them sometimes,
the writers and the connection
and the sense I belonged
to something greater than myself.

Most of them are in the same place I left them,
huddled in a café reading or putting out meager books.
                No one has made it
                    like we all dreamed we would.