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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
“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.
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 being unfashionably
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.
Many years ago I got into writing different types of formed poetry. I have always been a free verse sort of girl, but have appreciated what it takes to write in meter or form. This poem is a Sestina. I cannot validate how well crafted it is, but it was fun to write.
The joy of writing for me is the challenge to push myself past the comfort zone. I learn so much about myself when I do this. I gain perspective and open up my mind to being more accepting of different types of writing that I might not be familiar with. This is one of five or six Sestina that I wrote. My process is putting out a call for words and then taking some of them to create the poem. This makes it adventurous. Enjoy.
He moved slowly and purposefully through splintered
feelings. His heart pumping around the protruding tusk
impaled in his chest. It sang deeply of moon.
It pulsated and vibrated more intensely than the alabaster
skin of her thighs. How he wanted to blanket
his body with her; how he wanted to shovel
his way to her voice again. He knelt down, hands forming a shovel
and began digging earth, his mind splintered
into left brain and right with no meninges blanket
to force them to work together. He felt the tusk
burrow deeper with each movement, its girth of stained alabaster
shining like an iridescent beacon screaming at the moon.
“Burn, burn, burn!!” shouted the wicked moon.
Her rays laser beaming the flesh built shovel.
“I will not let you spoil her alabaster
soul again. I will not,” said the high, tight voice. His ears splintered
into a million fragments of universe on the ruined tusk,
laying dimensions of sound over the dirt like a sonic blanket.
It was all so invisible, her hatred, this blanket.
He pawed at it on the sparkled ground moon
forming in the lake of blood dripping from the tusk.
He never meant to lay his hands on that shovel,
never meant to enjoy the wood as it splintered
beneath his palms, as it cracked her alabaster
skull with resonance. She breathed untouched alabaster
no more; she was damaged. He had done it and now this blanket
of silence suffocated him as the night cursed him in splintered
tongues. He stood a devil redeemed under the moon.
The spade lay there detached, a broken tool, a shovel
no more. His head hung there now noticing the tusk.
She had closed in on him like lust, arms behind her, gripping the tusk
her daddy had killed for in Africa, its gypsum alabaster
shine his recollection to her beauty that could shovel
away a mountain as easy as folding a blanket.
She had kissed his lips in front of the testament of the moon
and punctured his faith with the ivory. He was splintered
morbidly by the pointed tusk. Her lies, an evil blanket
all along—alabaster lies forged deep in hatred by the moon!
He lay his broken hand/shovel down, now numb and splintered.
A Wall in Naples, 1782
One long white stocking
hangs from the balcony
swinging its toes, brushing
the tree tops, brushing against
the murderous beige wall.
Bricks birth through the stucco,
holes left from weather
and persistent birds
each perforating the sanctuary
of the stocking’s owner.
I wait for her to push through the door.
I wait for the window to throw its sash.
I wait for the sun to cease its brutal pummeling.
I wait for the stars
to give me a taste
of silk in my mouth,
against my teeth.