through etherpassing repeated landmarksto wind upin this rocking chairwith you
Friends, I can’t tell you how excited I am about this announcement from ALL CAPS PUBLISHING:ALL CAPS PUBLISHING is pleased to announce publication of a very special collection of poetry--Coffee With Leonard Cohen by our favorite entomologist-poet, Joy S Grape.
I’ve long been a follower of Joy S Grape’s blog; perhaps you have, too. I find Joy’s poetry intriguing and enveloping, creative and quirky, sometimes like an object you come across and attempt to find a name for, other times familiar like a childhood friend. I’m so excited about Joy having collected these poems, and many illustrations, too, into a volume that I can hold in my hands and ingest as a whole. It’s really a treat, and I can’t wait for my copy to arrive. Get yours now!Here’s how Joy describes herself, hah:
Joy S Grape is interested in lots of things. She looks under rocks for a living. Her favorite literary romance is Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. She would love it if you would stop by her little blog: Coffee With Leonard Cohen
You know you want to read it. Click here to purchase a copy from Amazon. You might also like to read the announcement over at ALL CAPS and/or browse our authors and titles. And visit Joy’s blog, too. Trust me on this!
for Mark Kelliher
Funny, your stitchin my side now achesunder my breastas your leprechaun voicechills to eskimo breath& washes out like sandon Popponesset Beach.Death comes so earlythis time of year--
Linking up with Izy’s prompt to the Real Toads: ESKIMO
Just a reminder that I have a very lovely new book out! Here's a sneak peek. Click here to get it via Amazon or let me know by email (runawaysentence at gmail) if you want to buy a signed copy directly from me. Meanwhile, I’m giving myself a break for a day or two after the frenzy that was 30 Poems In November.
Observingthe straight of your backrefracted inthis morning’s frost,my glare begins to thaw.
You litlike butanecreasedon a Snyder chairtrembling like papersrolled with a jonesYetheld your ashheld it stillsteelysteady gazepast my earHeld my breathprayed for it to dropcounted by Mississippistill it crumbledYou toked Deathfor so longbut when it cameI was unprepared
For my occasional music prompt to the Real Toads, honoring Lou Reed. Poem #29 of 30 Poems In November (eek!) to benefit Center for New Americans.
You know it’s Thanksgivingwhen you peel your sweet potatoeslistening to the Macy’s parade,when you cry during commercials,drum corps, Rockettes kicklines& Charlie Brown’s holiday meal,when you play Yahtzee well intothe evening after an unplannedbut predictable nap on the couch,when you hug your kids extra-long& consider actually sending yourgratitude skyward in the formof a soaring, bird-like prayer.
Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers! #28 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans. With special love to Kirsten Piccini, who also tears up during the Macy's parade.
As the bruise on my rightforearm yellowed & faded, a newbruise appeared on the left.Can I just say I bruise easilyor chalk it up to clumsiness?
Or, in this season of thanks,is something trying to reach me?
For Kerry’s very intriguing prompt to the Real Toads: Let's Write in Black & White
#27 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans.
Whatiflonelycolumns mergedwith rows, cells above,below, auto-sums filling uppreviously empty space? Desks mightimplode with love.
#26 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans!
Salvation Armybell backgroundsprematurely forlornaccordionistat the market door.Having nothing elseto spare, I thinkto ask him to dancearound just once more,but I don’t dare.
Aaaahh it’s #25 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans!
This latest coming-of-agefilm I’ve watchedis beautiful & poignant,like the others,but I want to seestories about girlsup there on the screen.Real girls, not mean girls.Not pink-sparkly girls,or crazy girls or princesses.Just regular girlsdoing ordinary kid things:traipsing woods, fishing,sharing secrets, swearingallegiance, running away,facing mortality, being hurt,learning Big Life Lessons.Why is that so hard to imagine?
I find it surprisingly difficult to write a protest poem in the spirit of Woody Guthrie for Susie’s prompt to the Real Toads. I revere Woody Guthrie (no surprise) and comparatively, this feels less than poetic. But this is something that’s been on my mind and I feel somewhat alone in my aggravation about it. So, here it is. #24 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans!
In memory of Kim Underwood.Remind menever to saydon’t overdo it nowto my children.No imploring themto simmer down,take it easy,settle,be good now,not take anyunnecessary risks.I’ve done enoughof all of those thingsfor the lot of us.Let me bethe mother whosupports her childrenin overdoing itcompletelytoday and every day.
#22 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans.
Let’s sneak out the back wayto avoid being caught,because life in a jar, evenwith holes poked in the lid,even while appreciatingthe gist of the joy on the facesof children,would be interminably dull.In the case of jar-life,even ceaseless would be short-termand unpleasantly spentscheming to escape the inescapable,so let’s run off,leaving the kids to wonder endlesslyjust where we snuck off toand why the heck we left.
#21 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans.
She says talk like a woman,make love just like a man, crylike a little girl. Float likea butterfly, sting like a bee,you’re the only one for me.Beauty is as beauty does,sure as hell crazy like a fox.
43 words for Mama Zen, in the voice of the fox.
#20 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans.
I boarded the bus downtown, tooka seat. You smiled, pulled off
your headphones, chatting me up:I asked where you worked, you asked
about my work. You talked aboutmusic, I described a book. I took
your notebook to write downthe title. (You gotta read this.)
It went like this all the waythrough Oakland to Squirrel Hill, so
we did not notice the voice untilit got louder. Louder. LOUD.
HEY, YOU.HEY, YOU. YOU.
GET OFF THE BUS.GET OFF THE BUS.
OFF MY BUS.OFF. GET OFF MY BUS.
You whispered next stop and rosein slow motion, wound your way
through bodies, briefcases, glares.After all, the bus was now late
and apparently you were the culprit.The driver faced you on the street
yelling, pointing, cursing. In a daze,I tried not to hear, could not look.
I heard GIRL. I heard NO. Everyoneon the bus was looking at you. At me.
You vanished as the bus pulled away.Eyes down, I exited the silent bus
at Forbes and Murray. Ran a blockto you. You gripped my elbow. Your dark
eyes met mine: No promise there,only defeat. I kissed your cheek.
We went our separate ways. Now, thirtyyears later, I still wonder how you are.
I first wrote about this incident a few years back, but have been working to tighten it up and allow the story of the injustice to come through. Please let me know if you think I’ve succeeded.
#19 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans.
On MondaysI’m ill preparedto carry the detailsof our affair.Other days, I’ll sailwave to swell, hardto tell where my lovemeets your shore.But Monday roars inunawares. I swearI can hear your voicein the cormorant’s call.
Poem #18 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans.