Tag: poetry
New Publication in Sugar House Review: Moving Poem
Excerpt from “Moving Poem,” newly published in the Summer 2024 issue of Sugar House Review:
There is a game we play
where one of us hides,
only letting a sliver of ourselves show,
and waits to see how long it will take
for the other to notice us.Sometimes, I wait so long
that I can’t decide
if we’re still playing or not.
__________
The full poem can be read by
purchasing the full print issue here
Two Poems in New Zine: bonefolder no. 1
Bonefolder is made by hand in Nova Scotia by Michael Goodfellow and Natalie Rice.
Excerpt from bonefolder no. 1
Poem in Flyway
Excerpt from my prose poem in Flyway’s Winter 22-23 Outside Issue:
It’s easy now to forget about summer bearing down, the stories about fried eggs on the sidewalk. These are days I can believe each grey branch of the mesquite tree might be resurrected with spring leaves. And sometimes I think I don’t ask for so much—a lover who makes me feel wanted, creatures going about their own business, the potential for regeneration—and sometimes I think this is so much to ask for.
Read the full poem and check out the entire issue by clicking here.
New poem in MONOLOGGING
I’m a little late in getting this up, but one of my poems was published this fall in the Autumn 2021 issue of monologging.
Ipomoea arborescens
Beyond the highway,
the desert is abloom
with white paper lanterns
or are they apertures
the arid land giving way at last… continue reading
New Publications: Lunar Eclipse off Exit 88 & What Gould's Magpie Has Stolen
Two poems up now in the latest issue of Minding Nature, a publication from the Center for Humans & Nature.
Cover Art by Courtney Mattison
LUNAR ECLIPSE OFF EXIT 88
Somewhere in Oklahoma, speeding through scrubby darkness, we pulled off the highway on Exit 88…
WHAT GOULD’S MAGPIE HAS STOLEN
For its feathers, the prism of light that broke its blacks into iridescence…
New Publication: This Ground
Up now in the newest issue of Vagabond City:
THIS GROUND
…From the ground of this Arizonan desert branches rise as the roots of the sky, and I wonder now, what is the difference between a hundred places and no place?…
New Publication: Tidal Desert
Published this week in the lovely Winter issue of Hawk & Whippoorwill
TIDAL DESERT
…Because I could descend in the chasm of dissolution between the layers of sandstone to where life is pressed like petals,
I began to sense the land’ s lungs beneath the soil, see the hardness of the desert and understand that here, life is not to be presumed…
New Publication: Mudsoft, Hardtack
Published today in Issue 6 of Sky Island Journal
MUDSOFT, HARDTACK
My first gasp was over the wide Sheepscot River,
mama panting in the speeding car,
holding me in…
New Publication: Ode to a Rock Dove
Published this month in Entropy’s “The Birds” series
ODE TO A ROCK DOVE
—For JPD
You’re right.
A blackbird taken apart
by a raptor is not the same
as the nestling pigeon,
wet from rain,
run into the
clogged freeway
by slavish,
hulking cars.
And of course it was a pigeon—
rat-of-the-sky,
pest,
dirty dirty bird—
call it
what they will,
you wish the authorities
would restore its name to dove,
dove, with all the potential
of cliches.
For isn’t that part of it?
We are a nation
in love with the idea
of pulling oneself up
by the bootstraps,
even as we call them pigeons,
even as we crush their bodies
as we inch forward dumbly
in our commute of tedium.
This ode is to the bird
that hadn’t yet grown feathers
with which to rescue itself
(and was given
no second chances)
so join me, reader,
with the same empathy
extended to the underdog,
and imagine its life if lived:
Imagine the search
for cold fries under a table
in pursuit of sustenance and survival
Imagine the spin and flash
of emerald and royal purple
in the drive to mate and remake
Imagine the power
of full-fledged wings
in the rush of rising up
up above traffic
up above streets
up above city
to look down on all of us.
New Publication: Grafting
Published in the Spring/Summer issue of the Aurorean
GRAFTING
Among high ponderosas in Arizona,
I remember Maine’s white pines—
how after climbing them,
their clear sap drew pieces of that homeland
straight into my hands.
I have been grafted here and there,
with the seasons, out of season,
I have loved light rising like heat
across highways dredged through the land,
woken to a broken shard of sunrise
reaching through a canyon.
I am fastened in transient topography
by the movement of stars,
the constancy of things I cannot hold.
The sun seeps up through the Atlantic.
Maine shifts into the idea of belonging,
in longing, as if it no longer exists.
It is like the memory of a scent.
Download a pdf of the original poem here