New! We Will Not be Silenced ... contains three of my poems and hundreds of others by writers I admire. Now in print and Kindle on amazon.com.
Subtitled "The Lived Experience of Sexual Harassment and Sexual Assault Told Powerfully through Poetry, Prose, Essay and Art," this book is neither screed nor pity party. Rather, it’s a positive,
powerful platform to give voice to people who have been sexually
exploited, abused, treated as invisible.Listen
and believe them.
photo by Dan Tappan
The open-minded folks at Oddball Magazine have also published one of my poems... Click to read Old Shirt and see the companion artwork the editors chose.
Some seasonal poems:
Raspberries in Autumn
The berries stay into November
Red as paint,
Leaves green as May,
Past the ripest weather, they taste
Better to enjoy them in season
Full of sweetness, youth and power
Before they are wasted by the lateness of the hour.
Every year sometime between
Halloween and Christmas
My mother bought one pomegranate. An Indian Apple.
She’d break the thing in two.
“Half for me, half for you.”
The fruit that plays hard to get.
So red, so sour, so difficult
it must be good for you.
Tonight I’m at my kitchen sink
not hungry, but wanting what’s inside that thing.
The knife kills a few red seeds when I cut through to get it started,
then my thumbs dig in, murdering pulp until the halves are parted.
Lips and teeth dig and suck until, puckered, I’ve had enough.
Hands bloodied with fresh grenadine, fingernails pink.
I’ve had it from a bottle. It seems like cheating.
A pomegranate, with the experience stolen.
Give me an Indian Apple, a whole one,
a thousand seeds of dynamite about to go off!
Walk in the Cold
I wanted to take a walk in the cold.
In the dark,
I wanted to call an old boyfriend on my mobile phone.
Someone I had not seen in a decade
Or even three.
Someone who knew me only young.
Just to catch up.
To hear him talk about what a lover I was.
What a beauty.
So I walk out beyond the sidewalks to the rougher road.
I take the right side of the road because I don’t like headlights in my eyes.
Besides, if I’m going to get hit, I’d rather be surprised.
I reach into my coat pocket and find only a pack of tissues and a chapstick.
I’ve left my phone on the nightstand.
So I walk out to Journey’s End, an old mansion I love for the stonework
and the sagging shutters.
I touch the gatepost and walk home to you.
You, who looks at my lines and knows the stories they tell.