I am thankful, my Creator, for the gift of grace and love, for the peace in my life, for those around me who nurture me with their loving friendships, for my parents who gave for me and helped me grow, for my loving husband who has sacrificed much and replenished himself in my love and joy, for my God-given daughter who is an angel on Earth, for my son who is an angel beyond us and for the moment of now and now and…

My poem “Memento Mori” will appear in a print anthology of “Press 1″ writings to be published by Straw Gate Books this winter.

My poem “Mute” will be published in March of 2010 in  ’blue collection 1′ from Blue Fifth Review – as part 3 of ‘the body series.’  

Thanks to Sam Rasnake for the opportunity and for selecting this work.

blue collection 1 – the body will feature:

Melissa Buckheit, Demotics

CE Chaffin, To My Left Pinkie

Robert Klein Engler, The Artist Held in Memory

Rupert Fike, I Care for the Body that Bore Me

Paul Hostovsky, Caesura

Rich Ives, Temporary Embodiment of a Passing Cloud

Marilyn Kallet, I Want You Here

Jeff Mann, Russian Samovar

Clare Martin, Mute

Amy Small-McKinney, Two Figures Sitting & Walking

Marge Piercy, Old traumas never die

Susan Terris, Beldame Rite for the Missing One

I am banning myself from submitting any poetry to lit journals until 2010. From now until the end of the year I will revise and refine work and read poetry. I have been careless in sending out work that was not ready or worthy. That is obvious to me. I’ve been sloppy. I’ve been hung up on status, without thinking of building a good reputation. I need to let myself mature and let my work mature. So that is what I plan to focus on…what I hope will happen.

I am locked into writing at night when the house is asleep. When I can work uninterrupted and reach the places I need to, in stillness and with concentrated effort.  So I suffer some sleeplessness and my family suffers a little because I don’t function well before noon.

Overnight I managed to write three “wild” and yet clean poems—and by clean I mean sharply-polished.  The titles are: OF A FEVERED CHILD, STRAWBERRIES IN WINTER and NUDE AT THE OPEN WINDOW.  The third one’s title is a bit risqué but the poem is not. I am sorry to disappoint.

These poems hopefully take risks philosophically, linguistically, metaphorically— I considered them carefully and sent them to a fine (nameless) journal less than an hour ago…now it is a waiting game.  If I get a positive response, I will certainly announce here.

(There are drawbacks to the speed at which one can transmit content through the Internet and I have rushed that process in the past—by sending words that were not ready, but tonight I weighed carefully my words and actions.)

I am taking healthier risks in my life—moving out of my comfort zone…more on those life changes later.

Lots of writing going on here and submitting too, to lit journals. Looking forward to brushing my teeth and going to bed. These late hours of writing are a solace and a sin.

I am writing my life to wholeness.

I don’t usually post poems on this blog, but this poem was previously published in an online journal that unfortunately doesn’t exist any longer.

SCATTERING ASHES INTO THE GULF OF MEXICO

Storm-light cracks the rain-whipped windshield.
We are numbed by the beat of the blades & grief. 

Your childhood was a shattered peace; memories cut on broken hearts.
When your father left, life derailed into a crushing wreck. 

Strangers you called “uncle” streamed after the bars closed.
You soothed yourself with lies.  You showed her mercy, love. 

Your mother wanted to be drunk when she died.  She reeked of urine.
You gave her vodka on ice.  It kissed her like morphine.

Your inheritance is a collection of rings; none made of gold.
She bequeathed mysteries for your mourning.

In slashing rain, you seek a point on the storm-dark horizon to take you
into a sweet memory of her, but she is obscure, inscrutable.

You offer ashes to the thunder & wind.
That death is our singular future gives you peace.

 Assured the moon will still pull these gulf waves
even when no one loved is left living.

(First appeared in Southern Hum, Issue 3, March 2006)

 OFFICIAL BLOG RENEWAL POST003-1016

I wrote a new poem last night/today titled REUNION. I feel it is in final form and will be sending it out very soon.  I am prepping material for my anticipated feature at Casa Azul in Grand Coteau, LA in April (National Poetry Month) of 2010. I know it is a ways off but I want to generate new material for this reading.  I rarely read a poem twice publicly. It is a commitment I have made to myself and my short term goal to produce new work.

I am listening to Radiohead KID A and feeling naturally buzzed on this fine music.  FYI: my modus operandi often is to write the night away, but it’s not a workable plan for every night.  But if I am fired up to write I have no choice to obey the muse.

OFFICIAL BLOG RENEWAL POST002-1015

In 2004 the death of my beloved child prompted me to look deeply at my life and how I could live truer to my self from the point of Adam’s death onward.  What meant the most to me beyond my own and my family’s health and well-being was to be the writer I was born to be.  I dedicated to Adam my pursuit of writing with impassioned effort. I began to write daily, reverently and passionately. My commitment to write everyday was charged with the notion of being my true self, doing rather than thinking or talking about being a writer.

I approached my ambitions with professionalism and perseverance. In the past I worked in sales and marketing, and in public relations.  I thought to bring these skills to my writing career as I sent my work to potential publishers.  When I went to “poetry socials” I carried a leather portfolio (nerd-alert) which contained my poems. I sought out other writers on the local scene and made a few tight connections. I pressed forward to create opportunities for myself to share my work publicly in many forums. The embrace of my writer-self was wholehearted.  

When writing, my creative energy was manic, but reigned in and tempered by my determination to make a successful go at creating a body of publishable work, as well. I produced mass quantities of poems, half-eaten scraps and some whole, worthy efforts.  Many pieces are laughably juvenile but I persisted and did not perceive these efforts as failures. I held the belief and still do that I am learning a skill and improvement is desired and necessary.  I truly believe I will get better and better with deep sustained effort.

As much as a desire to develop professionally is the motivation to deepen as a human being that drives me to write. I am carving a path outwardly and going deeper into myself, which is the true reward of being an artist.  Artistic growth is highly desired. As I live superficially I often disconnect from my self and do not acknowledge the inner worlds.  Writing out my life (in quasi-confessional poems) has given me the tools to cut through the dross and release the voice within.  I defy labels which would classify what type of poetry I write. I write free verse, but some forms. I firmly believe that all of my writing is experiment, but not necessarily experimental.  

In the five years that have passed since I began on the path of living a writing life, I have had remarkable experiences and successes, and have been blessed with rewarding and nurturing friendships with likeminded writers.  I am on a path and I do not allow much of anything to divert me from it. I have chosen to step off for a time here and there but the groove is well worn.  I’ve heard it said that if a writer is not writing, they are writing in their head.  It could be true, but I hold myself to the principle that if I am not writing down what’s in my head, I am not writing.