Sep 22

Autumn Reads

Jul 29


Jul 27

Emily Dickinson

Do not fret, 
for I have never seen 
Vesuvius either – 
thus far, we are 
equals. (Although 
that fantasy quickly 
crumbles apart.)


You write of Death so freely and
it makes me wonder how you must 
perceive the whole ordeal. 
Is it your past, present, and future? 
Everything and nothing at the same time?

Does it surround you on all sides –
pressing into your already corseted figure – 
crawl through the twisted canals 
of your ears and finally drift its way into your nose, 
glide down towards your cavernous lungs? 

When you look up 
from the table, what 
is it that you see – or, 
instead, who is it 
that you see?

Is it Death himself?

Audio download:
Emily Dickinson.mp3
Jul 26

I am a River

“I am a river,”
you say to me 
and gleefully 
run off to find
the ridges that 
will bolster you 
when the time 
comes to submit 
to Tethys and 
become your 
winding, watery, 
infinite self. 

Now it is my turn to claim my existence.
I am not like you; the river does not embody me. 
Maybe I’m destined to become a lake, or a pond. 
I feel that I am the water that holds the spotted 
salamanders and gives life to dragonflies and tadpoles. 
There are sturdy rocks and pebbles that line my shores, 
and the cattails choose to make their home alongside my 
waters. I am a Naiad, but a Limnad in that. I am not 
a river; I am the cool depths of a deep lake. I am the water 
that bursts with life. 

Jul 22
poem challenge: Freedom

Sweet Flavor

To feel the succulence of 
strawberries, you should 
know it only comes from 
the real kind, not the 
large, unflavored berries  
you can so easily find 
in the market. One bite
of those enticingly dark 
pink fruits and soon enough 
disappointment follows,
swooping its way into the cave
of your open & hungry mouth. 

You'll need to wait 
patiently alongside 
your own bush of 
strawberries to know
what I mean, allowing the 
fruits to turn that lush, 
red color as slowly 
as they wish. Give 
your berries time; let 
them have space to
fill as they grow. 


You won't know the 
sweet, bright flavor 
of wild strawberries in summer
until you stumble across 
a flowery bush of them 
taking refuge near 
the shaded forest line. 

Devour them whole.
No one will be there 
Jul 20


Jul 20


After reading "Altars" by Austin Rodenbiker

This poem is sad 
and lonesome, 
sad and lonesome. 

Barely more than 
a list, an inventory 
of objects placed 
upon altars. 

Numbers, colors – 
things placed so easily – 
grouped descriptions 
filling up
the spaces of people. 

How sad
and unending, 
sad and unending.

"Altars" by Austin Rodenbiker
Barry “J.T.” Rogers, 1965–2004

       Two sprigs of rosemary,
               a champagne flute,
                                   a black candle.

    Three leaves from an apple tree,
a thin silver chain,
    a baseball cap.

                                               Two blue kerchiefs,
                                   twenty holly berries,
May 31

The Labyrinth of Useless Stories

The Labyrinth is now all I am; my entire being exists within these twisted marble walls. Sometimes I wonder if I am not more than another turn in the unending pathways of this place. Yet I am unsure of how long ago it began, this fusing of myself and The Labyrinth. I feel that many days, or maybe even years, have passed since that one terrible evening, though I will never guess how long it has been. Time is fluid within The Labyrinth. There is neither day nor night, moon nor sun. Only memories.
Mar 02

How Rocks Live

These last five years 
passed by quickly. 

I wonder if I observe 
time like the rocks do ––
everything can happen 
in no time at all and yet 
I remain unmoved;
I stay in the same position.