She had just turned eighteen. It was the fall of her freshman year at that college in the mountains. The college was famous for its language classes, and she was good at languages, so she signed up for Russian. It was the weirdest, for lack of a better word, language offered. Then she received a … Continue reading Wouldn't the boat also be able to go by itself in the water?
She and Ellen wandered the cobblestone streets of Boston. They stood in sunshine that fingered its way down through the tile roofs and alleys of the old brick buildings. They went to Man Ray on the weekends, the club across the river where they were the straight girls amid the gay men. They danced with … Continue reading It Was the Spring of 1983
There must be some reason why I originally typed in “Some Things I Say to My God” above. Once in a while I post something from someone else’s blog because I love it so much. This is one of them. Enjoy. Your Man for Fun in Rapidan Continue reading "Some Things I Say to My Dog"
And life was bleak and sweet and you conjured yourself up inside me, a something that began to be and which I imagine now still being, a grownup, much older than I was at the time. There you are now, tall one, head full of curls, turning in the doorway to smile at me. I … Continue reading From a line by Maxine Kumin
This is how it was: You sat on the couch and I climbed in your lap. You shook out the paper and then folded it in half, and again into quarters, and then smoothed it straight. I leaned back against your giant chest and waited. You pointed to each panel and read the black and … Continue reading Family Circus
She copies her friends and decides to write a poemish thing a day for a month. After all, if they told her to jump off a bridge, sure, she would jump off a bridge. Why not? Good Lord, I’ve got to write a poemish thing, she tells her daughter. They are sitting in a semi-grimy … Continue reading Kathi and April are both doing it, so why shouldn't she?
your own PDK for writing
a collection of beautiful words.....
Objects, Memory and Meaning
If it can't be said in a hundred words, then it can't be said in a thousand.
sewing a handmade wardrobe
“My mother is a poem I’ll never be able to write, though everything I write is a poem to my mother.” ~ Sharon Doubiago
The Good Things Black People Do, Give and Receive All Over The World
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
Thoughts on the world around me
the literary asylum
Bipolar is my superpower
