Congrats, bees: You’re endangered
On my fridge, I have a photo of my son from 13 or 14 years ago holding a baby chick. He’s seated in a chicken coop, cupped hands like a nest. Small as he is, the chick is even smaller. I read on his face a budding capacity for wonder and gratitude. This creature is so precious, and I have the chance to hold it. *I* do. *Me.*
Pan toast is not Pinterest-worthy, but it’s everything you need
And so I make toast. But not just any toast. It’s the omg-do-you-know-what-would-taste-so-good-right-now-?! toast, also known in my family as “pan toast.” Medium hot skillet. Melted butter. Bread. It’s better than toaster toast because the bread stays moist on the inside. It melts in your mouth. Pan toast is not Pinterest-worthy. It’s not Instagrammable. But it’s everything you ever need: comfort.
The underbelly of the business lunch: A #poem for VP #Pence
I don’t usually write satirical poems, but VP Pence’s unwillingness to have lunch alone with a woman who is not his wife called for it. It’s hard not to lampoon this administration.
Poetry goals for 2017
I love seeing how other writers get shit done, and so maybe someone out there wants a peek inside my brain. (WARNING: It’s not a very hospitable planet, and you’ll have to provide your own snacks.)
Call it “the remains of winter”
Remember the girl I said I’d found? The poet-warrior? She refused to stick around. Let’s call it “the remains of winter.” Let’s call it “Trump administration.” Let’s call it #$%?!@*!!
My word for 2017 is PRACTICE
I am using “practice” in the sense that one has a practice because a specific kind of activity is regular and frequent (ideally daily). In other words: consistent, engaged and present with.
In which I am surprised by the results of my 2016 poetry plan
I was totally surprised when I started evaluating progress on my official 2016 writing /poetry goals. According to my mood related to writing in 2016, I believed I’d failed every goal I’d set. Turns out, I totally nailed it.
