two wonderful publications have gone live recently and due to the kindness of some very lovely editors,
a few of my poems have been included. it is time (past due) for thanks!
first, a ‘thank you’ to marie marshall for including me in the autumn 2012 showcase on the zen space. do stop by for a leisurely stroll … then on your way home, drop into amazon and order marie’s new novel Lupa! everyone needs her own copy. congratulations, marie!!
and a ‘thank you’ to dale wisely for including my poem in questions, the new mini-issue at right hand pointing. I’m so happy to be able to share that space with fellow poet-friend deb scott and other awesome writers. it’s a great read; don’t miss it!
joyful moon –
I sing with the voice
of a crow
I’m happy (and a few other words, too) to announce that today marks the publication of my poetry in two different places. a great, heart-felt ‘thank you’ to marie marshall for including me once again in her wonderful ‘the zen space’ — in the Summer 2012 Showcase. come help celebrate Matsuo Bashō’s famous haiku; you may just notice some familiar ‘feathered’ friends during your wandering.
I’m startled by the splash
and right hand pointing is now live with issue 52: airbursts and shattercones. I’m thrilled to have two of my prose poems included. this special issue was edited by howie good, who’s been very kind to me. rhp is consistently a great read; check it out!
my small poem —amelia, ohio— is happy to be part of right hand pointing’s ‘cities’ issue.
thank you, dale.
the indian is sitting in a tree near the edge of a spillway. he whistles, he calls. he wants me to climb peeling bark, to fold legs and arms, to balance on bare feet. I lock the car door. I take off my shoes. it is cold, high on this branch. his brown skin is feathered; he wraps me in a wing. he points at the deep-water lake with a cigarette. this is where we come from, he says. we swim until we can walk. we walk until we can fly. there is time for everything. he shifts, and his yellow beak is wet in the setting sun.
he has nothing more to say.
(revised version) issue 52 — right hand pointing
a dog is barking his opinion. he is my ex-husband, waking neighbors. something rustles leaves in the backyard, tips over a stack of empty clay pots. the indian is in my head, feeling his way because there is no moon; there are no stars. I open the door and the opossum screams, frozen in guilt. light turns his black eyes to gold. his teeth, his pink tongue are fear and they writhe, they gnash. neither one of us moves. we feign, our dead tails curling like parasitic worms.
the indian stands with his feet flat on the ground.
(revised version) — issue 52 — right hand pointing