My poem, Sixty, went live this week on “More Truly, More Strange, an Anthology of Poetry In Augmented Reality”. It’s a Snapchat-enabled project. Link, here. Here’s a written version: Sixty Standing in mist that autumn evening, waiting to go, suddenly sixty snow geese overhead, a vast hushed company, swirling clouds together. Muted wingbeats thrumming, potent as a divination, I could not leave them, could not move as their wings brushed winds upon my upturned face. photograph: Snow Geese Flying by Ken Archer | Art.com
Two of my poems were chosen for inclusion in Black Mountain Press’ “The 64 Best Poets of 2018” international collection. I owe a profound debt of gratitude to poet Bruce Beasley for working with me on these poems, part of a manuscript that is currently out to publishers. Solicitation Come now. Pull me into you as wind lures leaves into a vortex, reeling. My skin remembers fingers trailing and the touch of someone’s tongue. If you push your breath across my wrists, I’ll feel your most sacrificial secrets brush me. Betrayal and devotion, both. I will allow your breathing message to be borne to me the way a tiger carries…
My lifelong friend, Barry Casey, and his friend Wahab Sharoon, work with 35 orphans in a village in Pakistan. Together, they raise money to buy mosquito netting, tents, and cots, as well as organize projects for things like building toilets, for the children. Barry reached out to me, asking if I could design a quick and simple logo for their tiny organization, and of course I said yes … how could I not?
As I enter into revisions on this year’s poems, these are the words most often used by my mentor and editor when talking about my work.
Shortlisted for A3 Review’s August 2019 contest.
I water wilting plants, consider how the seasons tilt in this new age we’ve made, unroll the hose, watch insects rushing to wet pools. I consider my back fence, the possums, squirrels, and feral cats, the raucous crows who use it, running through dense maple leaves. I consider thirst and buy a water fountain for them;it’s said in 30 years there will be food and water riots. My hands are scented with the urgent hopes of new-planted herbs.
Profound thanks—my poem, “My Life as a Damascene Sword,” received honorable mention in Passager’s 2019 Poetry Contest. It appeared in Passager’s contest issue, September 2019.
Thinking of my father today, I wrote this memory-poem.
Reading the news this morning, I was stuck by how all the words and phrases, taken randomly and out of context, still tell a story of what’s happening in the world, though in a less linear and predicable way.