I made beef stew on a Wednesday because it is my daughter’s favorite and she’s had some mean girl trouble at school. When she was in preschool I used to bring pink-frosted Magnolia cupcakes for pickup. That led to some whining on the part of other parents but I...
You: “I just had one of my poems (or short stories or essays) accepted by Well-Known Literary Journal That I’ve Wanted to Get Into Forever!” Note: You told this to your well-meaning family member, friend or co-worker because you literally just got...
She sits at the dining room table cluttered with shopping magazines, her only mail except for an occasional bill or health care alert or birthday card. I’ve been camping on a cot in her assisted living apartment since I arrived a few days ago. I open my computer...
If music be the food of love, play on…* Shakespeare, Twelfth Night Ah, yes, music is the very soundtrack of love, any love affair has the words to a song, the twist of a particular tune to color its shape, from old love: “Let’s Stay Together… Al Green, to new love: ...
This poem was inspired by a John Santos concert that paid tribute to and featured Cuban jazz. Held in SF Jazz’s beautiful venue, the music transcended the location, reaching a patchwork of cultures, traditions and times. NOTES IN THE KEY OF SEE Skat, sticks,...
Hey Minerva, Remember when you wrote me last week in the midst of some heavy-duty agita? Your sore throat raged like the fires of hell, you got a flat on the way to work, and while you were agonizing over your chapbook submissions, everybody you knew was...
Hot is what I used to be. Not now. I feel the chill coming on and the warm days are numbered. I remember the Midwest September so many years ago when the corn harvest is complete. A lone man sits atop a combine to plow under the leavings. A woman wrapped in red...
Do you remember the first poem you ever had published? Mine appeared in a now-defunct journal that I think had the word “Stone” in the title when I was still in high school. I remember how it felt to get the thick journal in my hands and turn to my poem...
“That, my girl, is a blaze of glory,” he said his gloved hands wrapped around the handle of a rake. Mom snorted a laugh. “Ha, the only blaze of glory a man like you will ever have.” My khaki-clad dad scowled. I turned back to the pile of leaves, a flaming pyre,...
Photo: Hila Ratzabi in Acadia National Park in Maine Thank you to poet Hila Ratzabi for sharing her thoughts on eco-poetry. Hila’s dedication to poetry and the potential that poetry has to make tangible, positive changes continues to inspire me. Hila Ratzabi was...
