Things have been, understandably, pretty somber around here lately. So I thought I'd change course a bit and share something to make you smile.  If you've ever needed a blurb for your book, or have been asked to write a blurb (I've been on both sides of that equation), this will ring true. And while it's true that "the art of blurbing isn't hard to master" — Oh! For a world without blurbs! The bane of a writer's existence.  Enjoy this nugget from Barbara Crooker and be sure to visit Ruth at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town for the Poetry Friday round-up.  Artle ..read more

I can't remember how I found Frannie Lindsay but I'm grateful I did. She is known for her work in the intersections of poetry, grief, and trauma. This particular poem hit home in ways untold.   No poem, of course,  is a perfect parallel to one's life, but parts of this poem were close to perfect. My mother's shoes — the ones my mother wore in her last weeks of life — were brown. (You can see them above.) They had zippers, not velcro, but they were a favorite, as were Lindsay's mother's. My mom wore her brown shoes the day I took her to the ER in December. They went with her ..read more

Some days call for a reliable, beloved, gorgeous one from William Butler Yeats.  The Lake Isle of Innisfree by W. B. Yeats I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee; And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for al ..read more

I've missed a couple of weeks of Poetry Friday. I was very busy and then I was very sick.  Well, okay, not very sick, as in seriously sick, just sick in that sort of, "I have the stomach flu and it feels like I'm seriously sick but I'm not and I know this will pass eventually," way. And then, after three or four days, it did.  After the first, worst day, I was able to read and I was grateful, as I always am, for the library. I read Severance by Ling Ma and Someone by Alice McDermott and I read Betsy-Tacy at night because it's good medicine. (That one, of course, was not a library ..read more

  I subscribe to "Poem-a-Day" at Poets.org, but I must admit my attention ebbs and flows. Sometimes I faithfully, and happily read the poem each day. In other seasons, poetry piles up in my Inbox and I later mass-delete in a frenzy of Inbox cleaning.   But recently I was walloped by marvelous finds two days in a row — Eve L. Ewing's "eschatology" (which I shared last week) and Kwoya Fagin Maples' "Invisible Work."  Obviously, that was enough to launch me back into my daily habit. Enjoy this beauty!  Invisible Work by Kwoya Fagin Maples or teachers,  &nb ..read more

Eve L. Ewing said of this piece:  "This poem started out as being about the everyday moments that sustain us, born from an interaction with a bus driver. Due, probably, to both the times we live in and my generally apocalyptic character, it also became a poem about the end of the world."  I gotta love any poet who combines small talk and eschatology. I'm there.  eschatology by Eve L. Ewing i’m confident that the absolute dregs of possibility for this society, the sugary coffee mound at the bottom of this cup, our last best hope that when our little bit of assigned plasm ..read more

I love this one from James Weldon Johnson (not that I could ever pick a favorite from among all these treasures.)  Enjoy all kinds of Poetry Friday goodness with Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading.  Before a Painting by James Weldon Johnson I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine What I beheld; nor by what laws of art He had created life and love and heart On canvas, from mere color, curve and line. Silent I stood and made no move or sign; Not with the crowd, but reverently apart; Nor felt the power my rooted limbs to start, But mutely gazed upon that face divine ..read more

It's surprising sometimes, the way Poetry Friday just works. You think of a poet, and you're drawn to that person, their poem, that moment. And it's the perfect poem for that imperfect day.  This morning, coming late to the Poetry Friday party, I thought, "What shall I throw into the mix? What about some Barbara Crooker? What about that one mentioning glorious things around us?" These are days when I find myself looking for glorious moments in the smallest of things.  I found the poem and was gobsmacked. I'd completely forgotten that this poem swerves into mention of her mother ..read more

I find Anne Porter utterly charming.  Porter began seriously pursuing her poetry at the age of 64, after her husband, artist Fairfield Porter passed away in 1975. Her first collection of poetry was published 1994, when she was 83 years old.  Read more about her here, at the Poetry Foundation.  For a longer bio, go to Best American Poetry, where Porter, after being asked why she was still writing at her age, said that "art may be the only pursuit that old age can't wreck": "You can't sing anymore, you can't dance anymore, you can't drive anymore — but you can still write ..read more

Apparently, I haven't posted this one since 2020. (I thought I predictably posted it every single year but apparently, I am less predictable than I think.) Therefore, here is my not-quite-annual trek with Eliot.  Journey of the Magi by T.S. Eliot  'A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.’ And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls ..read more