Category: Part and Poetry

{pf: the poetry peeps peruse potluck}

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May 29, 2026

4:48 am

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Musings on Extemporanea, Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories

Welcome to another Poetry Friday Adventure!


Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our poetry challenge for the month of JUNE.

Here’s the scoop: we’re greeting the opening act of summer with a triptych. Tabatha Yeatts-Lonske introduced West Coast poet and essayist Louise Ireland’s three-act August Triptych to me a long while back, and commented that she would use it as a mentor text someday. While I don’t know if Tab ever got there (probably yes), our someday is our today! Louise Ireland wrote from the trailing edge of summer’s wane, while we’ll compose our own triptych on the theme of diving into to the waxing of the season – in whatever way moves us. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it June 26th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. See you then.

From Process…

Welcome to the potluck! For me, potlucks are ever and always church-y, bringing to mind the people and things which helped shape my primary foundations for ethics and behavior, for good or for ill. One of those church people was a four-foot-nothing Scottish woman of indeterminate age with a bubble of brown curls, spiky faux lashes, pearled pink nail polish, a tiny lisp, and a huge heart. Sandy McMahon helped out in the 4-5 year old children’s ministry department, keeping us mannerly and handing us our papers after class was over. She also kept her hard-sided purse full of treats. And, every week at potluck, she brought a molded salad – always red Jello, sometimes with fruit cocktail, sometimes with pineapple rings and sophisticated piped mayonnaise. It was her go-to offering.

Alas, I am unfond of the squidge of Jello. I loathe the cloy of mayonnaise. Then there was the ginger ale and the fruit cocktail with the (peeled!!!!) grapes in… And let’s not even go into the Cool Whip. 🤢 On good days there were mandarins. On okay days, my serving did not include one grape. On the very worst days, there were strawberries, cooked to slimy limpness by hot Jello. That texture sets my teeth on edge even in memory. But I ate everything my mother put on my plate – including that jello salad – Every. Single. Week. For one, food was to be eaten, not looked at, played with, poked at, pouted over: eaten; thus sayeth the Mother. For another thing, after potluck, Miss Sandy gave out teensy boxes of raisins to all the five-and-under crowd in the clean plate club (a dried fruit digestif, I guess). So we feral little heathens ate up, then swarmed her, hands out, all demand and barely leashed impatience. We slammed those raisins down, then walked around blowing into the boxes, making high-pitched whistling squeaks and annoying everyone. Good times.

…To Poetry

But, come to the table! Your fellow Peeps are gathering, and the Poetry Sisters are opening bags and coolers – Laura dropped by to bless the table with a blossoms before whisking away. Cousin Mary Lee – today’s Poetry Friday hostess (Thank you, Mary Lee!) – brought a gorgeous bowl of beans. As always, Sara’s chips go with everything. Tricia’s brought her Mom’s dish to share, and Liz brought hers on a vintage plate. Cathy Stenquist brought fruit salad…plus, and Michelle K. brought a golden shovel-full of goodies, and Denise brought a basket. For the whole Poetry Friday roundup, don’t forget to circle back to Mary Lee’s post, where there’s even sides and postprandial activities! More Peeps bearing delish dishes and good gossip may show up throughout the weekend, so don’t forget to check back to see more potluck poetry links here.

Obviously, Miss Sandy deserves a poem. Which I will write. Someday. Until then, there is potluck food poetry. One rhymed randomly, the other ridiculous-but-ruly, because Padraig asked for pantoums this week, and that form was on my mind. In the random poem I took great pleasure in seeing in my mind’s eye the picture of me, age two, at church – patent leather shoes and red cabled tights, sitting primly, legs crossed… and then imagining the sticky, shouting, feral wee beastie I know lived insides – within every child (and every human, if we’re being fair). I amused myself with both poems – sometimes it’s just plain fun to write about something tiny pet peeves that are less than very minor blips in terms of the universe. Jello. Potluck. Behaving. All things which can easily be endured.

Jello Song

~ A Very Silly Poem Draft ~
The bane of all my Sabbath days:
Red jello, ginger ale,
Decorative mayonnaise…
Gelatin with fruit cocktail.

Red jello, ginger ale –
(I’m wincing as your eyebrows raise…)
Gelatin with fruit cocktail.
That jiggle held my soul’s malaise.

I’m wincing – Yes, your eyebrows raise –
I’ll spit it out! (Shush, tattletale.)
That jiggle – ugh. My soul’s malaise.
So hated – let me count the ways.

(I’ve spit it out now. Tattletale!!!)
With narrowed eyes my plate appraise.
That mayo – ugh. Beyond the pale –
No more for me. Thanks anyways.

And of course, the raisins have to have their moment:

A Smol Saint Speaks

That mini box of raisins there
I’ve waited for so patiently.
I learned my verse, I tried to share,
My hands stayed folded on my knee.

I did not pinch, or kick, or shout
(like Conrad did). I got along.
My face stayed sweet, I didn’t pout.
Miss Sandy sings the goodbye song…

And I CRAM raisins in my gob!
It’s rude and gross without a doubt.
Goodness is hard – a full-time job,
I’ve earned my treat! And church is OUT.

As I grew, Miss Sandy stayed around, though busy with a new crop of Very Smols to look after, so in the natural manner of things, I forgot her a bit. Though somehow, in a church with 600 to 800 members on the books and two services, she was still paying attention to her former charges. When I turned twelve, she presented me with a beautifully tissue-wrapped satiny peignoir from the 60’s – probably one of hers. It was the swankiest, fanciest sugary pink nylon and lace confection of a babydoll nightgown to ever be beloved by a young girl’s heart, and I simply SWOOPED around the house in that thing like I was on Dynasty. I LOVED that thing, and I cannot imagine what prompted her to gift me with that – except somehow she saw beyond the awkward sullenness and general geekery to someone whose secret longing was for pretty things. Looking back as an adult, this is even more amazing – what a brave thing to do, for a snotty tween who might have been awful to her. What a way to celebrate a growing-up moment with someone who wasn’t sure she/it was anything to celebrate (jury’s still out). May we all have a Miss Sandy in our lives when we need one – a person for whom we will eat dubiously textured things because she sees us and loves us. And, if we don’t HAVE a Miss Sandy, the Universe extends an invitation: Be One. Be the Miss Sandy you want to see in the world.

Until next time friends, remember you are so, so loved.

Happy Weekend🌷

{npm ’26 • 30 – & Fin}

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April 30, 2026

2:10 pm

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Musings on Extemporanea, NPM, On Writing, Part and Poetry


This morning, Liz said she’s already like a mother who has forgotten the trouble and travail of childbirth, already halfway to missing the daily hour (or in my case, sometimes two or more) of this month’s practice of poetry. And I’m with her – taking a deliberate space of time to do anything on purpose – to no purpose – is near impossible, and my brain and my body already crave the unfocused-focus of deliberately creating poetry with art supplies and open eyes. Despite beginning this on Easter Weekend – not traditionally a “quiet” time if you’re a church chorister – this practice gave me a little quiet – a little arbitrary time wherein I could loftily recuse myself from the world, citing Art. Mind, I write books, but somehow my brain can make that – with its entreaties and appeasement, with its pushes and pulls from readers and revisions and editors and such – much more mundane. That’s just “work,” that is attached to Filthy Lucre, despite the fact that it is, in my heart of hearts, still quite magical to create worlds and escape into them. But poetry – especially since I only have two anthology credits to my name thus – is still somehow …far Different.

Hah. Whatever I have to tell myself, I guess.

It would be a simple matter to extend this Artful Practice a bit – to try to at least get a little sketching and coloring in, but to be honest, it’s hard to justify. It’s time-consuming. It’s resource-consuming. And it pokes the voices in my head that remind me that there’s always something I should be doing – who am I to be skivving off of paying work or not Helping Others or Doing Good with my scant moments on this Earth? The idea that we are not enough on our own to make art or enjoy it is… destructive. And, unfortunately, how I was raised.

The self who I was would be astounded – shouldn’t All be known by now? Wasn’t adulthood meant to Answer All Questions? Who would have though that officially in Middle Age now I would still be so uncertain? But I am uncertain enough to make art, uncertain enough to learn and unlearn, and uncertain enough to still question and change. So as frustrating and difficult as it is to be myself sometimes – and ye squirrelly squids and monsters it is not simple – I guess the uncertainty and discomfort is…necessary. Vital for my personal…formation or whatnot. So, I’ll take it. I’ll keep this self, O Mighty Pen.

That’s what the month of observation has been to me – space for self-examining, deliberately censoring the world without as much as possible. All month long I’ve considered what I can see, peering through windows, looking out of in-groups and into spaces where I am not myself a member. It’s odd how closely aligned middle age is with adolescence; the same observable dance of declaration and denial, of conviction and conjecture. Amidst the swirl of alliance and estrangement, the same echoing queries of “Where do I belong in all of this?” remain. The answers resist simplicity as they always do, while the same conclusion comes – I simply am. I don’t know if that answer shapes who I became as a writer, or only writers can give it, but on the edge of the dance floor, I simply exist – and watch. Looking for how the gears mesh, and where the locomotion takes us.

Blank Page

A heart is
a vacant
city lot,

a pristine
prepped canvas:
potential.

who we are –
what blooms here –
our choosing.

Thanks for being along for the ride. If you’re aiming to catch up with everyone’s National Poetry Month projects for this month like I am, don’t forget that Jama-j has kindly kept a running roundup of everyone’s efforts. Happy Thursday, friends, see you next time – and remember you are so, so loved.

{npm ’26 • 29}

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April 29, 2026

2:15 pm

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General Coolness, Happenings, Musings on Extemporanea, NPM, Part and Poetry, Sleeper Stories


the appearing

nothing more
magical:
appearing,

cutting through
all the noise,
a seeding

whimsically
reminding
You Are Here.

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” – Sylvia Plath

I don’t like to show the images I draw from – I really am dreadful at depicting reality – but the frilly little seedlings near the foot of this Italian fever dream of a fountain shepherdess or whatever (the thing has a giant crack in the base, so it’s doubly ridiculous) – are everything good.

Every single year, I find something to observe which gets me shaking my head all over again. Observing the seedlings this morning in two hour increments has been WILD. I am literally watching them grow, millimeters higher every time I look. I may get nothing else done today but looking. How little I care.

{npm ’26 • 28}

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April 28, 2026

2:23 pm

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NPM, Part and Poetry, Sleeper Stories

If you haven’t yet had the opportunity to read the final lines of the Progressive Poem, the official version wraps up today. Some days I had my doubts with how we’d finish, as this one meandered through a poetic landscape named for poets and inhabited by books – and feathered words – and imbued with the presence of Earth which added (perhaps) real birds. What was so clearly felt was how much we all wanted to put into it. I’m grateful for the deft pens that kept us on the map and out of the weeds. The books – the birds – the trip? – has been brought safely home. It’s been a ride – as always, a testament to community, and the ability of wildly different poetic personalities to nevertheless produce something lovely.

Meanwhile, it’s been a ride around here, too. Today I have another double tricube – a Delian cube? A rhombic dodecahedron? – but we’re nearly finished with the month, so I have to toss the rules at least once or twice… Also, please ignore the words in the drawing for the typed ones, as the typed version is accurate.

chapel

sun yellow
a pint-sized
cathedral

mute, witness
commonplace
sacraments:

recitals,
spelling bees,
services.

one hundred-
and fifty-
two years

neighborhood
cornerstone,
welcoming

one more crowd –
a grand night
for singing.

I occasionally get to sing in the Boy’s recitals if they need a soprano to sing as part of someone’s opera chorus or backup singer – it’s a hoot, and requires a bit of scrambling to learn pieces sometimes. This year, all of the voice students are singing It’s A Grand Night for Singing from Rodger’s and Hammerstein’s 1945 musical, State Fair, and it’s such a delightful rollicking piece of music. The little yellow chapel, bright and acoustically live, perfectly lends itself to the gloriously Technicolor gratuitousness of it all.

{npm ’26 • 27}

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April 27, 2026

2:05 pm

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NPM, Part and Poetry


turtles under ice

my bubble:
encircling
exclusive

occupies
existence
excluding

anyone
else awake
unnoticed

(This poem was in part inpired by Turtle Under Ice, by del Juleah Rosario, review to follow soonish)

I like that tricubes as a form can occasionally be read in more than one way. If we add a comma after ‘existence,’ a period after ‘excluding,’ and a question mark after ‘unnoticed,’ the poem reads one way. If a period comes after ‘else,’ it reads another way. (I am also deeply annoyed to have used exclusive and excluding in the same poem. These are the fruits of quick drafting – and finally, after NPM is nearly over, I’ve gotten the poem part down to about fifteen minutes…) I also think of the person who allegedly brought a weapon into a dangerous place this weekend – their manifesto, if genuine and unstaged, saddens me. How tragic that anyone suffering this current moment would think they suffer it alone. How fragile we are, locked in separate darkness, in our bubbles. Is anyone else awake?

{npm ’26 • poetry friday progressive poem line}

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April 25, 2026

1:57 pm

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General Coolness, Happenings, Musings on Extemporanea, NPM, Part and Poetry

You are HERE! Welcome to today’s stop on the The Land of Poetry tour!

For a bit of history: The Progressive Poem began with Irene Latham, who hosted it from 2012-2019. Those archives of the poem can be found HERE! Margaret Simon took over in 2020, and those archives are HERE.

The rules state:

  • The poem moves from blog to blog, with each poet/blogger adding a line.
  • Topically, the poem is intended for children.
  • Each poet/blogger must copy the previous line exactly as written, unless permission from that poet has been given.
  • After presenting the poem to date, the poet/blogger may add their own line, offering an introduction if they wish.

There’s no rule that the poem rhymes, but this year, there’s a definite rhyme scheme that we’ve worked hard to continue, and a very Earth forward sentiment with all this burgeoning life metaphorically embodying the poetic elements. It’s been wild, but I really love where we’re heading, and… okay, I’m stalling. So now, without further ado…

Map by Tabatha Yeatts-Lonske, with progressively more creative additions by a multitude of poets.

The Land of Poetry

On my first trip to the Land of Poetry,
I saw anthologies of every color, tall as buildings.
A world of words, wonder on wings, waiting just for me!
Birding for words shimmering, flecked in golden gilding.

Binoculars ready, I toured boulevards and side streets,
exploring vibrant verses, verses so honest and tender.
feathery lyrics, bright flitting avian athletes
soaring ‘cross pages in rhythmic splendor.

In the Land of Poetry, I am the conductor,
seeking oodles of poems that tug at my heart,
a musical medley of sound and structure,
An open mic in Frost Forest! Wonder who’ll take part?

There’s a pause in the program; no one takes the stage
the trees quiver, the audience looks up. Raven lands,
singing Earth’s message of the sage.
“Poetry in motion will be forevermore, from forests to sands.”

“Scatter,” she croaked. “Beyond Wilde Pond, to each and every beach.”
Meek Dove mustered courage and sang, “Instill humanity with compassion and peace.
Let Thackeray’s middle name, from this thicket, hearts reach!”
Her gentle coo-ooo-ooos reverberate, soft as fleece.

Words dart, dimple—Do I dare warble what’s in my soul?
I’ve inhaled inspiration…yes, I’ll risk my refrain.
I fly to the mic, chanting “Tadpole, mole and oriole!
Come all living beings from water, land, air; come high and low terrains!

Come, living your poems, hearts open, ablaze,

…and now, over to you, Sharon! Please feel free to add a closing quotation if you feel the Poet spirit has finished her statement with my line, but otherwise… Enjoy!

The 2026 Progressive Poem Poets Include:

April 1 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference
April 2 Cathy Stenquist at A Little Bit of This and That
April 3 Patricia Franz at Reverie
April 4 Donna Smith at Mainely Write
April 5 Janice Scully at Salt City Verse
April 6 Denise Krebs at Dare to Care
April 7 Ruth Hersey at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town
April 8 Rose Cappelli at Imagine the Possibilities
April 9 Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche
April 10 Janet Clare Fagel at Reflections on the Teche
April 11 Diane Davis at Starting Again in Poetry
April 12 Linda Baie at Teacher Dance
April 13 Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise
April 14 Jone MacCulloch at Jone Rush MacCulloch
April 15 Joyce Uglow at Storied Ink
April 16 Carol Varsalona at Beyond Literacy Link
April 17 Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge
April 18 Michele Kogan at More Art for All
April 19 Kim Johnson at Common Threads
April 20 Buffy Silverman
April 21 Irene Latham at Live Your Poem
April 22 Karen Edmisten
April 23 Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe
April 24 Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading
April 25 Tanita Davis at {fiction, instead of lies}
April 26 Sharon Roy at Pedaling Poet​
April 27 Tracey Kiff-Judson at Tangles and Tails
April 28-30 wrap-up by Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference

{pf: npm ’26 • poetry peeps engage the ekphrastic}

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April 24, 2026

12:28 pm

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Musings on Extemporanea, NPM, Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories, What We Do, Who We Are

Welcome to another Poetry Friday Adventure!


Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our poetry challenge for the month of MAY.

Here’s the scoop: we’re having a Poetry Potluck. In the spirit of sharing a plate of poetry together, we invite you to grab a form you like, season it to your taste, and share it with us and all of your Poetry Peeps – it’s a good time for all of us to remember what we’ve learned, and to celebrate. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it May 29th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll bring a dish!

From Process…

Happy National Poetry Month, Poetry Friends! Ekphrastic poetry is one of my favorite, favorite forms, simply because I am an avid photographer, using my phone far more often for its photo capabilities than its ability to connect me to anyone else. I have been mildly obsessed with Springtime in the garden of this house, as come May we’ll have been here for one year, and we’re still in the “discovery” phase. Did we know we had daffodils? Nope, not until they started showing up. Ditto for the hyacinths. Now I’ve found my new best love – bearded irises. I’m entranced.

…to Poetry

Today the Poetry Seven are also poem-ing in honor of a birthday! My NPM project is daily tricubes along with Very Bad Drawings (TM), but in the spirit of wanting to bring a gift to my friend, I’ll spare our birthday girl my artwork and share a recent garden snap instead. Happy Birthday to Sara Lewis Holmes, who is a bright spark, shining undiminished even in darkness – living aglow not “in spite of” but living into her Because. Farsee-er, questioner, somesuch-er, friend – may you continue to live all the days of your life. Love you, Sara.

iris awake

awaiting
its moment
through chill dark

comes beauty,
arriving
with the sun

breathtaking –
no shrinking
violet.

My Poetry Sisters are much more on top of things this month, engaging the ekphrastic in their own ways. Liz’s poem is here. Laura’s poem is here, Cousin Mary Lee’s is here, and Sara’s poem is here. Tricia’s poem is here, and Karen’s poem is here. Michelle K’s poem is here. Carol V’s poem is a puff of dandelion here, and Jill’s poem is here – welcome Jill! Margaret’s cypress poem is here. More Peeps may show up throughout the weekend, so don’t forget to check back to see their links rounded up here.

Our lovely hostess this Poetry Friday is Irene – and Emily Dickinson – so don’t miss stopping by for more poetry, and thank-you, Irene, for hosting.

In the chaos of life bursting into being, change insisting on its way, and finally a little sun, some things remain the same – unchanged despite our desire or efforts. Some things have also remained the same in spite of us – which is a bit of joy in the tangle. I hope this season reminds you to look for what is unfolding beautifully along with what is unfolding chaotically. Take deep breaths, and walk with measured steps. Life is change – and chaos – but I hope that today especially that you can be a calm in your own storm. Remember that you are well-loved.

{npm ’26 • 23}

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April 23, 2026

11:50 am

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NPM, Part and Poetry

Providentially, one of the very best purchases we made, just before the pandemic dropped, was a plug-and-play hot tub. Himself had been ill and had to take a leave of absence from work, and the whole thing – being sick and caretaking – was exhausting. We were living in a very vertical townhouse with all the modern conveniences, and a distinct lack of decent bathtubs (classy showers, though). After five years in Scotland, we are very DEFINITELY bathtub people, going so far, when we lived there, as to take baths in the old Turkish-style bath houses at the council (neighborhood) pool. Endless hot water and tubs six feet long and deep enough to drown in (people did laundry in them back in the 50’s, we were told) were amazing. Even better, the bathhouse was built in 1871 and some of the old tilework is gorgeous.

Bafflingly, I somehow grew up in a family who seemed to see baths as unnecessary. Hedonistic nonsense – my parents and siblings are showers all the way – but give me a good soak and a book and quiet. When we put the hot tub in the garage (yes, in the garage. I can’t control outdoors, I control indoors) it turned out to be one of our Best Things Ever.

Bathhouse

Prehistoric
kindling:
Fires beget

heated foot,
then hot drinks.
Interval

between spark
and hot baths?
Ephemeral.