Category: Part and Poetry

{happy poetry friday: your round-up is here}

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July 23, 2026

4:42 pm

14 Comments on {happy poetry friday: your round-up is here}

General Coolness, Musings on Extemporanea, On Writing, Part and Poetry, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories

Welcome, friends, to another Poetry Friday Adventure!


Poetry Peeps! July’s challenge is next week.

Here’s the scoop: we’re circling back to the beginning by revisiting Pádraig Ó Tuama’s Poetry Unbound challenge from way back in January. (Scroll to the very bottom of the post and find) His eight prompts can be used to produce eight lines with which you can create a Midyear Pantoum that gives you a sense for where you are now, and where you’re hopes will take the rest of your year. Are you in? Good! Write quickly and share July 31st in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. See you then!

Happy Fourth Friday of July! In case you’d not already started groaning theatrically, in exactly six months and a week, it will be New Year’s Eve. You’re welcome.

While any reports of my dearth have not at all been greatly exaggerated, this Friday snuck up faster than even I had anticipated. June 23 I signed with a new agent. June 25th I had an offer for two new books. July 7th, I signed the contract, aaaand… the first draft is due the first week of September, while copy editing is standing by for November 1st. So, I’m thrilled that this was already on the calendar, giving me an excuse to pop in, wave whilst reading some stunning poetry, and then drop back into the draft-revise-panic-and-repeat rabbit hole.

But while we’re all above ground, let’s add some poetry to this summer-bright moment. Thank you for being part of Poetry Friday today (if you’re early, the room opens at 5PM Pacific, 8PM Eastern)!

Drop A Link, All Ye Who Enter…

HERE!


I thought I’d write a quick poem today – quick in that I’ve been thinking about it long enough for the words to come swiftly, but don’t mistake this for wholly unplanned. Ever since we dabbled with the Ireland Triptych poems at the beginning of the month, I’ve not quite felt like I did her actual mentor poem justice, so this is my second attempt. Like others of the Poetry Sisters, this time I’m using the words “Freedom is…” and seeing where that takes me.

Progressions

I.
Freedom is a light laid low;
sun aslant. Soft gold bars,
more benison than barrier,
hold warm breaths the day exhales,
letting it all
just go.

II.
One month on,
& midsummer’s psalm
circles final stanzas.
Earnest blue arch
cloisters in clouds –
and dry lawns drown
in drifts of leaves.
Fall’s muffled reminder
hums, siren sweet.

III.
Evolving,
time holds its own:

sweet
moments –
ripen

long ago stars formed
for such a time as this.

-©2026, triptych draft

Thinkies:

  • Did you guys see the Doucette Roulette poetry form? The mind BOGGLES. 🤯
  • For those of us whose love language is sarcasm, what are we laughing at?
  • This left my heart on the floor. It matches my new contract: books 20k words shorter with simpler vocab, aimed at a generation of readers, some for whom information retrieval seems like someone else’s job…

The rabbit hole is calling, and I must go…

So until next time friends, water your plants, wear your sunscreen, and just 🐠 keep 🐡 swimming.🐟

🥰 Remember you are so, so loved.

P.S. – If you find yourself struggling with Inlinkz today, please leave your link in the comments. If you can’t make the comments work for you, use my contact form, which I’ll be watching for today. We’ll get this sorted!

{pf: the poetry peeps try out a triptych}

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June 26, 2026

4:00 am

13 Comments on {pf: the poetry peeps try out a triptych}

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

Welcome to another Poetry Friday Adventure!


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

Here’s the scoop: we’re circling back to the beginning by revisiting Pádraig Ó Tuama’s Poetry Unbound challenge from way back in January. (After scrolling to the very bottom of the post), use the eight prompts he provides us to produce eight lines to organize into a Midyear Pantoum that gives you a sense for where you are now, and where you’re going with the rest of your year. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it July 31st in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. See you then!

Happy June, friends!

A few days after Solstice I was clearing off my art desk – finally – and found some sealed envelopes. New Year’s Cards… which I’d never sent. Honestly, that’s SO on brand for this year (and this month) that it made me laugh out loud (and apologies and felicitations to the people who are going to be receiving their New Year’s cards six months in – but hey, now we know we survived it, right? Right. Happy Halfway to January Again). I definitely needed to read Louise Ireland’s Louise Ireland’s August Triptych, a poem that depicts the exigencies of discarded urgency and celebrates the beauty in the ephemeral – all those things that don’t last, including blooms and buds, attention, and time.

From Process…

Because I’ve been reading this poem over and over again since Tabatha Yeatts introduced it to me, I can say that this was one of the easiest works to slip into as a mentor poem. Not because the poem has strong meter or rhyme that insists on drumming its way into me, but because the first line of that first stanza stops me cold again and again. Freedom is a fence gone slack. All I could think of when I read that was, “What could I escape, but don’t? What ‘fullness of time’ line item have I been auditing, waiting on paperwork and assurances which might never occur?”

Put that way, suddenly the topic shouldered its way into the forefront of my brain. I wrote this poem in a single sitting, in the short window of time we gave ourselves to write collaboratively with those of us able to meet on a Sunday afternoon. That rarely-to-never happens for me, and normally I’d take the time to fuss with and edit the poem. Not today.

Though some others of my Poetry Sisters did thorough editing and revision. Liz’s poem is here. Mary Lee’s poem is here. Michelle K’s triptych is here. You’ll find Poetry Friday hostess Tricia’s poem here. Diane Davis’s evocatively titled triptych is here. Other Poetry Peeps may taking on Louise Ireland’s beautiful poem may pop in throughout the weekend, so do check back for the round-up here.

…To Poetry

The poem that followed germinated in part because we sat down to have our poem chat on Father’s Day… a Father’s Day where I was home and not at my parents’ house, a Father’s Day where I didn’t even buy my Dad a card or a bottle of Dad’s Root Beer, because he didn’t want it.

untitled triptych on louise ireland’s “august”

draft ©2026 ts davis

I.
Restless guest, a wind swirls through
sundering, as petals shower.
Mature trees release with grace,
Making way for swelling fruit
and, ripening,
harvest.

II.
Daughterhood’s a part-time job,
so my father says.
Per his last email,
we, the begotten,
should leave him in peace
until he calls.
So much free time
I’ll not spend waiting
for royal scepters
extended my way.

III.
Nectar-drunk
bees feast on crushed fruit

flawed
isn’t
fatal

even bruised buds
still smell sweet.

Well. It is what it is. The grass withers, the flowers fades, but what is timeless – the rhythms of change and choice – last forever. Seedtime and harvest. Sunrise and sunset. And, when we choose it, love that is the foundation of the world.

So until next time friends, pull your weeds, replant your borders, and leave a little water out for the honeybees. They’ll find the fruit on their own. And because it is always worth saying so that I hear it myself – remember you are so, so loved.

Happy Weekend🌻

{pf: the poetry peeps peruse potluck}

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May 29, 2026

4:48 am

20 Comments on {pf: the poetry peeps peruse potluck}

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

1 Comment on {npm ’26 • 30 – & Fin}

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

1 Comment on {npm ’26 • 29}

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

1 Comment on {npm ’26 • 28}

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

1 Comment on {npm ’26 • 27}

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

10 Comments on {npm ’26 • poetry friday progressive poem line}

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