Category: Who We Are

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

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April 24, 2026

12:28 pm

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

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 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.

{poetry friday: poetry peeps try the tricube}

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January 29, 2026

10:05 pm

21 Comments on {poetry friday: poetry peeps try the tricube}

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

Welcome to another year of Poetry Peeps Adventures!

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

Here’s the scoop: we’re composing poetry in response to a poem of Arthur Sze, former chancellor of the Academy of American Poets and current United States Poet Laureate. Arthur Sze is very much interested in poetry in translation, and during his term hopes to bring more opportunities for both reading and writing it to the American public. I’m excited to dig into a new-to-me voice in Asian American poetry, and look forward to meeting this challenge. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it on February 27th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll join the fun!

This was such a great poetry form to kick off the year. It’s …kind of a joy to stride into our shared poetry space without my usual whinge of, “Oh, deary me, I thought this would be easy, and it turns out…” Haha, let no one deceive you: tricubes are dead easy. No, seriously. They’re easy and I love them. Of course, easy doesn’t necessarily mean simple. Those three syllables per line take simplicity right off the table. Making sense in a tight space, and saying something that isn’t choppy or trite… is a challenge. Aaand, it didn’t always happen for me, but a tricube’s saving grace is that it’s so short that one can write twenty or thirty and pick the ones that come out the best. At least one of my poetry sisters simply wrote a bunch of trisyllabic lines on a theme and picked and choose from among them to compose a whole. That sounds so easy that it feels like cheating. I found myself breaking the world into those three syllable phrases – I even wrote a tricube with my fingertip on a phone notepad at 4AM sans glasses (and as nearsighted as I am, that was quite a feat). All this to say: tricubes are addictive. If you’ve never before, try one today.

From Process…

2026 is lining itself up to be a poem-SUFFUSED year. Living through fascism isn’t something we always notice (we have always lived in the castle, friends, don’t mistake it), but the times when we are forced to acknowledge it unequivocally require… more time to process. Poetry helps me regulate mentally and my journaling usually turns into some kind of couplets, at minimum, so the ease of writing for a tricube really helped me to lean into that. Of course, I don’t always like to use my Poetry Peeps time for …like, a reality play-by-play so I made a deliberate effort to use our shared space in a kinder way this month. We can’t escape entirely from negative feelings, but I am sharing this space with some of you who need a flipping break. (I see you, friend.) I made conscious choices not to use certain names or words or concepts in what I shared today, and to lean in the direction of simply using the first stanza of my three stanza poem to explore an idea in a vague and general way, and then to intensify it by the end but to still keep it universal. And, I tried to keep the first three syllable line… simple-ish. (Again: didn’t say easy.) The very first tricube I wrote was on January 7, and the first three syllable line was “A cannon.” That object spoke well enough to my feelings that the rest of the poem could fall into that line. So my plan for all of them became a.) Focus on an object/statement topically. b.) Add intensifier or clarifying lines, and then, c.) a succinct Fin. And then I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. Seventeen tricubes later…

…to Poetry

…I have a few to share.

CATENIGMA
Matter’s states:
Solid, gas,
or liquid,

Yet the cat’s
puddled sleep
doesn’t match.

Solid sound:
Contentment’s
liquid purr.

Pear – Shaped
Lovely pear:
Round-bottomed,
Pale, sweet, mild.

British slang
notes ‘pear-shaped’
means awry.

Distortion:
one round world
falling flat.

This was a definition poem. I idly wondered why things that were ‘pear shaped’ were so bad when a pear is half the social ideal for a good figure in modern society (the whole is an hourglass, of course. Or a violin? So hard to keep track of what random shape we’re supposed to be today). And then I read that it was a phrase coined during WWII when Royal Air Force pilots were making loops… if you came out of your loop and the vapor trail behind your plane wasn’t circular, but pear-shaped? You needed to course correct, or you were going to hit the ground…

Lift, Every Voice
When singing,
buoyant breaths
lift our hearts.

Metaphor?
This truth is
literal:

Keep breathing.
Let your soul
elevate.

To sing we have have to inhale before we begin. A deep breath expands the diaphragm, and the heart, which rests directly atop the diaphragm, connected by the pericardium, rises. Literally. Lift every voice, indeed.

My Poetry Sisters tried out tricubing as well this month. Liz’s post is here. Sara’s trio of tricubes is here, and Cousin Mary Lee’s is here. Tricia’s poem is here, and Michelle K’s tricube is here. Margaret Simon’s tricube is here, and Carol V’s are here, and Rose’s tricube 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 Amy VanDerwater at the Poem Farm, so don’t miss stopping by for more poetry! Thanks for hosting, Amy.

What a month. As it limps to a close, I’ll reiterate the Encouragement³ tricube I posted on Instagram:

A small thing
can change worlds.
One small change.

One small spark
ignites fire.
One heart warms.

“There are things
I can do.”
Repeat it.

Believe it.

No matter what the weekend brings, no matter the next loss or shadow that steals your breath, no matter the Sturm und Drang, be anchored. Be held. Be sure: You are so well-loved.

{come for the poetry friday roundup! stay for the peeps wrestling the raccontino!}

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June 26, 2025

1:00 pm

19 Comments on {come for the poetry friday roundup! stay for the peeps wrestling the raccontino!}

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

Welcome to Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of July! Here’s the scoop: We’ll going to write brief poems called Sedokas. A Sedoka is an unrhymed poem made up of two three-line katauta with a 5/7/7, 5/7/7 syllable count. Since a Sedoka has only six lines, you can totally do this! Of course, we’re continuing our theme of being ‘in conversation,’ next month as well (and since Mary Lee has invited us to join her at A(nother) Year of Reading for protest Poetry on Independence Day next Friday, this might be a great short form to use for that!). Are you in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on July 25th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope all of you will join the fun!

Whew – just like that, summer has come in, and wow is it trying to redefine the definition of “heat” in much of the United States. To those of you prostrated before your AC and fans, we see you. Normally it’s California sweltering with no mercy, but so far this year we’ve had a really slow beginning to the more vicious heat – which leads us to believe we’ll be in steaming puddles by August, but let’s kick that can of sweat down the road, shall we?

Meanwhile, THIS is the place for Poetry Friday links!

Click, Friend, And Enter


Can I take a moment to revisit my Poetry Peeps invitation for last month and snicker? I wrote, “We’ll going to write a couple of couplets and make a Raccontino. Never heard of the form? No worries. If you can count to two, you can play with this delightful form.” Can anyone tell I’d forgotten that I’d struggled with writing a Raccontino before? The Poetry Sisters did, in fact, attempt them before. In 2015 I bleated, “This raccontino stuff is BLOODY DIFFICULT.” …Heh. So much for the ‘delightful form,’ huh? And yet: while it’s definitely complicated, this time around, it hasn’t been that bad.

From Process…

In Italian, a raccontino is a narrator or storyteller, so it stands to reason that the Raccontino form tells a story. From the title, which some poets compose as part of or an entire sentence, to the couplets, to the end words of the odd-numbered lines, each element tells a small story that braids together into a whole. I came back to this frequently.

When we gathered for our drafting session, the Poetry Sisters recalled our previous processes. Last time I tried this, I tried writing the odd-numbered end line phrase first, the even-line rhyme scheme second, and the title/rest of the poem after that. That worked for most people, except I could only think of long quotes/sentences for my end-line story, so ended up with ten thousand couplets. (I started over a lot, and whined a lot more.) We got a giggle remembering how last time Sara jiggered the end lines only after writing the poem – yet somehow made that chaos work into a beautiful, heartfelt piece. Those who can throw down with chaos do, I guess!?

…to Poetry

This time around, I started with a handful of end-line quotations to use, but some of them were a little too close to the bone, and I abandoned the very first poem I wrote mid-word. What is it about poetry that sometimes leads it to be …well, too true? Anyway, I turned to my back-up phrases and hoped they were a bit more generic. The title of the first one I got through was based on something my little sister said, and the rest is realism based on a comment about ability/mobility and arthritis from another poet in our circle. I liked how they came together.

Because a Raccontino calls for only one rhyming application, as I wrote that second poem, I found myself struggling with the meter. I could write a …decent enough collection of words within the boundaries of the rules, but I spent a lot of time cherry-picking and fussing, trying to find a flow. I gave it up as “good enough” when somehow, a third poem just… suggested itself. I came up with it because I went back to reread my 2015 post and words in conversation with the concept of “it’s a jungle out there,” arrived from the title of my first poem. (And, hand to God, as my friend L says, I didn’t even realize that the first part of the end-line words, “Undeclared, this war rages on, grab hands, stay close” were written in reference to the 2015 undeclared war against ISIS in Iran and Syria until I was writing this right now. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, non? God save us from ourselves.) Because it’s a jungle out there, we need to live with honest hearts and true, and keep each other close… still holding hands before we jump, which I unthinkingly reechoed from the past. Just for fun, I’ll share both finished poems, but the last is definitely today’s winner for me.

I’m Not Lazy, I’m In Power Saving Mode

We ran full-tilt, but now we take it SLOW –
(Our changing bodies outside our control.)

We hustled once, but forced, we’re slowing DOWN,
Extending Pain-Free days is now the goal.

It’s galling when the doctor croons, “Hey, YOU,”
And lays out reasons, with her words cajoles,

Assigning PT. We relearn to MOVE:
(Make no mistake, pain’s jail without parole.)

Our choices going… gone – Have yours gone TOO?
Does freewill feel like what your body stole?

We whine, but truth to tell, life changes FAST
Who knows – someday we might again feel whole.

♦

This chronic pain crap may leave you downcast.
But keep the faith: Life’s mysteries are vast.

You’ll notice I’ve included a little envoi as if this were a sonnet. I don’t know – somehow today it felt like envoi were necessary? Additionally, the image is of the Bay Bridge in SF – not the well-known and fancily painted Golden Gate, but the plain old Bay Bridge which carries much of the common daily commuter traffic – not the 59th Street Bridge, but probably as pedestrian for people just getting to work or cycling across one bit of water to get somewhere else. Maybe the drivers are not yet feeling groovy, but having the potential for it…I like that link to joy in the ordinary.

Other Raccontino wrestlers are perhaps feeling pretty groovy or reveling in the ordinary as they share their forays into this form. I got a tiny preview Sunday and know that Tricia’s efficiently composed poem is here. Sara probably chose more chaos here, Mary Lee – always prepared – is here. Laura’s short and to the point is here, and we can’t wait to see what Liz has done. Karen rose to the challenge and wrestled her Raccontino here. Michelle K’s poem has punch, and we have a newcomer – let’s welcome Diane and her Raccontino to the Peep Squad. Margaret’s poem is here, and Carol V’s lovely poetry-filled post is here. More Poetry Peeps might swing by with their Raccontinos (Raccontini?) and I’ll round ’em up here by the end of the weekend.

Life, Improvised

So, how does it start? You, what, simply hold
Your heart on your sleeve and hang it out there
To sweat in the spotlight – your fate in its hands?
Sounds awful! Exposed! Most people’s nightmare.
A big life says, “Yes.” Acceptance adds, “And?”
An honest life asks that you lay yourself bare.
Why skulk in the shadows when courage cries, Jump!’
Living your truth means that you build wings midair.

Freefall has its benefits — and by and by
You’ll forget about falling. You’ll have learned to fly.

My nephew graduated from high school nine days ago, and turned eighteen seven days ago, so the imagery of jumping into life – nervous, but holding hands – improvising, and learning to fly is definitely on my mind. The younger set remind us we all need a little help to get aloft – our neighbors, our chosen family and friends, and the community we need to keep close, now more than ever as the clouds close in. Elf’s fledgling flight might be a ragged one, with a bit of frantic flapping and barely missing crashing into windows at first, but if he falls, I’m counting on the rest of us to raise him up and run until he finds the wind again – into whatever extraordinary life is allotted to him. Whatever your age, may your circle do the same for you. May we never discount the power of community.

Look for the interconnected stories you’re telling, or have been told, and see where your narrative intersects. Remember that Yes. and And? are invitations to acceptance and connection. Know how well you are loved – and may it fuel you to love in return.

Happy weekend. Be well and do good.

{pf: p7 shovel gold with Elizabeth Bishop}

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May 30, 2025

4:24 am

6 Comments on {pf: p7 shovel gold with Elizabeth Bishop}

Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, What We Do, Who We Are

Welcome to Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of June! Here’s the scoop: We’ll going to write a couple of couplets and make a Raccontino. Never heard of the form? No worries. If you can count to two, you can play with this delightful form. Of course, we’re turning our faces to the winds of ‘conversation,’ as always. Are you in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on June 27th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll join the fun!

In leagues worth of understatement, it’s been a HELLUVA month. As of this post we’ve been in our new house for a week and three days, and we’re 97% unboxed. Now we’re back to the stupid phase of any packing/unpacking expedition wherein you want to shriek and fling your possessions into the street just so you can be DONE, but I’m hanging on, faithfully sorting and deciding what we no longer need – something it would have made sense to do on the other end, but that only works if all parties packing have the same idea. Sometimes… it’s just easier to do these things when one has a quiet moment. Ahem. So! Chaos abounds, which is why I realized that a.) it was the end of the month and b.) the last Friday of the month exactly twelve hours before this post. Oops! And yes, that means the entire crew missed our Sunday meet-up last week… but honestly? Summer: it happens.

From Process…

Oh, it’ll be fine, I told myself. A golden shovel is a very forgiving poetic form. Well, yes… and no. I knew my topic almost immediately, since we were using Elizabeth Bishop’s “Letter to NY” for our mentor poem – I knew I wanted to write a letter to someone, be in conversation with someone or something unusual – but a letter to my erstwhile sanity seemed just slightly on the nose, and a little too narrow of a topic (though I truly could go on and on about it). And yet, moving house: all there IS is chaos, and lacking sanity. However, it also occurs that it’s been chaotic nationally for a …while now….and getting louder. But could I pull any of that from the mentor poem and use it in a meaningful way?


…to Poetry

I decided to delve into writing a golden shovel from opposite directions. Much like the opposing voices within our national conversation, there are very loud opinions of who is doing what correctly, and why, and I wanted this chaotic letter to reflect two ways of looking at a single idea, like survival – something that is both nebulous and distinctly individualized. What does it mean to live your ‘best life’ in the midst of chaos? Is there a way to do that? What’s your best route to safety – or is living your best life not bound up in safety? With these thoughts in mind, I began to compose – keeping in mind that I truly did not have time to make a lot of rhyme, but trying to give a nod to internal rhyme anyway.

A Letter From Our Collective Consciences

Every exchange seems somehow the same, WHERE
Ant-like, we follow and wave around words. ARE
antennas An offer? So strained are the smiles YOU
So shallowly proffer. A nose-to-tail following, GOING
Unknowing. Direction? Who questions? We walk, AND
Keep pace; a silent compliance surely keeps us safe. So WHAT
If the naysayers still shake their heads? We all ARE
Who we are, and ‘safe’ is the stock in the soup YOU
are brewing. Survival’s the goal. It’s what we’re all DOING.
***
WHAT living teaches still won’t make us wise.
(ARE expectations urging us wrong?)
YOU know in your heart the world will tell lies – that
DOING and saying don’t much harmonize…That a song
AND a singer aren’t the selfsame thing… Knew
WHERE the lies was, yet it somehow still stings.
(ARE our instincts sending common sense askew?)
YOU just survive this life as best you may –
GOING your own way seems the only way.

These are definitely in conversation, yet not as much in opposition as I had imagined when I first began, perhaps. Survival is a topic which elicits similar emotional investment, and sometimes, we end up more closely aligned in heart than we expected to… In any event, I’m happily joined in this golden shovel challenge by my fellow Poetry Sisters, who are very likely much better diggers than I. Laura’s poem is here. Tricia’s poem is here, and Sara’s poem is here. Liz’s poem is here, and early bird Michelle K’s poem is here. Other Poetry Peeps may pop in throughout the weekend to take part in this challenge, so stay tuned for the round up; I’ll post ’em as I find ’em. Additionally, Poetry Friday is ably hostessed today by the one and only Karen Edmisten, whose shockingly cleverly named blog makes me smirk every time. Thanks, K – may your coffee stay hot and your mornings be energized.

If chaos and survival are on your mind this month, don’t forget to take naps, touch grass, drink water and remember to hug a friend. Your mental health will thank you, and more than that, it will remind you that we’re all just trying to survive, and to perhaps be kinder than you want to, when you encounter someone whose world worldview runs counter to your own. Courage, friends!🌼

{national poetry month: “not everything is lost”}

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March 31, 2025

12:05 pm

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Mental Health, NPM, Part and Poetry, Seven Sisters, What We Do, Who We Are

“This / is the world I want to live in. The shared world.”

The 2025 NPM poster features lines from “Gate A-4”, a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, as well as artwork by New York Times-bestselling author and illustrator Christy Mandin. “Gate A-4” is a poem which has always resonated – because I used to love the swirl of humanity in airports, all the people-watching and the excitement of going. This was, of course, when I was in my twenties and still new to air travel, still believing in the public transportation contract of paying-to-ride, before a world where people beat a man and dragged him off a plane because they’d overbooked and wanted his seat for someone else. Post 2001, I saw air travel’s underbelly – a world wherein adults sometimes wept silently, frightened, frustrated by a language barrier and exiled from all they knew. I had the …experience of flying aboard a USAID flight where I put on the seat belts of other adults and a woman with a tiny infant because the flight attendant talked at them – and there was no translator. It was literally – for it was a flight out of Miami – a steaming hot mess. A toilets backed-up-and-overflowing – people airsick and vomiting – no AC on the whole flight – grit-your-teeth-and-endure hot mess, from Miami to Minnesota. I prayed those people found a home where they could be clean and fed and free of the wailing bewilderment they seemed mired in that day.

Suffice it to say I can almost feel the frustration of the gate attendant, the wary, xenophobic cringing of the other passengers at all that… foreign emotion, and the bleak despair of the woman on the floor wailing. Naomi Shihab Nye’s act of mercy and humanity made so many people’s lives better in that two hour wait for the next flight, but it is the final lines of the poem, rather than the two that the American Academy of Poets highlighted for this month that make me tear up and hold my breath: “This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”

Those last two sentences always make me want to whisper, “Really? Do you promise?”

Yes. Not everything is lost: because everyone who is loved is found.

Not everything is lost: because we have it within us to be maps.

Not everything is lost: because not everything we lose is a loss.

Not everything is lost: because we can find beauty and meaning in remnants.

I don’t know what’s going to come out of me for National Poetry Month, but I will be in conversation with this, and have settled on this as my theme – and my hope. “This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”

“Not everything is lost.” It’s true. It’s got to be true. Not everything, not all the time – and we will find ourselves again.

{pf: poetry peeps pass notes to superman}

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March 27, 2025

11:30 pm

9 Comments on {pf: poetry peeps pass notes to superman}

Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories, What We Do, Who We Are

Welcome to Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of April! Here’s the scoop: We’ll be in conversation with a vintage, antique, or just plain old photograph. Of course, your photograph needn’t be from either of these archival photography sites, but take a poke around, and see what you find. Your poem should be based on an image which is at least, say, forty years old, or at least something you consider “old.” Once you’ve got your image nailed down, you’ve got a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on April 25th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll join the fun!

When we chose these poems to be in conversation with, I was excited – because the poems were offbeat and a bit amusing, and I thought this would be easy.

Literally EVERY TIME I THINK THAT I should snap my wrist with a rubber band or something. Writing poetry is never a slam dunk when I think it’s going to be. Never. Ever. Why do I keep deluding myself this way???

From Process…

Clifton’s “four notes to Clark Kent” addresses the idea of a rescuer through varying personal lenses. Though she is still writing to him, Lucille Clifton seems to have misgivings about the dude who can leap tall buildings in a single bound… I mean, what good is that, her first poem seems to ask, when she’s dealing with more immediate issues between the four walls of her home? Who can save her from all of the broken dreams and emotional paucity that waits there, him? No – she doesn’t think so. She names him “tourist;” reminding the reader that he’s not from Metropolis – he’s a stranger, a literal alien. While she’s hanging by her fingernails from the edge of a ledge, waiting for rescue, he’s just visiting, isn’t he? Maybe he’s not really there to save her after all. While in her third poem, she appears to forgive him – and forgive herself – for just human and other. The idea of the Superman mythos has inflated him past life-sized and she graciously allows him to shrink. By her fourth poem, she openly decides he’s pretty hot, but I still don’t get the idea that the poet feels he’s all that super – just cute. She calls him by his Clark Kent moniker, referencing his other persona solely as an adjective rather than a name, which I found interesting.

I shared some of Clifton’s misgivings about Mr. “faster than a speeding bullet.” I didn’t grow up on Superman comic books, and the blandly handsome, lantern-jawed superhero in the movies didn’t particularly …convince me, as a kid. As a fellow four-eyes, I was completely OVER the trope of “dreamboat without his glasses,” and thought Clark and Superman looked exactly alike – because they WERE, of course.🙄 Further, his mild-mannered, awkward persona grated on my nerves (I somehow missed the point that he was acting so people wouldn’t equate him with his outgoing alter ego). He was noble to the point of ridiculousness, and I didn’t resonate with him as an American icon. Like Smokey the Bear, he somehow seemed to be just another childhood talking head in cartoon form who told you how to behave. He never seemed particularly heroic to me, so I realized that Clifton’s doubting had infected me, too. Who was this guy who was supposed to save us? And who were we, just …sitting there, waiting to be saved?

…to Poem

When we got together for our Sunday poetry chat, Cousin Mary Lee said she couldn’t find a lighthearted bone in her body and didn’t feel like she could speak to the poem. At which point I thought, “Oh, humor was an option!?” I didn’t have any lighthearted thoughts on Superman either. In my initial draft I had taken a deep dive into the idea of saviors, the idea of Americans exceptionalism, of Americans striding in to play savior – after like as not having started the conflict. I wrote about the learned helplessness of people who have lived with privilege for so long that they don’t ever think anything can happen to them, and about the non-SUPER-ness of people who stop voting and such. *cough* The poem was taking me somewhere I didn’t want to go, so I thought I’d sit down and try being funny – just – out of nowhere. I wanted to write about the really cheesy 80’s Superman movies I didn’t watch until decades later (they DID NOT age well). I wanted to write about Spanx underpants over spandex leggings and capes (“No capes!” screams Edna Mode in my brain) and battling wedgies while leaping over tall buildings in a single bound. I did NOT, however – I restrained myself! Sara probably did too. Tricia definitely wrote something classier, as did Laura. Mary Lee’s poem is here, and here’s Liz’s poem, Michelle K’s poem is here. More Peeps may be checking in throughout the day, so don’t miss the whole Clark Kent roundup. And for more poetry that fortunately doesn’t have anything to do with spandex and capes, visit the Poetry Friday round-up Marcie Flinchum Atkins’ blog. Thanks for hosting today, Marci.

While I didn’t write about wedgies, I did try to write amusingly, so… I thought about Lois Lane, who tried so hard to be cool about Superman, but… she just was not.

Notes Passed To Lois Lane (Probably by her editor, Perry White)

A bird, a plane – wait, what?
This SUPERficial scrawl
Is not your best reporting, Lo,
This needs an overhaul.

He’s SUPERMAN, he…does!
From dawn ’til dusk he slays
the dangers to Metropolis
that threaten disarray –

We stan a Man of Steel
God knows I respect hustle…
Just… write less on forehead curls
And shoulders bunched with muscle…

Okay, okay, I know and YOU know that Lois Lane Would Never, she was a thorough-going professional. But it still made me smile.

I’ll be honest – I couldn’t salvage this other poem. The ‘serious’ one was plunging down a lot of rabbit holes I don’t have the energy to follow, so I sort of tried to pull back on some of the over-emoting, and left it where it lay. Reminding myself that this poem is in conversation with the others is what helped me stay more on track — and while this doesn’t yet say what I need it to, it’s a start. If nothing else, I do believe that if we don’t hang together, we’re all going to hang separately, and despite my little red hats, I mean that across aisles and political divides. This is bigger than the red v. blue v. green color war, I’m afraid.

Notes In The Margin of The Daily Republic

Not any man would do, we’ll want SUPERman:
SUPERlative – from cape to brawny chest.
Spotlighting our best selves, and our SUPER land,
Our destiny to be forever blessed.
Granite jaw and steady stare – he’s sensational.
SUPERbly snaring manhood in his trap
With orphan-makes-good tropes. He’s educational
He models how to rise on our bootstraps…
…
Why an alien would show up when we’re losing,
To fight the thugs Metropolis can’t stop
No one ever seems to ask. It IS confusing
…The comics show folks screaming “Help!” nonstop,
And the victims standing, looking ’round for saviors,
Wringing hands instead of maybe calling cops…?

In MY book I’ve inserted on page borders,
Small hands cupped ’round a tiny screaming face
Which shouts, “People! Don’t just stand and wait for orders!”
In YOUR Daily Republic – your birthplace!
For future’s sake, speak up – protect what matters
Resist and rail against the treasonous.
One rock is small – a rock slide buildings shatter…
Join hands. We’ll be the ones to rescue us.

I’ll be ready Poetry Friday notes from a short beach glass hunting sabbatical, but I’ll definitely get around to answering any messages. I hope you take – and are taking – some time away to get outside and witness this slow turning of the seasons, as the earth wakes and stretches toward the possibility enshrined in Spring. Turn off the noise for a while, and just be – and then breathe. I plan to not just touch grass but touch rocks, possibly newts and beetles. (Anything squishier may require gloves.) While it’s true that no one is coming to save us, with any luck, and a bit of cooperation, there’s still enough to save of ourselves. Happy Weekend.

{“I feel today like maybe I could get paid for writing someday. Just maybe.”}

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March 6, 2025

2:36 pm

1 Comment on {“I feel today like maybe I could get paid for writing someday. Just maybe.”}

Literary Life Observations, Who We Are


Going through old files is a huge part of being a writer – I hoard even slips of paper with words on them, so I have to take a firm hand with my paper gremlin tendencies and pare down both physical and digital files frequently. On the other hand, it’s a well-known idea that writers HAVE to save things, because one never knows if one’s dud lines or story seeds or bits of fragmented ephemera are going to suddenly sprout buds and leaves and turn into the rootstock for your next award-winning series. It’s a push-pull as always, and requires a mental vigilance that I don’t always exercise. Honestly, like most of us, I err on the side of saving everything.

Fortunately(?) Google is there to harp at you about running out of file space at convenient intervals, so I have been rooting through my digital files. I stumbled across some forgotten journal entries that I wrote during grad school, and laughed out loud at this one from 2003, when I’d first had the nascent draft idea which eventually became MARE’S WAR.

(Am also giggling because this is basically one long run-on sentence and heralded my em-dash abuse epoch so CLEARLY.)

My first workshop with (REDACTED) — September 24 — The workshop was one of the best I’ve had since first semester — workshop with (REDACTED) was basically pretty useless, because internally I accused him constantly of only caring about the bottom line, how things would sell, and we’re just not there yet, but I liked this one. This is an entirely new piece of writing — about a woman dying, and the hospice nurse sitting by her, and flashbacks to her childhood, young adulthood, flashbacks from her children about incidents growing up — it’s much more complex, and much more experimentally crafted, yet much less deeply felt in some ways — the other piece was semi-biographical, and I want so much for my friend who died not to be forgotten that I was heavy-handed and totally muffing it. I feel like writing this piece has maybe finally tapped into something real with me, something new, and it’s an adventure I’m on, and I’m much more sanguine about who goes with me, because I don’t know where the hell we’re going. It’s that “Road Trip!!!” mentality, you know? Everybody just jump in the flippin’ car and let’s floor it. I didn’t care what they thought/said, and that helped so much.

I am also just beaming that I got notice from (REDACTED) — I had been laughing at everyone hero worshiping on him in a big way and totally trying to play it off as banality and indifference — but he wrote — on a short paper I wrote for his novel craft course — “There is grace and fluidity to your writing, even here, that makes it easy to enjoy.”

And the gods ascended!!!

Shame on me. But I’m a praise slattern. I would do anything for a kind word. Just another postscript from my happy, happy childhood… I feel today like maybe I could get paid for writing someday. Just maybe.

It’s a good feeling.

Art by Simini Blocker. Check out her amazing prints.

{pf: poetry peeps find ‘A Word’}

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February 28, 2025

4:35 am

12 Comments on {pf: poetry peeps find ‘A Word’}

Literary Life Observations, Musings on Extemporanea, Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, Small Fictions, What We Do, Who We Are

Welcome to Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of March! Here’s the scoop: We’re writing back to four Lucille Clifton poems, in her notes to clark kent series: “if i should;” “further note to clark;” “final note to clark;” and “note passed to superman.” We’ll be ‘in conversation’ with Ms. Lucille’s poems – talking to them, talking back to them, or talking about them, whether that’s all of them, or any of them, either in form or in substance. Once you’re sure how that’ll look for you, you’ve got a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on March 28th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll join the fun!

“…And that’s what your holy men discuss, is it?” asked Granny Weatherwax.

“Not usually. There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment on the nature of sin, for example,” said Oats.

“And what do they think? Against it, are they?”

“It’s not as simple as that. It’s not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of gray.”

“Nope.”

“Pardon?”

“There’s no grays, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people like things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.”

“It’s a lot more complicated than that–”

“No. It ain’t. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they’re getting worried that they won’t like the truth. People as things, that’s where it starts.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are worse crimes–”

“But they starts with thinking about people as things.”

–from CARPE JUGULUM, by Terry Pratchett.

People, and things. Things, and people…

Sometimes the subjects we find in conversation with each other are mirror images, and sometimes they’re complete contrasts.

From Process…

Some of you know that for reasons of faith my parents didn’t allow me to read fiction in junior high and high school. No fiction, much less fantasy fiction with a witch – Granny Weatherwax – and an Omnian priest (a made-up sect that goes hard with the door-to-door solicitation) and… vampires, as were featured in Terry Pratchett’s Carpe Jugulum. And though my parents wanted me to be a celebrant of truth as defined by the term “non-fiction,” there’s …just a whole lot of truth in the previous fictional passage, too, isn’t there? The intersection of People Treated Like Things and Injustice is the corner whereon most of the problems begin. Pick out any deeply unfortunate moment in history – the Doctrine of Discovery, the advent of chattel slavery in the Americas in 1619, the forced migration of The Trail of Tears, The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, Executive Order 9066 – ? All of those things come down to people treated as things. Own-able. Moveable. Modifiable. Disposable.

Today’s thoughts are in conversation with Granny Weatherwax’s profound statement (as brought to us by a renown British author who started out as a journalist) and with the Dalai Lama’s (a spiritual leader of great renown who started out as a mostly regular Buddhist priest). I could not believe how similar the statements between these very disparate people were when I found them on a Mary Engelbreit print which the artist shared on Instagram on February 21st of this year. (That one needs to be a print, no?) Two roads diverge on this highway, and they are People and Things. Two vastly different entities, two vastly different purposes, but human society confuses them so frequently. One made to be loved, and the other made to be used. How difficult for some to keep that straight.

…to Poetry

Though I missed the poetry meet-up this month (boo!) I felt like I already had a good feel for this kind of poem, which I’m leaning towards playing with some more to kind of unpack the current news of the day as I process it with its abundant catch words. This time, it was an obvious choice to write several poems as well, or at least two, because my brain has kept circling around the linked but contrasting noun categories of People and Things. But, after running across the Dalai Lama’s statement on my socials, two new words elbowed their way to the front – Loved and Used.


someTHING

THING is such a threadbare word
‘TH’ tsks, “Overused.”
So ‘thin’ and worn out, all its heft
and meaning’s been diffused.
‘NG’ lands hard, like it’s been tripped
And bitten red its tongue,
The ‘IN’ within it reads like “out”
So cruelly it is flung.
A THING’s a cipher – useless – null
An object left unnamed…
Just like its fellows – common, dull,
Mere luggage left unclaimed.

reNOUN

PEOPLE is a phalanx word – shoulder-to-shoulder, All.
The “We the People” populace,
The world in all its sprawl.
The first P stands as sentinel
Herding the E and O;
“Each” and “Other” are their names
They like the status quo.
The second P sends scouts ahead.
“Look, L! Say what you see!”
And E reports we’re all the same –
Yet varied as can be.
Made lovable. Made to love well,
We move and breathe and give
A palette of opinions, actions,
days brief and long-lived.
Sizes, shades, relationships,
Preferences — eclectic drips
Limn each canvas with broad strokes
Viva la gente! – all us folks.

This form lends itself to some real creativity for me, in terms of just letting my brain go and feeling my way into a word’s deeper meaning through what it remind me of, its internal sounds, the shapes of its letters, and whatnot. I like that “______is a Word” invites both wordplay and a thoughtful liberation like few other forms – I don’t have to make these poems rhyme. I don’t have to observe meter or number of lines, or anything else if I don’t want to. I just need to examine the word from all facets and let the word speak to ME – as didactically or as simplistically or as complexly and cleverly as I may. So, this was delightful – and I hope you find these word meditations delightful – useful, and illuminating – as well.

an ill-favored idiom

USED can be an ugly word
The ‘U’ shrills, “YOU can be
Relentlessly ignored, abandoned
By society.”
The ‘US’ – United States – that “us”
Is one who does the deed,
Who shoves aside the vulnerable,
As second to our greed.
Used like tissues —
Used like trash,
While empathy fatigue
Leaves abscesses inside our souls
Where canker blossoms breed.

all u need 2B

LOVED is such a word
That lavishes the ‘l’
Which, leaning subtly towards the ‘o,’
Is enthralled by its spell.
The ‘v’ stretches both arms
Invites potential friends
To snuggle close if so inclined
And reap heart’s dividends.
And if ‘e’ feels a loss
Without that closing ‘d’
We will not deem it whimsical
But secure. Anchored. Free.

There are quite a few other folks who dipped a toe in to the “_______is a Word” challenge this month. Laura’s post is here, and you’ll find Sara’s poem here. Liz’s poem is here. Mary Lee’s post is here, and Tricia’s poem is here. Linda B’s poem is here, and Rose joins us here. Michelle K’s poem is here. Jan from Bookseed has joined the fun, while Susan’s poem is here. More Peeps may be popping up during the weekend, so don’t forget to come back for the full roundup. Meanwhile, Poetry Friday is hosted this week by the delightful Denise Krebs, so don’t miss popping over for more poetry celebrations at Mrs. D. Krebs’ EduBlog! Thanks, Denise!

One of the MOST fun things about this style of poem is writing them with a thesaurus to hand. I often think of a word… and then look it up, and use the fifth or sixth synonym of it, so that I can sharpen my meaning – or even obscure or enlarge it. For instance, phalanx is a great word with multiple meanings, one of which was originally …log – a shoulder-to-shoulder line formation used in ancient Greek military battles. I LOVE that the plural of phalanx is phalanges… the names of the bones of the fingers or toes. People are each other’s foundation to stand on, or as Gwendolyn Brooks said it, “we are each other’s business, we are each other’s magnitude and bond.” We are each other’s hands to hold or extend in help and support – so to keep our battalion together. I appreciate the dichotomy of that – our little battalion standing with our shields linked, being both tethered and tied in, yet completely independent. Isn’t that the confidence that being loved gives to us?

I suspect Esme Weatherwax would think that nice little man in the saffron robe and wire-rimmed glasses was good people, and invite him over to sit a spell and listen to her bees. And I suspect His Holiness the Dalai Lama would get a kick out of reading about the kingdom of Lancre in the Ramtops where the strong-willed Granny Weatherwax catches babies, raises bees, and practices “headology,” which is a lot of philosophy mixed with a generous serving of stubbornness and a heavy sprinkle of common sense. The topics we find in conversation with each other sometimes aren’t that far apart after all… As more and more people are treated as things and things are cherished as people ought to be, we’ll figure out how to flip that particular script. Until then… perhaps we’ll keep this conversation simmering on the back burner – and let people who need to know, know that they are, as always, well-loved. Happy Weekend.

all poems ©2025, tanita s. davis

{poetry friday: the poetry peeps tan-ku into 2025}

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January 31, 2025

4:24 am

20 Comments on {poetry friday: the poetry peeps tan-ku into 2025}

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

Welcome to Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of February! Here’s the scoop: We’re taking advantage of the rich bounty of the Poetry Friday Universe and writing ____is A Word Poems, wordplay invented by poet Nikki Grimes and shared by Michelle Barnes. Here’s the roundup from our first foray in October 2021, which was a lot of fun. Our words will be ‘in conversation’ somehow. We’re not sure yet, but once YOU have a word in mind? Go! You’ve got a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on February 28th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll join the fun!

WHEW. We made it.

We’ve climbed the last cliff and clambered onto the last Friday of the last week of a month that seems to have lasted six years, at least.

It feels like the Poetry Peeps’ theme of “In Conversation” this year is going to be so apropos. So much is intertwined and related. So much of life is in conversation. We can take a strange comfort that what is happening now has happened before, in other places and other times – our present is in conversation with our past. We are – for better or for worse – once again aware of ourselves as living history. How will we take part in the conversation? What are we going to say? When is it our turn to speak? Our dip into the tan-ku, the poetic combination of the tanka answered by a haiku reflects this thoughtfully.

From Process…

Admittedly we chose this month to begin with a shorter poem form for the specific purpose of giving ourselves less to do because we had a shorter time frame to work with. However – we acknowledged CLEARLY in our group hang this month that SHORTER NEVER MEANS EASIER. Like, ever. Japanese Haiku is a hard form, full stop. It’s beautifully compact and thought-provoking and symbolic – all those good things that I’m not. I like to play with tanka, because it’s …somehow less pressure? I feel like it’s somehow more acceptable with tanka to lean in to the Western idea of haiku (just a short poem that MIGHT mention nature and DEFINITELY counts syllables) and tag on a couple of end lines that wrap the whole thing up with…a bit of clever emphasis. However, this time I decided I was going to make more of an effort to actually observe the… quietness of haiku, not just its brevity. I wanted to try to embrace the beauty and more ephemeral aspects of haiku, which celebrate small facets of the giant surround sound theater that is the natural world. With a whole year’s worth of haiku from THE Jone Rush MacCulloch – most awesome Solstice Poetry Swap partner – I set out to try.

The New Moon was January 29th, which was also the Lunar New Year’s eve. I’ve started to notice the phases of the moon a lot more since I become increasingly insomniac at various times of the month. Sometimes it’s too bright. Sometimes it’s too… quiet. Sometimes I need ice in my water. Like a devious toddler, my brain is just making up excuses to be awake at this point, but in any event, the other night, I realized that I had to turn on both of my night lights at 3AM in order to have enough light to read (Good news: Grown-ups don’t have to use the flashlight under the covers anymore). It was REALLY dark, and we’ve been having hard frosts, too – so in that cold darkness was the perfect opportunity to look up and see northern stars scattered like little chips of ice against the dark sky, to imagine the numerous beings outside, hunkering down. Since forever, there has been winter and cold – and even as much fire and ice as there has been this winter, just not in recorded memory. Nothing really is new, after all.

In a determined state of peace – not fretting about being awake again – I sat and observed the darkness of the new moon, recalling that in that darkness, millions far away were beginning their celebration of the Year of the Snake, symbolizing for some, among other things, transformation. Remembering my corn snake’s blindness and predilection for hiding under rocks when he was in the itchy, skritchy process of shedding his skin, the darkness of the moon seemed really fitting to me. Tonight’s moon will be a waxing crescent with only 2% illumination (the image in Jone’s picture is waxing a bit more than tonight’s will be, by about five days or so). The moon waxes gradually, so we’ll be in the dark for quite a bit longer. But, while we’re in darkness – and oh, the darkness is Stygian and profane these days – don’t forget that we’ve been here before. History, in conversation with the present, once told the story of oligarchs and excess, of predators and proletariat. Haven’t we always had the poor – and the poor in spirit – with us? Like a wheel turning, or a pendulum’s swing, history, empires, republics all rise and retreat. There is darkness. And then, there is light.

…to Poetry

That thought, so early in the morning, seemed rather profound. I’d talked about wanting to write to this moment with my tan-ku, and express the enormity of the scope of the darkness and the singular shine of people like Mariann Edgar Budde, whose previous work on behalf of Matthew Shepard’s family years ago already told us who she was, and whose unflinching ability to do the work set before her continues to shine. I wanted to write about that shine – without excessive panegyric – and remain in conversation with what helps us see the shine, which is indeed darkness. We don’t have one without the other, do we?

lux aeterna, 1/2
a waning gibbous
smothers a sky in shadow –
though starlight brightens,
though dawn has always followed,
wisdom fears a moonless night

this deeper darkness
no tame wick illuminates
then it dawns on us
= = = = = = = = = =
the singular role
of Earth’s celestial bodies:
reflect and return
in strength, the greater light as
lucent, faithful rendering.

deep is night’s ocean:
moon’s ‘lesser light’ sounds the depths
we dive, unafraid
draft by tanita s. davis ©2025

There are more Poetry Peeps who are grappling with this idea of being “in conversation” this month, and using the conversational form of the tan-ku to do so. Have a read. Sara’s post is here, and Laura’s post is here. Liz’s poem is here, while Mary Lee’s can be found here. Miss Margaret’s poem is here and Linda B’s poem response is here. Carol V’s poem joins the chat here, and Michelle K’s poem is here. Denise rounds out the list with a tan-ku for America. More Peeps may be popping into the Group Chat throughout the weekend, so don’t forget to circle back for the whole tan-ku round-up.

Poetry Friday today is richly hosted by Jan from Bookseed Studio, who has ALL the links and all the good stuff, and also provided a Sly and the Family Stone earworm which I will now share with you. Don’t miss the full round-up there. Thanks much, Jan.

Is it counterintuitive to think of diving into the darkness, delving into it to find its source? It is somehow a comforting thought to remember the toughness of our ancestors, through Depressions, through wars, through robber barons and revolution. All over the world, the path is illuminated by those who have gone before. Can we walk it, everyday people, unafraid, maybe putting a little color into the world as we go?

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night.

– Sarah Williams, 1868

Happy weekend to we, the people. We who walk in darkness, hold up your light.