My cheeky girl after an afternoon of apple picking. This smiles hangs the moon.
I am on vacation this week. What am I doing? Getting my kid settled in to school and starting a 6-week course on writing and fear. I am and have been terrified to write what and how I want. Afraid of not being taken seriously as a writer, of not contributing to the world a relevant and powerful and purposeful narrative. Afraid of community and isolation, undernourished by academe, but suckling its teat in penance. Enough. What if all… Keep Reading
In 2013, the U.S. Congress shutdown, the Affordable Care Act launched, and I was laid off from IBM in the same month. Three job offers from three organizations all on hold pending the passage of a congressional budget. I had a lot of time on my hands and spent every morning, for weeks, sitting at a small table in the back of my boyfriend’s restaurant eating hash browns and fruit, drinking coffee, and responding to requests from recruiters for updated… Keep Reading
Trick or treat? You decide. There’s something haunting about my little apple, aside from the obvious razor jutting out from its stem. So inviting, like most temptations, so familiar its benign. That moment whole food intersects horror.
Meal Ticket Poetry is hosting a photo contest on Instagram and has chosen to give away a signed copy of How to Make Pink Confetti to the contest winner. You should do this because it’s fun and who doesn’t love something free (and pink!). GUIDELINES: WHAT: Meal Ticket Poetry photo contest. WHEN: NOW – MONDAY, JAN 14. WIN: A signed copy of “How to Make Pink Confetti” AND Social Media Promotion to 50k+ RULES: MUST follow @mealticketpoetry3 @cjenkinsiv @catbellypress and… Keep Reading
A special note of gratitude to Poet Hound for featuring the poems from my chapbook – How to Make Pink Confetti – on her blog. Stop by, read and leave a comment.
I’ve been carrying around an old pair of my dad’s eyeglasses (my brother has the newer ones). Each time I reach into my satchel to retrieve a pen to scribble, my fingers tangle in the empty lens and arm of his half-broken glasses. My father was legally blind. His eyeglasses were his lifeline. A few days ago I started taking photographs of those glasses after I mistakenly broke one of the lenses, deducing that in my clumsy hands I had better find… Keep Reading
…When the words lie down/and soak into/recycled canopies/of jungles past,/they reflect what is/nearest to your heart/what frightens the blood/from you…/ You do not know Cambridge Jenkins, IV. Organic tea leaf, whole cream sweet, hot on the tongue. Frayed edge of denim stained with red clay, moss and stank of city. Hair like rough silk, black on gold skin. Lit clove rested on bed of lip and silver smoke swirl. But, when this poet speaks of life and its eventual death: …there on the blue… Keep Reading