Standing at the Trailhead of Winter

Today would have been my mom's 84th birthday. Seven years ago today, we gathered to remember her a week after she passed away. That day, Dad led me into his bedroom where he'd laid out her jewelry and told me to take what I'd like to have. My two older sisters had already had their turn. Since I don't wear much jewelry, I only took a few pieces that I knew I would enjoy, but mostly, I took the pieces for sentimental reasons. Dad also told me I could have the jewelry box, a Japanese three-drawer piece made of bakelite. I have no idea how Mom came to have the jewelry box, but it had some brooches inside that I knew had been Grandma's, so I took it along with what it contained. Every now and then, I open the drawers just to take out a brooch and wonder on what occasion Grandma wore it. Or Mom. My favorite of all the pins is a silver piece with glittery clear rhinestones. It reminds me of a snowflake. When I wear it on a snowy day, I feel closer to Winter and all th...

So, five days now and no critiques on my haiku. I did receive one comment, basically asking about one or two of the haiku maybe needing a "cutting" word and saying the cricket haiku was the least favorite of the six. I sent the person a thank-you note. Then, I opened my email to find yet another rejection. This one from a literary magazine I sent some poems to back in early November. Now, I'm sitting here wondering why I feel the need to be published. The literary magazines don't pay. Most have a small readership. Yet I keep sending my work in hopes one of them will eventually say yes. Prestige is definitely part of the equation. Being able to put on my vita that I've had work published by recognized literary magazines adds a degree of expertise. In the event I decide to seek employment at another institution, the publishing credits will help me stand out over applicants who don't have publishing credits. And I have entertained the idea of seeking empl...

Today is a happy day for me. My first ever published poem is out there. Honestly, I don't care if I don't get anything else done today. I just want to keep opening the website where my poem has been offered alongside many other wonderful poems for all to read. I feel very honored to have been granted this opportunity. If you'd like to read "Shivering in the Passenger Seat," click here . You'll be taken to the latest issue of Tipton Poetry Journal . Read all of the poems. I know you'll find one, maybe two, perhaps even ten that will move you. With just a little over a month left of my sabbatical, I'm feeling a bit sad. The time off from prepping for five classes, from grading 100+ essays several times a semester, from committee work, etc. has been just wonderful. I finally got a sense for what it's like to be a full-time writer. I've always wondered what this kind of life would be like, and now I know a little bit better. I wish I could live t...

Last night, just as I was shutting things down to call it a day, I checked in at my email account to see if anything new came in. The only new item was from a poetry journal I had sent a couple of poems to. As is wont to happen these days, I felt that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I asked myself: do you really want to open that now? Self replied: well, no, but now or tomorrow, it's all the same.  I really didn't want to go to bed disappointed, but my curiosity got the best of me and I opened the email. The first thing I noticed was how long the email was compared to the previous rejection emails. So I started from the beginning, kept reading, and learned one of the poems had been selected for publication in this poetry journal. Then, I started crying. Yep. I cry over the Thanks but no thanks emails, and I cry over the Congratulations emails. I am that person. Funny Delightful Son came in as I was sitting at my desk, still basking in the feeling of ha...

Awhile back, I posted about feeling the need to write poetry. That need hasn't let up, and I frankly don't know where it's coming from as I'm definitely not a poet. I am first and foremost a short fiction writer. Maybe what I'm feeling is just the need to write and it doesn't matter what form that writing takes. Whatever the case may be, this is the poem I've been working on. Night Ride Hushed voices drift on the dark, like the bobbing blink of a firefly first close to the grass then out of arm’s reach then back again. The heavy thunk of water bottles against their cages, the click of headlights switching on, illuminating the pebbled asphalt six feet ahead, signals go time. Under cover of darkness, the crunch of tires mingle with muted yawns and complaints of lingering sleepiness. Moving through quiet streets, I follow the red taillights of those in front,  the ones unafraid of that which  the darkness hides. W...

A friend sent me the link to this poem after reading the "My Body Rocks" post. I love it so much, I wanted to share. Enjoy.