Hear me read my poems. . . . Listen to "Famous Last Words," a tribute to my Dad -- his life, and death, and sense of humor -- at the Web site of the terrific poetry journal, Rattle. Famous Last Words (Click here and then scroll down to my name.)
Smoke and Mirrors — Soundzine Taking the I Out of the Poem— Soundzine Travel — SCR Invisible — SCR Afternoon Rain and The Third Night — The 2River View Opera Nights — The Cortland Review Rapprochement and Secret Sharer — The 2River View
A SHORT-SHORT STORY: "Ravenous -- In Which Poe's Fine-Feathered Friend Tells All," in Loch Raven Review. A SHORT-SHORT STORY: "How to Shoot a Tomato," in MiPOesias. Page 28 in the September, 2008 issue.
| **** OLD NEWS **** September, 2009 ~ My poem, "Smoke and Mirrors," won first place in the August Interboard Poetry Competition. Judge: George Szirtes.
September, 2009 ~ My poem, "Lunatic Blues," published in Autumn Sky Poetry, No. 12, was nominated for Best of the Net by editor Christine Klocek-Lim.
*** OLDER NEWS ***
December, 2008 ~ My poem, "Sleepwalker," published in the Ballard Street Poetry Journal, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
French Exit It's how I'd leave you– still studying the card For now, I use my art Previously published in Poetry Super Highway Tassajara Young, wholesome as coarse grain, Published in Shakespeare's Monkey Revue, 2(2), 2009
Big Baby: A Girl's Life They called her a big baby, crybaby, bawlbaby, because she cried over every little thing. Not the gunned down gangsters on TV, but the thread of pale blood trickling from her own skinned knees; not the dead deer splayed across the hood of her father's Chevy, but squashed ants, spiders flushed down the toilet; not the smashed windows of the factory, but eggshells, broken dolls, missing puzzle pieces. She was a sniffer, a snuffler, a sniveler, a ninny, a namby-pamby. She was set to blubbering by noises in the night, lobsters boiling in a pot, the cut and bleeding vegetables, thrown snowballs, spitballs, stones, the shifty eyes of construction workers on the corner, wolves who howled on the ridge, wolves who ate children, orphans, lost kittens, Mrs. Vincent with holes in her clothes, the priest who passed a basket because he was so poor. Not by the way her father smacked the table with his hand, but the way her mother flinched and lowered her eyes. Published in Six Little Things, Issue 13, 2008. |
