Day 8: I, of the Grain—a quatern published in The Rat's Ass Review #NaPoWriMo #NationalPoetryMonth

Demeter, Copyright 2013-2014 HoneyJadeCrab from DeviantArt

Happy to announce that on this Day 8 of National Poetry Month, my quatern about Demeter, goddess of the harvest, entitled I, of the Grain has been published in The Rat's Ass Review. Many thanks to Roderick Bates for selecting it. You can read it here!

Demeter is the food bringer, the law bearer, the mark of agriculture upon civilized society. She's not to be trifled with. She is in charge. I imagine her as a goddess who provides swift punishment if her strict rules are not carried out to her exacting specifications. Don't bite the hand that feeds you.

A quatern is a French form with a refrain. 16 lines of 4 quatrains. Each line is 8 syllables. The first line serves as the refrain and migrates to the second line in the second quatrain, the third in the third, and the fourth and last line in the fourth. There are no particular rules for rhyme or meter. Play with it, and post your results in the comments section so I too can enjoy the fruits of your labor!

Temporary—Sein Und Werden

Evelyn evolving into a microscopic Amoeba image ~ Rick Hutchinson

Happy to report today that "Temporary," a poem I wrote about a piece of me gone missing, is featured in the current Spring 2016 issue of Sein Und Werden. 

The theme of this issue is "Corpus: The body whole and the body dismembered, idolised and idealised. Replication... labour. The flesh of the fruit; the fruit of adolescence. The body as prison, as a vault for secrets. The body reclaimed and the body disfigured. The carcass, the new-born... the meat factory." 

Be sure to examine all of the viscera in detail. These poems leave no cavity, muscle, or blood unscrutinized. 

Nesting Dolls—featured at Mothers Always Write

The original matryoshka set by Zvyozdochkin and Malyutin, 1892

I'm grateful to Mothers Always Write for publishing my poem "Nesting Dolls" today. It's my reflection on all that parenthood contains as well as its outgrowths. Please check it out here and then explore the site. It's filled with meaningful accounts of what it is to be a mother from a talented assembly of writers.

Runoff—a poem featured in The Gorge Literary Journal

Me and my son enjoying Hood River.

Time is slippery. We can't grasp it, will it to speed up, or force it to slow down. My son is now 6 feet tall and 14 years older than when this picture was taken. While I enjoyed that day and many others like it, I remember how slowly the hours crawled by when my children were in diapers. That the years have hauled ass in comparison makes no mathematical sense, but is a concrete fact, nevertheless.

Once my son was dependent upon me for everything, and he didn't mind it in the least. Now he's dependent upon us for much, and it irritates him to fess up and admit it. This is only natural and good. I would worry if he seemed content being waited upon. He neither needs nor wants hand-holding now. He often makes it clear that he'd prefer if I made myself scarce. I thank him for his honesty, tell him that I believe him, and also softly suggest that while this may be the whole truth of the moment, it may not paint a picture that accurately characterizes our entire evolving timeline. Occasionally he still needs me. Sometimes he still likes me around. And, perhaps as important, I depend upon him and am grateful each day that he is part of this world. With time and maturity, I imagine he will come to see these factors as self-evident. Wondrous, even. I have.

I wrote a poem reflecting on the circuitous route we take towards and away from our family. And back again. Many thanks to Julie Hatfield and John Metta at The Gorge Literary Journal for publishing it. You can read "Runoff" here.

Drunken cinquain for the Kentucky Derby

Trigger warning: vegetarians, humor alert!


after
two mint juleps
American Pharaoh
would be downright yummy in a
burgoo

So strange that a gorgeous animal such as this would be sponsored by Yum! Corporation. V. Espinoza looks tasty, too. In a polka dot kind of way.