Happy World Poetry Day 2022. Instead of making a video reading this year (you can watch any of my previous poetry readings on my YouTube) I thought I’d let you know about my recent poetry books and share a sample poem from each collection:
The Redundancy of Tautology (Cyberwit Publishing, 2021)
Will I ever grow up?
The vine says no
Not the grape vine-
the vine with spreading lianas
the vine delving into
the depths of a slumbering
Why bother growing up?
When the acrid clouds are waiting…
It is better to stay
young and unplucked
free of herbicide,
free of pesticide,
hanging on the vine.
Many of the poems in The Redundancy of Tautology were first published in print and online literary journals. If you want to read some more, you can check out the following links:
“The Redundancy of Tautology” first published in Dead Snakes Magazine, 2016.
“New-sense” first published in The Open Mouse, 2014.
“A faraday cage will keep you safe, Thou dost protest too much, Life is a-changing, Long haul, Show not tell, Ripe fruit” first published in Mudjob Magazine, 2013
“Landmass” first published in Jellyfish Whispers, 2013.
“English Litter-ature” first published in Boyslut Magazine, 2013.
Chemotherapy for the Soul (Fowlpox Press, 2017)
(First published in Nostrovia Magazine, Feb 2011)
I composed this poem for you
in my head,
in another lifetime,
when we were hatchlings.
We saw the world then
through our rose tinted glasses.
But when we took them off,
the world was askew.
We saw the citadel
for what it was.
I held your hand
as the facade crumbled.
The remnants of a world long lost
will fade behind that fake fortress.
Together we’ll bury the pieces
in the dust
and wait for the half life to pass.
But we’ll survive
because we’re strong
and most of all
because we’re smart.
A Model Archaeologist (Eyewear Publishing, 2015)
I intend to write a poem
on a clay tablet
this is the only ticket to eternity
that a human will ever have
the world falls apart, my poem,
on its clay tablet, will last
and it will be sealed forever,
Technology will fail
yet my poem will live for eons
under the rubble
I’ll make sure
to write something crude, lairy,
simply to offend the future generations
Ice can come and go
but the drumlins won’t wipe me out
my tablet will be waiting
or something, to dig it out,
fuss over it, then probably throw it
onto a spoil heap.