hello :) i hope you don't mind, but i've added you to my favorite writing blogs list. take care xxx

How could I mind?? Thank you for your interest in my blog! 

Hey, loved the "Out of Focus" poem. My ex is from Allamuchy and I commute on 80 so it stuck out for me. Always surprises me when I see familiar places that are familiar to people I've never met. Anyway, great poem :)

Thank you so much. So glad you could connect with the poem!

Out of Focus

Bokeh, from the Japanese word boke-aji:
the aesthetic quality of blur;
polygonal spheres of out-of-focus points of light.

I was smiling on the I-80 westbound
scenic overlook outside Allamuchy, NJ
as the golden almost orange purple sun-mixed starlight
had me looking more beautiful
than I was.

Selective focus: distance from the subject,
aperture manipulation—
and then I am clearer than sunshimmer
through blackberry bushes.

My body, vibrant, rained on by soft geometric bulbs—
head tilted back slightly, jawbone jutted forward.
Spectacular reflections.

Your camera lens had me looking 
freer than I was.

The interstate: dark blue,
dotted lined
red to redder gradients of light.

But there was a certain slowness in the air between the taillights
and headlights and the break to blacktop from highway everyone
mistakes for exit 19 and veers back into
upon realization.

In a flash, I become a thumbnail on a screen,
the snow had it looking colder than it was—
or maybe it was the holes in my sweater that let through

fiery threads, my left arm arched over,
hand balled in a fist, and a sunshined-chalk outline around
my still-living body.

Why do none of your poems rhyme?

Some of them do (mostly internally), but I rarely write in rhyme. When poetry rhymes, especially contemporary poetry, often the focus of the poem is at the end of the line and everything before it is ignored. It is also more difficult to write from the subconscious when you are actively seeking words to fit that rhyme that don’t necessarily make sense. If you end a line in “love” you’re going to automatically think of “dove, above, glove” and try to come up with a way to fit those words into your poem instead of writing what you actually want to write about.


My grandmother announced she hated winter
as Stephanie, from The Weather Channel,
waved in bright blue splotches on the radar
and advised morning commuters

to break out the ice scrapers.
“Your grandfather was overnight snow flurry.
Unnoticed, he accumulated into
sight. Silently, he thawed into ground.”

If so, she was an explosion.
She was streaks of blue and red.
Her spine: curved, bent into a bowling ball on a bumpered lane
into sky.
She burned, ceaselessly in a beam of light
screaming and sparkling,
spilling ash and torch on anyone behind.

“I am dying, and they are eating,
potato salad and coleslaw.”

What could she do
but be bright and make noise?

Nobody ever called her eyes stars; they are
manmade. Her black satin slippers, her cigarettes and the accompanied
cough, her change-purse and checks, the daydreams of cruise ships
are all manmade.

She is an explosion, transient, a second in vision,
a shatter in eardrums,
an afterglow in blinking eyes.
Fast, bright, bang, and nothing.

And when she discovered fire at her fingertips
she must have used it to cauterize
cartilage, joints, arteries, synapses,
memories, longing,
her larynx.

She looked out the window and said, “Snow
sometimes looks like


I could blame it on the butterflies—
the flightiness of things with wings.
(The fluttering
heart can only beat so fast; irregular
for so long before becoming a health hazard).

So they took off, one by one,
until none were left.

My stomach—hollow and empty;
I hope you cannot hear the echo
as you kiss my bellybutton.

I wouldn’t mention the mothballs
I swallowed to muffle my voice.
Perhaps I’m filled, actually,
with skeletons and broken wings.

Your poem 'Wine Tasting' is absolutely breathtaking to read. I could quote it for days! Such a gift you have - keep on writing girlfriend! :)

Thanks so much (:


Make dark marks.
Erase completely to change.

You ask me questions
you already know the answers to
(or think you do).

I fill in diamond designs—
crisscrossing patterns
up and down the Scantron.

I don’t think you notice.

I wonder when you became my professor,
marking red X’s on my answers.

I never wear mascara.
I braid intricate designs
pinned with flower buds
across the top of my head—

because it’s the only part of me you see.

You must hate the stars,
for having to look up at them.

You understand multiple choices or
definitive answers.

You’d have me write C programming
over poetry:
simple input/output.

I don’t know how you fit me into {braces}.

I’d write you essays instead,
but you’d need more than a magnifying glass
to read them from the height you’re at.

Already Broken

You locked away your heart
after it was already broken.

You keep pieces in a box,
like stowing confettied cash
or snippets of bills
in a bank.

You asked why
I’m not afraid of hurting.

I’ve been sliced to ribbons
and tied bows
with my remains.

I’ve frozen over
and built sculptures
out of my frost and ice.

I’ve shattered
and made suncatchers
from my shards.

Have you ever published any of your poems?

I haven’t yet!