This poem is for local contest about joy. You're comments are most welcomed!

Small things

Breaks of sun in the icy mix
that�s New England in winter
that allow this book hound
to walk or shuttle to her local library.

Bookstores that don�t mind me
browsing for hours, even when
they �re aware I have no money
and am merely seeking refuge
from the bluster.

Monthly gathering of poets geared
to awaken muses despite
the raw temperatures;
literary sparks need not await
Persephone�s return

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On the Eve of inauguration celebratory poetry reading
hosted by childhood idol and present poet laureate
of the town I hope to move to,
I can�t help but picture myself
shaky, impediment based voice made worse
at idea of reading in front of so many strangers.

But then I remember our new President�s words;
�I didn�t get here by myself.�

He met the Oval Office;
I mean this stage,

But one is no less true
than the other.

Each of us relies on the spirits of ancestors;
related, unrelated, some we�ve never even
encountered in body
to be (and become) our best selves.

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This is a quote from A Room of Own; the poem below was inspired by it

�Women have sat indoors all these millions of years, so that by this time, the very walls are permeated by their creative force, which has, indeed so overcharged the capacity of bricks and mortar that it must needs harness itself to pens and brushes and business and politics."

Seeking Godess
Women artists globally await the muse;
Anticipate her arrival in our alcoves,
tenements, and sitting rooms; wherever we find
one moment�s pause-
when children nap,
watching for the pizza boy
during our one, weekly night
exempt from making dinner,
at the day job from we�ll happily be parted from
when our genius is recognized.

Even though generations of men-
have discouraged us
and some women, too,
fearful that our creative gifts
will make strangers mock our upbringing.

Many sisters
give up the dream;
relegate prose, paints, politics
to the back burner, opting to pursue
the practical instead.

Yet,
in some of us,
the artist�s voice will not be silenced.

Decision made, we must muddle
through dead end employment;
spending every spare cent on supplies
necessary to practice chosen craft.
We harness the courage
of those who came before us.

Somehow knowing these difficulties
demarcate our destinies;
labeling us different from our more rational counterparts.

Sisters that we,
women of muse, sometimes envy
in spite of ourselves;
though, more often, we weep for them
and the visions we realize they needed to forsake
in order to follow the more systematic route.

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is is a poem I'm going to use in a poetry Slam this Sunday, if I can get accommodated properly due to my speech impairment. It'll be my first official Slam ever. I'm not expecting to win, although it's nice to dream about that, I just want to do it to prove I can. To prove that just because you don't talk exactly normally doesn't mean you have to give up anything you really like. Please comment. I'm still open to editing suggestions.
*****

It makes sense,
given my God decreed verbal difficulties
and organizer�s soul
that I should love the written word,
especially the politically motivated written word.



Words like those
spoken by Woodrow Wilson
and burned, by women wanting suffrage,
from jail cell garbage bins.

And I do love the written word;
composing paper-based communiqu�s
has been my primary partner
contributing more bacon to bank account
than any of my other endeavors.

We�ve been wedded for more years
than I�ve been alive and, I,
for the most part, was singularly
and faithfully devoted to her.


My infidelity with and to slam
(my primary�s oft bastard sister)
began the first time I encountered her;
diva of verbally based gymnastics.

She was- I understood
destined to become this wordsmith�s
longstanding mistress.


How was I, word goddess wannabe
whose tongue sometimes twists
over non-performance syllables
despite my best effort,
to modify, accommodate, transform
slam into art form I could conquer.



Introducing the echoer, often, of late,
a New York Jew woman poet
whose perfect diction rivals
any Southern preacher I�ve heard
or my college musician roommate
who has sung my words previous,
or, infrequently, unsuspecting assistant
suddenly drafted into role
of speaking words on whichever tongue
I choose to barrow that still renders them
always, always mine.

The latest in a life
made possible by adjustments,
both self and colleague created
that grant girl poet the freedom
to have the existence she elects.


I hope my dual loves,
both daughters of Brighid
goddess of our pagan Gaelic past,
whom I discovered thanks to Google
find my proposed polyamorous
arrangement acceptable.

.

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I wrote this poem in writing group tonight. Our prompt was popular music and how it stimulates the muse. I'm rather attached to this poem but I know it's not perfect yet. Your input is very welcomed and valued.


For the most part,
I do not write
about creeps in my-
or anyone else's-
Personal cellar.
I'm a hearts and flowers, glass half full girl.
Muse finds easy access
to memories at morning or midnight
when she is confronted with a blank page.
Remembrances of Martin speaking
with ire not concealed
by pulpit's protection.

Anita softly singing
freedom songs to comfort the new
(often surprised and young) arrestees
en route to their first night in jail
for seeking our people's liberation.

Since youth,
I've headed the Raging Grannies community call
to worship something other than capitalism.
Even though I never met the ladies themselves
until moving to Western Massachusetts in 2000.

Each time, I elect to make my own march
through and to the jailhouse door
or to seek- in an admittedly less radical attempt-
justice by wielding a pen

I cannot avoid sweet refrains of Anne Fenney's neoclassic radical folk anthem.
Have you been to Jail for Justice?
Bouncing off my brain waves
even in the silence.
Issuing me another set of marching orders
as both poet and organizer.

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I'm going to enter the three day novel contest over Labor Day weekend. You write an entire novel in three days. I'm going to call my novel Detritus (that's a synonym for garbage). The reason I'm calling it that is because it's based on this new idea I have called language fiction. Language fiction is kind of based on language poetry which focuses on the sound of words and popular culture in order to create literary works that really make no sense. I know because I've written them.

The idea for Detritus the book is to have 100 topics because the average novel length for this contest is 100 pages according to the website. Every page will feature a separate topic, and I will just write down random things that that topic makes me think about until I fill a page. Some topics may take up more than one page but it's a one page minimum. The topic I'm most excited to write about is while I'm writing the novel the T.V. will be playing in the background and every time I hear an interesting phrase or think of an interesting thought based on what the T.V. says I will flick between the page I'm currently working on and the page which will i think be last in the book entitled 24 hour T.V. thoughts.

I'm looking forward to writing this book. I'm not sure people will like it but then I really don't care. Since I was exposed to language poetry, it's kind of been under my skin as I don't like it as a genre per se. I'm hoping this experience will exorcise the genre from my system.

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