I haven’t written on my blog in a long time because I’ve been busy working on my poetry!
And I am delighted to relay that my new poetry collection, Unwilling to Laugh Alone, is finished. Now I need YOU to make it a bestseller. This book offers something for everyone—to entice you further, I’ve included sample poems below and you can check out my bio, reviews of the book, and other poems via the link below to my publisher’s website.
Thanks to Main Street Rag Publishing Company, Unwilling to Laugh Alone will be released November 2015, just shy of my 50th birthday. It will sell for $14 cover price. BUT you can pre-order now for just $7.50 (plus tax & shipping) by following this link to the MSR Online Bookstore: http://mainstreetrag.com/bookstore/product/unwilling-to-laugh-alone/.
In case that link doesn’t work, please visit http://mainstreetrag.com/bookstore and go to “Coming Soon” and look for Unwilling to Laugh Alone.
Alternately, Main Street Rag does take checks. The price is a flat rate of $12.50 per book regardless of quantity, which includes shipping and sales tax. Let me know if you want me to email you the mail-in order form to pay by check.
Please remember your advance order gives you this fantastic discount, but you’ll have to wait to receive the book in November—just IN TIME for my 50th! So, order now!
Thank you all!
SAMPLE POEMS FROM Unwilling to Laugh Alone:
Just above my right ear—
where the trunk of this gnarled oak
branches out and my hammock ties off—
there’s a hollowed crook.
Filled with last night’s rain,
this rotting niche sprouts mushrooms,
gathers leaves, hosts a wily woodpecker
who shares its bath.
Notches carved into bark
mark my growth in youth,
but I regret these wounds
as age bends me, too.
I sway to the same wind
that pushes darkened limbs
and wonder if we’re kindred now,
each reaching for our last rest.
The oak turns to winter and, I fear,
the sleep from which it won’t rouse—
the crook is a thief silently stealing
my old friend’s time.
Bright Sky, Cole Night
~ For Charles Urrey, 1954–2014
His battered hands are bruised yet
never beaten. Kneading with need,
he molds honey-laced love, even as
his broken body grows too fragile
Yet nothing—not even hours
preparing the gear nor single-digit
degrees—surpasses his desire to stargaze
tonight as the clouds part to reveal
By motorized chair, his fingers navigate
him in this rural setting where clarity of sky
matches a crystal mind. He begs to be lifted,
to gaze at his dark heaven, but his frame
His cognizance is caged by tongue;
sagging, his view clings to earth.
But inside, his own unforgettable jazz
blares a timbre acclaiming life and he sheds
death’s tainting touch
for one more day, his Stetson
firmly in place as we break bread,
heedless of the odds.
Without gets such a bad rap. We torture
the poor word with connotations—to be
without anything is to miss out on something,
to lose an opportunity. But what about being
End is not much luckier. Though a solid word,
it’s not very pretty, easy to say but hard to do,
always telling us when something is over—
the end of a movie
or a good book
a bottle of wine
or the rest of life.
Yet happily ever afters come after
the end, and Jesus just wanted to end
our suffering. Funny how we attach
such meaning to so little, just two
small words make all our difference.
These words come together as if forced
by our gravity, drawn close by our need
to change the final chapter. But, with both,
we find we don’t have to finish anything—
not our broccoli
not the race
or last piece of pie
And certainly—not ever—our love.