Two of my new poems went live today over at Words Dance. I am extremely grateful to Amanda Oaks and Jessica Dawson for accepting these pieces. These poems are part of a larger manuscript of response poems I am working on, inspired by Rattle’s Poets Respond series. I’ll continue to keep you updated as more pieces get accepted and published (I hope). I have a chapbook of these poems pretty much ready to go at this point, but hope to write enough of them for a full length.
Today, three new poems went live with Revolution John. They are part of my series of pieces based off inspiration from my social media feed. These were taken from observations on Facebook. As of now, I am no longer actively participating in Facebook for a while to focus on work, but I may do another series of these in which I take inspiration from Twitter. We shall see. Special thanks go to Sheldon Compton for publishing the pieces, and to Nicolette Wong for suggesting this magazine to me.
Did you read these poems? What did you think of them? Let me know in the comments! I’d love to get your feedback.
My poem “How to remove a hazmat suit” appears today in Rattle online, as part of their Poets Respond series. Many thanks go to Timothy Green for this opportunity. I hope that you enjoy the poem. Let me know in the comments!
Who is Malala?
Who is this child with the voice of a storm,
sent to face death and turn it into a hurricane,
changing the fist of the desert into an open palm?
Who is this child placing books like shields
in the hands of women, eclipsing the silence
of black gun barrels like mouths stuffed with fire?
She smiles. She makes herself a target.
She shows the oppressed that knowledge
is the atom bomb in a war of water pistols.
She speaks and the warlords shutter their windows,
cower in the halls with their hands over their ears,
these terrorists afraid of shadows and thunder.
Who is this woman so brave, she stands alone
in the path of a Jihad, a holy battle waged
against human rights like an assault on daylight.
Who is this woman, turning herself into a sun?
This woman, her words like comets,
shooting stars for the abandoned to wish upon,
she is the song in the throat of the wingless.
She is the prayer on the lips of the faithless.
She is mother to the orphaned.
Malala is bravery waving hello,
a raised hand faced palm out
to show that even a desert has a lifeline.
Driftwood Press, issue four, released today. It contains my poem “make believe sonnet, facebook poem #16” and a short interview. Many thanks to the editors for this opportunity. I am overjoyed that anyone finds any value in anything I do.
My poem “Mother” has been accepted to the Montucky Review. They put it up today at their site. Many thanks to Jessica Dawson and the staff there. I am very grateful any time an editor finds any value in my work.
I’m very excited to have a poem accepted for the next issue of The Mas Tequila Review. My piece “Dear Stepfather,” which is part of my chapbook Father Figures, will be included. Thanks very much to Richard Vargas for this opportunity. Looking forward to reading the whole issue and seeing who else is included.
Keep a look out for its release.
Father Figures is now available in a Kindle edition. The print edition of the book has also just went down to a lower price. For those interested in a copy, you can get the print edition now for just $9.00 and the Kindle edition for $2.99.
I have two poems up on the latest issue of Thirteen Myna Birds featured from the chapbook, thanks to editor Juliet Cook. You can see the whole issue here.
This week I have received word that my poem “make believe sonnet, facebook poem #16” was accepted to Driftwood Press. It will be in their next issue. Thanks to the editors.
I am the featured author this month at ExFic. Four of my new poems have been published there, from my upcoming experimental manuscript that is still seeking a publisher. The entire work is derived from things observed on my social media feed. Special thanks to editor Sophie Boyce for giving me this opportunity. If you wish to purchase a chapbook, click here.
A stay of execution
felt like reclaiming
dandelion seeds from the wind,
brilliant and blinding starbursts of light
once the mask was removed,
once the ties were cut from bloody wrists,
once shaking hands were cupped
to capture the shimmering stream
of water spilled from a basin,
to cleanse the face of tears and grime,
to welcome the kisses
from his worried mother.
The National Guard planted roses
in the yard of every house
haunted by Michael’s innocent smile,
the city a beacon of blooming life,
a chain of joined hands
holding back the senseless shadows
cast from the violent fires of grief,
with one voice, one song, one wish,
that no one die in vain,
that tragedy never forces
the humanity out of humanity.
They continued to pay it forward,
to buy each other coffee
because it is more than caffein in a cup,
it’s a hope that kindness can spread
like cancer’s antithesis,
that the roots of one small joy
can fan out into a network of surprises
that take hold and grow
into a tree of limitless branches
no storm could ever break,
every person touched
remembering the simple pleasures
of a tire swing in the summer.