It’s Publication Day!

Finally, the day I’ve been waiting for. My Shakespearean sonnet A Day in the Life of Henry VIII has had its debut in Copperfield Review Quarterly and I couldn’t be prouder. Seeing my name in print for the first time, and in such an acclaimed literary publication, has me feeling a little teary. I hope this only means good things for my future as a poet.

Please consider supporting me and this great publication. You can purchase digital or print copies of the quarterly on Copperfield Review Quarterly’s website. There’s so much on offer in this edition! Read about handling resistance with Steven Pressfield; Ann Taylor is in the poet spotlight; and, of course, there are plenty of short stories and poems to enjoy.

Get your copy today!

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Here Comes the Bride

I married my significant other of nine years yesterday! Honestly, it was about time. It was a simple ceremony performed by a Justice of the Peace, but I got to marry the man I love in front of all my friends and family, so it was simply perfect.

In honor of my nuptials, I want to share a poem I wrote about us a few years ago.

Units of Measurement

How do you measure a relationship?
In years?
We’ve lasted four.
I’d try to get it down to the second,
but I’m bad at math.

Anyway,
I think I’d rather measure ours
in moments:

Like the first night we spent together
and stayed up until 3am talking
about…you know, I’ve forgotten,
but the sound of your voice
was a roll of thunder over my skin,
and, oh, how I wished your fingers had chased the sounds.

We were so silly
the day we decided to move in together
as a solution to our first real argument.
But I was frustrated–I missed you,
and you, you won’t admit it,
but you missed me too,
and even though it was stupid,
it worked out all right in the end.

I remember the night I came home
from visiting my parents
and you said my new hair color was beautiful
and we tumbled into bed together
and some months and days later
we named our son after your grandfather.

It’s weird, isn’t it,
that buying a house together was scarier
than those 16 hours of pain.

A lot can happen in four years.
I’m curious to see what the next
three years will bring–
maybe a daughter?

We did get our daughter, by the way. She has her father’s eyes. ♥

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Bird Watching: A Poem

Photo by Brian Forsyth on Pexels.com

I track grief like birds
in the crosshairs of my binoculars.
A cross marks the spot
where my heart lies.

Cardinals are meant for mourning,
singing dirges in key major
like blood pumping.
They’re resplendent in red,
so when you see them,
you know a little piece of Heaven
sings for you.

I don’t believe in Heaven,
but I believe in birds.
I think if ever I
see my grandmother again,
it will be as a dot of red
against a field of blue.

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Joker’s Right: A Poem

Bringing it back to a time when I thought I was clever–and could actually rhyme!

Though I fancied myself as a rather mysterious person, multiple people told me they could “read me like an open book.” I didn’t like that, so this was my response to them.

In hindsight, I probably wasn’t as mysterious as I pretended to be.

Complicated beyond comprehension,
but what’s to comprehend
when it’s all a game?
I like to play pretend.
A bag of tricks
and some joker’s quick wit
brings the crowd their kicks.
Now it’s the clown being played,
though I’d gladly condescend to claim
you know the face behind the name.

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Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine: A Poem

A PET Scan illustrating difference between a brain with ADHD and one without. PHOTO: NEUROSCIENCENEWS

I’ve always wondered
what neurotypical looks like.
Let’s compare brains.

You go first.
Cut off my hair,
peel back my scalp;
what do you see?

Is my brain sectioned
into hyperfixations
or does Henry VIII waltz
to Kpop?

What does it
look like?
A brain?
A castle?
Are the walls pink-grey
or splattered with glitter?

How does it feel?
Do the folds vibrate?
Or is it my legs
which cannot hold still?

Detach my brain
from its stem.
This doesn’t hurt
at all;
you see, I’m
grateful,
so grateful,
for the reprieve.

Thousands of things
happen every
second
and my brain wants
to know all of them.

Next time you see me
in a restaurant,
lower your voice
or all your secrets
will go home
with me.

Cradle my brain
gently.
Is it heavy?
It should be.
It’s full of
secrets.

Smell it.
Lick it.
Hold it to your ear
like a conch shell–
Can you hear the ocean?
Oh, it’s singing a
90s commercial jingle on loop?
Sorry, it does that
sometimes.

Had enough?
Put my brain back.
Stitch me up.
Find me a wig.

Tell me everything!

My brain looks
like a normal brain?
Look once more.
There must be something
to fix;
I’m getting tired
of forgetting–
what were we talking about
again?

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Caution; Slippery Floor: A Poem

This is something fun I wrote last night. It was meant to be a serious poem but I lost focus halfway through and it became this. I feel it’s a perfect embodiment of ADHD.

Side note: Richard Siken is one of my favorite poets.

Richard Siken speaks often
of cutting off his head;
I think I might too.
Maybe I could trade it
for another,
try on new brains
like I try on clothes.
Who do I want to be
today?
Let’s see how neurotypical fits.
What is it like to not
be at war
with yourself?
To be able to hold
a thought;
mine are as slippery
as a Minnesota winter.

At least on the floor, my
brain can feed the rats; the
only thing it feeds me is
song lyrics on loop while
I forget, again, to call my
dentist, to pay overdue bills,
to take blood pressue meds–
oh, shit, I left the stove on.

Traffic Line Romance: A Poem

I was going through my poems and separating things into various folders (I’m stupidly organized in ways that don’t matter), when I came across this gem. I wrote it over a decade ago and still love it. How many writers can say that about their old writing?

A drop falls
and then another.
Falling, falling
across the yellow traffic line.
The ripples slowly
spread outward
like fingers
seeking, seeking
the touch of another.

A Day in the Life of Henry VIII: A Poem

Na/GloPoWriMo has come out with some interesting prompts these past few days. Yesterday’s prompt to write from the perspective of the dead had me writing about Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury. Today’s prompt to write the to-do list of an unusual person or character birthed a Shakespearean sonnet about King Henry VIII.

See below for a short preview.

A Day in the Life of Henry VIII


Whether by ties or death should he sever
them from this most sacred and solemn vow,
he can be assured of his rightful choice
and take such succor as offered him now,
be it food or skin above a rich bodice!
Whoever she be, shall she be my queen
or be hanged for failure to make a king?