Poetry
First things first—what's out there:
Last year I published three poems in Tricycle online (though I fear they're still behind a paywall).
In April, my sijo won first prize in the 2026 Sejong Writing Competition. The sijo is a Korean poetry form with a highly specified structure: three lines of fifteen syllables each, which must be grouped in a certain way to express the theme, countertheme, twist and resolution.
More out there soon, perhaps.
As with so many other things, my history with poetry is troubled. I began writing poems in elementary school; then, for one memorable term in high school, our English text was John Ciardi's How Does A Poem Mean? and I caught fire. (Though I showed my work to no one; my relationship with that school was, um, problematic.) Over five decades later I still have that book, still bristling with bookmarks and sticky notes.
Here's a poem from my psychedelic high school years that I still like:
I'd like to offer a recent example; alas, poetry editors are very fussy. Any poem posted to social media—even a website as obscure and forsaken as this one—is not eligible even to be considered for publication.
So I admit (sigh) that the following samples are not my best. For what they're worth:
Last year I published three poems in Tricycle online (though I fear they're still behind a paywall).
In April, my sijo won first prize in the 2026 Sejong Writing Competition. The sijo is a Korean poetry form with a highly specified structure: three lines of fifteen syllables each, which must be grouped in a certain way to express the theme, countertheme, twist and resolution.
More out there soon, perhaps.
As with so many other things, my history with poetry is troubled. I began writing poems in elementary school; then, for one memorable term in high school, our English text was John Ciardi's How Does A Poem Mean? and I caught fire. (Though I showed my work to no one; my relationship with that school was, um, problematic.) Over five decades later I still have that book, still bristling with bookmarks and sticky notes.
Here's a poem from my psychedelic high school years that I still like:
Sandaled With WingsWith far and windy vision,From college onward, my father succeeded in putting the terror of Earning a Living into my heart and I focused on other kinds of writing. The occasional poem would still slip out, though. Here's one I wrote while hiking with my husband—a reflection on our many years together. (Yes, I realize that "My love is…" is a poetic cliché. Hopefully, it gets less trite from there.)
she never sees the grass
that twistles as it does between her toes.
Her foam-grey ocean’s oh-so-soft
and smells of sassafras;
sandaled with wings, she tumbles as she goes.
And when the Hand has reached her
and tries to drag her back,
and tells her that her ocean is too small,
she shrieks and claws with crazy nails
to deny her lack,
and drowns in a sea that isn’t there at all.
SearchlightMy love is like a searchlightThen a few years ago, we moved to a new town. A lot of pebbles shook loose in that move, and one of them started an avalanche. Now—once again!—I'm writing almost nothing but poetry.
stabbing through the dark,
a light that doesn't dim,
whether or not it finds its mark.
My love is like a razor blade
that shaves you close and true;
or sometimes like a guided missile
homing in on you.
No, my love's not an easy drink,
that I know for sure.
One hundred percent alcohol
is not sweet—but it's pure;
it doesn't go down smoothly.
It can strip you clean.
A searchlight's not a cozy lamp,
it guarantees you're seen.
I know some people wonder.
why the hell you stick around—
my love is like a searchlight.
You needed to be found.
I'd like to offer a recent example; alas, poetry editors are very fussy. Any poem posted to social media—even a website as obscure and forsaken as this one—is not eligible even to be considered for publication.
So I admit (sigh) that the following samples are not my best. For what they're worth:
What I HideI am an open book. Although I've tried,Finally, regarding my nascent poetry career:
there are so many things that I can't hide:
a shiver of desire,
the sense my mind's on fire,
a startle at my name,
my too-frequent cringes of shame,
a wince when something's off-key,
those perennial twinges of timidity,
all the pesky worries that plague my brain—
but ohmygod, can I hide pain.
On OfferThe whereabouts of a bushtit nest,
a golden loaf of challah,
an ear hungry for your stories,
a killer playlist for your party,
a certain path that's free of trash,
my voice added to the chants,
and all these words words words words words
that no one ever wants.