2010s · All the Tiny Anchors · Poetry

Plump Tomatoes

These are the kind of poems
they want us to write,
about black-red birds and the sky
and the plumpness of tomatoes
soft against your tongue,
how it relates to our humanity
and our connection to the eternal.

But I don’t relate to birds
and tomatoes (though I
will eat them endlessly)
do not keep me up at night.
When I am forced to flatten
the pages of my journal,
it’s the calluses on his fingers
how I want to scrape them
scratch his dead skin off
until he forgets me,
but he has already
forgotten me.

 

Originally published on Cadence Collective.

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Events · Feature Readings

May 10th, 2014

Poetic Conspirators, Nancy and Sarah, Come to Santa Barbara!

PondWater with Nancy
PondWater with Nancy
We are coming to the gorgeous city of Santa Barbara to read poetry. How much happier can we be? If you are in the area, join us for some poetry shenanigans at Granada Books at 1224 State St., Santa Barbara, California 93101, on Saturday, May 10th, from 4pm to 6pm.
2010s · All the Tiny Anchors · Poetry · Unanchored

The Silence of Trains

“You fall in love
with someone who knows
the same silence as you”
Daniel McGinn

I fell in love with the man
who knew the same silence—
the silence of trains up close
in roaring motion, the strength
is deafening, a lulling voice
Its constancy feels like comfort

I loved the man who knew
the silence of city lights
from hill tops at midnight
The stars blushing down
at Los Angeles sprawled out
limbs open wide

The silence of public spaces
after dark, after closing,
after all other souls
are empty from it

I fell in love with the man
whose tongue filled
with paper and sand,
whose throat I saw dancing,
telling secrets, whose hands—
those hands said things
out loud for the first time

I’d been listening for years
Hear it? The silence, it swallows me

Originally appeared on Cadence Collective.

2000s · Healing the Heart of Ophelia · Poetry

July 1970

for my mother at 20

You seemed taller in the trees
Hair parted hanging long as limbs
How high did you climb then
How long did you remain
among the leafless branches
Twenty year old girl
Newly mothered
You must feel young smiling
Quilted dress does not stop you
You stand up and lean over down
It is dusk on another day
You swing— arms open— in the forest
Fingers spread wide
Thick red cardigan
You must feel free
I only knew you this way
Homemade dresses and open-toed shoes
You hated feeling closed in
You did come back for her
You must have known
As the woods grew dark
A new decade was upon you
A chance to begin again
The mountain air, crisp
I imagine, filled your lungs slow
Head tilted back as you swing
Back, smiling, and
Swing forward

First appeared in Healing the Heart of Ophelia.
Recently published on Cadence Collective.

2014 · Publications

Something’s Brewing

I am excited to have my poem “Not Sleeping” to be included in this 218 page caffeinated anthology, called Something’s Brewing, by Kind of a Hurricane Press. You can download a FREE copy in PDF form at the Kind of a Hurricane Press Bookstore, OR you can buy a physical hands on copy from Amazon for only $8.50! Something's Brewing Cover

Events · Feature Readings

Rock and Robin NaPoMo Poetry Party

April is National Poetry Month! Come out and celebrate poetry with an exciting night with dynamo readers Daniel McGinn, G. Murray Thomas, Raundi Kai Moore-Kondo, JL Martindale, Sarah Thursday, Nancy Lynée Woo, Fernando Gallegos, Larry Raymond Duncan, and Alan Passman. With special musical guests, a poetry writing workshop and an open mic! All this great stuff and it’s FREE!

RSVP on Facebook here!

Robin harmonica copy

2010s · All the Tiny Anchors · Anchors (Poetry with Music) · Poetry · Recordings · Unanchored

Summer Drunk

Another track from my recording, Anchors, available on Soundcloud.

Summer Drunk

It’s the heat, it reeks of his smell
reminds me of the place under his collar
and edges of his long sleeves.

How the air was too thick for sleeping
how I was constantly intoxicated
with the hum of his voice.

I lay in the green sun reading
his books, breathing his fingerprints
heart beats between text replies

The blue sky kissed my shoulders
and thighs, grass ceilings always
bracing my body from ascension.

How I existed in the space
before you with me and without was
sleepwalking and summer drunk.

The heat hung like a red cloud
on my back and on my heels.
Here, the earth comes back

to this place around the sun
to break my sobriety
again and again.

Originally published in Lummox II: Place Anthology