chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Monthly Archives: August 2014

found poem: memory

found poem: I HEAR

the horse

found poem: to discover

found poem: Moon

found poem: FRAGRANT

“Excavating poetry”

Whatcom Magazine Fall 2014So pleased to be featured in an article by Cheryl Stritzel McCarthy, “Excavating Poetry,” on pages 38-39 of Whatcom Magazine, Fall 2014. The article includes three previously unpublished found poems.

Whatcom Magazine is available in today’s edition of the Bellingham Herald and on local newsstands over the coming months.

Several examples of my found poems will remain on view at the Firehouse Café, 1314 Harris Avenue in Fairhaven (Bellingham, Washington), until Thursday, September 4, 2014.

found poem: to rock

poetry tonight!

Whatcom Women Words and WorksPlease join Jeni Cottrell and the Firehouse Performing Arts Center, 1314 Harris Avenue in Fairhaven (Bellingham, Washington), this evening — Friday, August 22, 2014 — as they host a reception and poetry reading for Whatcom Women Words and Works.

The exhibit, which remains on view at the Firehouse Café through the month of August, features art and poetry by Sheila Sondik, J.I. Kleinberg, Nancy Canyon and Anita K. Boyle.

The reception begins at 6:30pm, the poetry reading (in the performance space) runs 7:15-8:00pm and the reception ends at 8:30pm. Hope to see you there!

found poem: ALPHABET

found poem: This

found poem: BECAUSE

found poem: LOOK

found poem: canyon

found poem: What

found poem: in the Blue

found poem: sticks

Post Office

post office boxesThe man in the post office is dressed in a well-worn black suit and dark shoes. He is thin, not obviously young or old, his brown, slightly-thinning hair arranged in an elaborate comb-over. He stands at his post office box with a newspaper tucked under one arm and turns the small silver knob clockwise, readying to dial the combination.

But he does not. In the time it takes me to enter the post office, walk to my mailbox, turn the combination lock, open the box and pull out my mail, close it, check a second box and remove its contents and walk toward the door, he is still turning the knob, round and round and round, compelled to perform this obsessive ritual until the necessary signal manifests itself and some internal gate opens to release him.
. . . . .

found poem: night

found poem: the blue

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