Wonderfall

Yesterday, November 6th, I brought my racing career (click here for details) full circle yet again with the Pittsburgh EQT 10 miler.

It was a gorgeous fall day for a run- a little chilly in the morning, but once my feet hit the pavement and the sun burst through the gray of morning, it was the perfect temperature. I ran for seven miles with a friend and truly understood how running with someone can be such a great therapy question. We talked about running and relationships, and before I knew it, the miles and number of bridges we’d run on had flown by!

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I had spent this past week submitting my work out to numerous publications, and began tracking my progress. The one certainty you can expect as a writer is rejection, and I was beginning to know it all too well.

You can imagine my surprise when I got an e-mail later in the afternoon stating that a literary magazine wanted ALL FIVE of the five poems I had sent to them. I was ecstatic that these poems finally got accepted, and it was a wonderful break to receive!

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So with that, I leave you with this image, and a reminder that “Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons.” I knew there was a reason it was my favorite.

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  Until next time,

Distortion

Happy National Poetry Day! ♥

I was drawn to writing ever since I could remember. I fell in love with words, with stories inside books, with the way the pen meets the paper. And then, for five years, I lost that. I stopped creating art. I stopped listening to my voice. I didn’t even recognize it. I am so glad that I found my way back.

To celebrate today, here’s a look at the first poem I ever got published:

 

DISTORTION

Windowed your split view,
Like the exterior of my conversation with vodka-
My words, tumbling from strawberry chapstick lips
“I wouldn’t lie to you, I swear.”
You search through limbed teeth just in case,
Not believing reassurance I found in the shot glass.
Then, rake up my tongue because it’s keeping hidden truth.
My tonsils become the rough bark of our argument-and there!
Hit realization, by eventually looking out from inside your living room:
I bear no fruit; aging and losing branches.
Stepping outside like I always knew you would,
disgust feeding that chainsaw hypocrisy,
You cut down the divided tree of my naïve mouth.

White lies don’t shed to be forgiven.

 

Image result for distorted tree

 

This poem was published in Issue 2 of The Blue Route when I was a freshman in college, circa 2009. (WOW!) See it in print here.

And P.S.  It is funny how life gets distorted, isn’t it? Our paths twist, people in our lives mislead us. The view we had can end up being so inaccurate from where we currently stand. Learn to morph, rise after buckling at the knees, speak through the garbled noise. Remember that pivots are necessary. Remember to stay true.

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All Safeties Off

Great news! My poem “All Safeties Off” was published in Pittsburgh City Paper.

Check it out here.

 

All Safeties Off

It was Christmas Day in our backyard
when I first shot my dad’s hunting rifle —
felt it kick back into my shoulder as he looked on,
keeping distance
as shells went flying.
I fingered the trigger,
breathed the weight of it all
burning hot metal
swallowing painted targets
my shaky hands steadying & aiming —
all safeties off.

And I thought, here I am
deep in December — sweating
because
there was something
within the chamber
I couldn’t point to
barreling through me just the same
& the weapon clicks
white knuckle grip
I need to reload, but what’s the point
if all my ghosts wear bulletproof vests
& don’t understand the word no
or stop
& my dad yells, Bull’s eye! 

& I drop
the gun.

 

 

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Salt

My poem “Salt” was picked up by Construction magazine & published in their 2016 Winter Issue, which was released today.

 

You can check it out here and read below:

pan-con-tomate-pa-amb-tomaquet-receta-bruja

 

Salt

 

I will eat paella and pan con tomate until I die, if you want me to,

salt clawing and clutching corners of my mouth
like your newborn child’s tiny hands around her mother’s finger.

But we don’t speak about it in the kitchen. We let infidelity churn
in wedding pots and knead curved skin like bread dough.

We savor a kiss. You feed it to me in spoonfuls, in haste
and wipe the edges neatly with your napkin before you go.

Your apron is burned in the morning. I do not ask why.

 

 

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