Sunburst Woman

Within the next ten days, I intend to self-publish a collection of poems on the subject of intimacy and love.  The collection will be called Sunburst Woman.

It will include both some of the best poems I have posted to this blog over the years, plus some excellent new poetry never before published.   It will be available on Amazon as a paperback.

I do not believe the collection will disappoint many people.   I will pass along more information as it becomes available.


Either Way, it is Amusing

Recently, an artist created two “works”, one of which sold for 120,000 dollars and the other for 150,000 dollars. Each installation consisted solely of a ripe banana duct taped to a wall.

Yes, it is true.

I wonder if the two people who each paid over 100k for a banana taped to a wall believe in miracles?

Either way, their answers would be amusing.


Incidentally, a prankster ripped the less expensive one off its wall and ate it.


The Entirely Rational Reason I am Terrified I Might Someday Sell a Book

The hardest thing about writing a book of poetry is forgiving yourself for not being a better poet.

There is a finality to putting something in print, a finality that is not there when you post something to your blog.   You can always edit your blog.  You can always improve what you have posted.

You cannot edit a book that has been sold and shipped.  You cannot improve it.

Publishing a book is way too much like telling the truth.  It is almost impossible to take back the truth.  We humans might be crazy, but at least most of us are not crazy enough we would want tell the truth!  At least you can say that much for us.

I’d have to be crazy to want to sell a book.


“Bad Poem! Bad Poem!”

Writing a poem
Is like training a dog.

The poem loves you.
It loves you and it is loyal to you.
It is loyal to you and it wants to obey you – but
But sometimes…

Sometimes it looks at you, cocks its head,
And just does not understand what you
Are telling it to do.

You want it to bark and growl and bite – but
It thinks you want it to fetch,
So it drops your slippers
At the feet of the thief
Who broke into your house.

Or it looks at you, cocks its head,
And is on the edge,
On the very edge
Of understanding you,
Of getting you,
Of getting you at last — but
And it’s off racing in a direction
You never wanted it to go.

I love my poems, but I can get upset,
I can raise my voice.

“Bad poem! Bad poem!
No treat for you!”

Sometimes I yell it, really yell it.
“Bad poem! Bad poem!”

My neighbor is shocked.

She phones me, “You’re cruel! Cruel!
I’ll call the Society on you!”

I tell her, “The American Poet’s Society
Is not the American Humane Society.”

She doesn’t listen.

And neither does the Poet’s Society.
They send their inspector around.
“Sir, we’ve had a report.”

“A what?”

“A report, Sir.”

You still don’t think poems are like doggies?
You still doubt me?

Then explain to me how come,
How come it is always just about then
That my poem drops my very best slippers
Right at the inspector’s feet.