Organizing your writing life

LIMP WRIST & BLENDED HERITAGE: I haven't had back to back readings since London, so reading Thursday night for the Limp Wrist magazine launch and last night for the Blended Heritage festival in Fayetteville, Ga. left me a bit drained. Actually, I haven't featured anywhere since Poetry At Tech in December and I felt a bit rusty during the Limp Wrist reading. However, getting to share the mic with Laure-Anne Bosselaar was a treat and she did another amazing reading, including work from A New Hunger. The crowd at Outwrite Books was appreciative and supportive and we had a minute of silence for Lawrence King. There have been some technical difficulties getting the first issue of Limp Wrist online, but editor/founder Dustin Brookshire said it would be live next week. The first issue -- with new work by Denise Duhamel, Dara Wier, Cecilia Woloch, Laure-Anne and little old me -- is going to be amazing. For more about the evening, visit Dustin's blog at this link. I hope to have some photos to post soon. 

The Blended Heritage festival never fails to amaze me on attendance. It was standing room only in the Fayette County Library auditorium, so there were more than 100 people in the audience. I had the great pleasure of reading once again with friend, former doctor and amazing writer Ferrol Sams. At 85 he is still sharp as a tack and recited Millay and Kipling from memory. We both saluted the late children's author and friend Robert Burch, and I read from his novel, Queenie Peavey. Library director Christeen Snell also asked me to write a poem for the event based on the evening's theme ("equally created"), which I performed. I've posted it below. The night was rounded out by performances from classical musicians, a tap dancer and a great performance by the Allen Goodman Band. Their cover of Al Green's Let's Stay Together had the whole audience singing along.

Mortal

Dawn in the air over Texas,
dark sky rips open,
a long, bleeding gash
across the horizon.
As the plane dips and roils
in turbulent jet stream,
the fissure turns crimson,
golden, fades.

In this timespace we become
equal, place our faith
in men wearing crisp uniforms
and a creator who,
by any name,
merges into one set of wings,
and benevolently overlooks
twisted words spoken in his/
her name and simply flies.

This happens every morning,
souls stripped of their divisive
shells, punching through air
on an early morning flight.
Others dream of destination,
oblivious of the journey,
as some god cuts and heals
the heavens as we sleep.