New Year's Wishes


Most dear, most dire, & every friend,
I hope this finds you at year’s end,
and while I am no Ian Frazier
I've also not come here to haze yer
but send you to my virtual me, no bot:
diane at dianekendig dot
com and dianekendig at blogspot.

For Gebhardts, Welsch, Lu and clan,
Those brave Findlayites who ran
with me, like Donna, Dana, Carole, Phil
and former students, with me still:
Laurel, Nick, Jen, Lisas, T, and Jim,
Kris, Troy & Bryan, Matt, & Kim,
Hendricksons, Rick, Joe, and Ted,
Tina, Mary, Steph, Jay, and Jed.

Now once again from my PHS days
I’m seeing friends  and sending waves
to Ludwigs, Saylors, Kulls, McGowan,
Kesslers, Gibson, Schade, & how on
Earth! Here we have Virginia Birks!
Crails, the Harveys, Motts—the works:
Hayne, Burgett, three Lewis grrrls,
in Antarctica, Peter, icy, whirls.
As Seals in Texas are signing off,
to them my New Year’s cap I’ll doff.
Then, for those who erred and thought
I’d lost my head and I’d forgot

My friends from days in Nicaragua,
here’s to those in and/or from Managua:
Ellen, Julieta, Georgina, Fidel,
and to my UCA “kids,” Noel!
(Danilo,Loyda, Marlyn, Marvin, Walter,
Xenia, Jimmy, Ma Soledad, not falter
naming Maceo, Ivania, not be so silly
as to forget Adrian, Elizabeth, & Lilly.
Who’ve I missed?—please  add the rest,
and to your families, give my best.

To 3 favorites, my goddaughters
holas! to you cross miles and waters:
Nancy Juarez, so far from me, a pity,
living as she does in Guatemala City;
Kim & Ori, push come to shove,
I send you and all 3 families all my love.

For my decade’s brand new friends,
I’m glad for you as this year ends:
Phyllis Gorfain, Richards, ODAG,
spirited trio reincarnated with no lag.
The Jepsens, too, both Karen & George,
she helped me through the year to forge,

as did as my poets, the 8 Elevens,
who never blanch or say, “Oh heavens”
when handed my last page of errors.
Folks tough as quoins, unmoved by terrors.

Noting writers, here’s a great crew:
Chadborne, Starace, Goldstein, Cat, too,
Trautman, Brightmans, Isaacs (Skip),
Broncaccio, Lisella. An OPA trip:
Abbott, Salman, & Scott. Now a 2-fer:
Russell Atkins, Kevin Prufer,
With those two, say, Caryl Pagel,
Poet,  not the scholar of Hegel.

My great friends still sending cards!
(they’ve been arriving by the yards)
greetings from Birds, Binehams, Bay,
Urice, Ellis, Radsick, Thom and hey,
I hope you had as great a holiday
as I, though I’m behind, I’m slow
unlike timely Larson, Coulter, Smith & Low.

Last to Robbie’s canine buddies,
the energetic, the fuddy-duddies:
Pitsenbarger’s Fifi and Frito
(a bulldog stern-looking  as Judge Alito),
then Elly at her window gives a shout
so Justin leashes, brings her out.
Here comes Sam along the way,
leads Larry, keyboardist for Triple Play,
and he's neighbor to the family Singos
with three kids, two mutts (not dingos):
Gina and Buddy, the stray who stayed here,
Rocky, Shadow, and two beagles who bay near.

I wish us the health & hope aplenty
we need as we enter 2020!

     (And to any dogs & guys & dames
     who, reading this, don’t find your names
     and want to: submit them as omissions
     to be included in future editions.)
diane & Robbie

Rock and Roll: where are the women? MIRIAM MAKEBA

Paul with two of our former UF students-- Women who ROCK!
Paul and I often visit the Rock Hall of Fame with our house guests-- because what a great place to take friends. At latest count, we've taken tens of people from three continents, including many many of our former students. And it's great for the two of us because the exhibits are always changing. My two favorite past exhibits were "Women Who Rock"-- if only more of those women were in the Hall of Fame-- and an early exhibit that featured drumsticks from drummers all over the world arranged in a huge circle like a big mandala of drumsticks. Those are gone, but some of it remains... like Jim Morrison's valentine to his mom when he was 6 years old and his Boy Scout Uniform when he was 10 ("And where is Grace Slick's Girl Scout uniform?" Paul asked.) And there is a lot to be learned in the exhibits, as Paul points out in his plea for Makeba:

More Rock Hall (because it's an excuse to post some great music). One smart decision the Hall made early on was to create an "Early Influences" category for inductees who shaped how rock sounds--people like Robert Johnson and Hank Williams. I'd argue that it's time to drop the "Early" and expand that category to more recent "Influences," because the sound of rock continues to be shaped by people from other genres. Case in point: Miriam Makeba. Without her we probably wouldn't have Paul Simon's "Graceland." We probably wouldn't have Vampire Weekend. Here's Mama Africa singing with Simon. "These are the roots of rhythmn and the roots of rhythm remain." (If you don't have time to listen to the whole thing, check out the last minute. It's proof that Makeba's breathing is more musical than most people's singing.)


Rock and Roll: Where are the women? MELISSA ETHERIDGE

The "Induct Melissa Etheridge" Fans have already shared this post from guest blogger Paul Beauvais. You should read it and might want to share it too.

The Rock Hall loves heartland rockers, especially if they're named Bob or Bruce or John 
or Tom. But it's long past time for the Hall to show proper respect for a heartland rocker named Melissa Etheridge. Let's be honest: a lesbian kid from Kansas can teach most guys a thing or two about being young and restless and bored. For three decades Etheridge has made defiant music about desires and dreams deferred. She has nothing left to prove. Just listen to this flawed yet wonderful recording of her performing one of her best songs. Imagine that you're hearing a scratchy 45 being spun late at night on an AM station. You've got nowhere to go, do you?


AND, In the Rock and Roll Book of Genesis, Bruce begat Melissa:

(Photo by Angela George, CC BY-SA 3.0,

Rock and Roll: Where are the women? SINEAD O'CONNOR

Okay, O'Connor is not my fav-- but Paul makes a great case for her: 

Yes, Sinéad O'Connor is angry. One might think her anger would increase her chances for being inducted into the Rock Hall, but the HoF Foundation seems much more comfortable with angry young men than angry women of any age. O'Connor is also crazy, but craziness, as Adrienne Rich explained, is a natural response when we are lied to by the people we trust. What critics sometimes ignore is that O'Connor is as earnest as she is talented. She continues to search for sanity, peace, meaning. And her search has produced beautiful music in varied genres for three decades. I still get chills when I listen to "The Lion and the Cobra" and "Throw Down Your Arms." On dark days I still listen to "Faith and Courage." Sinéad O'Connor's music never gets old: 

(click to hear)

Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: Where are the women? BUFFY SAINTE-MARIE

Guest blogger Paul Beauvais in his continuing series on women who belong in the Rock Hall of Fame:

I understand why the Rock Hall ignores Buffy Sainte-Marie. No doubt they consider her too "folkie." Hell, she recorded for Vanguard, so there's no way that she can be a rocker, can she? Ignore that the title track of her first album, "It's My Way," is a song that I can easily imagine Bruce Springsteen or Eric Burdon covering. Ignore that "Cod'ine," another song on the album, was covered by Joplin, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and Courtney Love. And, of course, Donovan covered "Universal Soldier," a great song, but back then he was still a folkie, too. And, if being a folkie wasn't bad enough, Sainte-Marie also penned "pop" songs: "Until It's Time for You to Go" and "Up Where We Belong" (for which she won an Academy Award). So of course she doesn't belong in the Rock Hall. But guess what? The older she gets, the fiercer her music becomes. She's put together a band that can rock her old catalog, and her new stuff sounds powerful and fresh. 

Rock & Roll Hall of Fame: Where are the women? CYNDI LAUPER

This is part 1 of a 7 part series by Guest Writer Paul Beauvais on a few of the women who should be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Why isn't Cyndi Lauper in the Rock Hall? My best guess is that her versatility is held against her: she can sing superbly in many genres, so it's easy to ignore her rock and roll
Lauper was in the HOF "Women Who Rock" exhibit.
Isn't it time for her to be in the Hall permanently?
pedigree. Her earliest work was in cover bands playing Joplin, Airplane, and Zep, and her first demo tape led to a contract with The Allman Brothers' manager. But I hear an even earlier rock influence in her work: Ronnie Spector and the girl groups of the early sixties. That was music that never meant much to me, but Lauper managed to warp it into something fine, something funny, something feminist. The Rock Hall pretty much made her the poster child for their "Women Who Rock" exhibit, but they seem to be drawing the line at actually making her a member of the club. Let's hope that changes soon.
While Yoko Ono looks on, Lauper sings
 One more--I never get tired of watching this one--Cyndi sings Joni Mitchell's "Carey"

Guest Blogger Paul Beauvais - Intro: Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, where are the women?

On October 15th, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame published this year's nominations,
and Paul Beauvais posted on Facebook: 

"Rock Hall nominations. Let the kvetching begin. My first reaction: sixteen nominees, three women?

"A short list of women the Rock Hall continues to ignore: Bikini Kill, Tracy Chapman, Cher, Merry Clayton, Melissa Etheridge, Marianne Faithfull, Roberta Flack,The Go-Go's, Cyndi Lauper, Miriam Makeba, Holly Near, Nico, Suzi Quatro. My friends can name more."

Over the next two weeks, Paul wrote several posts on why he thought some specific women in particular deserve to be in the Rock Hall. He also articulated why he thought the issue was worth discussing: 

"I've posted quite a bit about the Rock Hall in the past week, and I imagine that some of my friends are wondering, "Why bother?" It's a fair question. The very idea of a Rock HoF seemed suspect to me when I first heard about it. But experiencing the Hall in person has led me to appreciate having it nearby. I've heard good music performed there. I've attended informative lectures. I've enjoyed some of the special exhibitions (particularly the "Women Who Rock" and "Summer of Love" displays and the John Lennon memorabilia). I've seen the Hall evolve (for better and worse), at times trying to curate an experience that provides a coherent narrative of rock history and at other times settling for being incoherent but in a fun way. As rock itself diminishes in cultural significance, the Hall will, too. But I hope that it still finds a way to be an important part of Cleveland's cultural scene."

In order to give Paul's posts a larger audience, I asked if I could collect them here, and he gave permission, so I will be posting one of these a day for the next week. 

Already the Melissa Etheridge fans have "liked" his defense for Etheridge, and we can hope that other fans will speak up and out for the seven women artists he has discussed and others he has named. Maybe even the Rock Hall committee will listen. For next year.  


I just love linguists, how they listen and count and interview and try to make sense of language, which is filled with sense but also with nonsense and no sense whatsoever. (One of my favorite linguists is quick to point out that his middle name is Jude, patron saint of lost causes.) I should qualify that I love descriptive linguists, the ones who are just trying to figure out what the heck is going on and not prescriptive linguists, especially  the ones on Facebook, the Mrs. Grundys intent on catching our every subject verb agreement. Not that I don't like to have perfect subject-verb agreement and to slip in the subjunctive at the appropriate moment, well, sometimes I get busy lol-ing and I mess up.

Right now, I am in love with Gretchen McCulloch and her book, Because Internet: Understanding the New Rules of Language. Because her subtitle notwithstanding, McCulloch is not so much setting down rules in the usual sense, but trying to make sense of emails and tweets and Facebook posts.  By
the first chapter, I had learned a new word, keymash, which she defines as "that haphazard mashing of fingers against the keyboard to signal a feeling so intense that you can't possibly type real words....[and] might look something like 'asdljklgafdljk.'" And then, McCullouch goes on to give five "patterns" that keymash tends to have beginning with they usually begin with "a." Wow, a paragraph ago, I didn't know what a keymash was, and now, I know some of its "rules," which as in all things language, are all preceded by "almost always" or "usually." Like i before  e except [insert 3 million extra rules and exceptions here.) See, I like that about language. Exceptions. Almosts. Usuallys. Don't count on it, buster.

Anyhow, that was chapter one, "Informal Writing." Chapter two "Language and Society," begins with one of my favorite topics, "Dialects." (Check it out: fun history of its beginnings in the 18th century Germany and France.) The author asks, "Does it ever feel like your family...speaks its very own dialect?" Why, yes, yes it does. And decades ago, I wrote about it for a WVIZ show called, "Signature," which featured brief personal essays read by local authors. I myself read several on air, but the show was cancelled before I ever got to spout this one. And though my parents are dead and my siblings barely speak to me, these words remain true, even though I haven't read Garp since 1979, even now in the age of the Internet, although not Because Internet:

Kendigese was our dialect of Familish, a variation of English understood only within a particular family. In the movie Garp, the terms "undertoad" and "gradual student" distinguish  the Garpese dialect of Familish. 

Kendigese was particularly helpful at the table. If asked to pass a roll and not "the creepled kaind" pass a cloverleaf, a plump one, not a mangled one. This expression originated with my mother's childhood neighbor, Mrs. Kostoff, a Bulgarian, who coined another of our phrases, "three handkerchiefuls." In a sentence like, "This TCM movies is a three handkerchiefuls," it means that the movie jerked a lot of tears out of you. And don't be telling me about the proper "handerchiefsful." This is our dialect's rules now.

If you were asked to pass something that was "kittyunkwise," from  you, that would be on a diagonal more acute than if you were told it was "cattycornered," the usual word for a diagonal. 

Or my father might laughingly shout, "Howlda moulda fresch dein zoup," which he told us his father shouted at the table when his brood of 13 got going, and it meant, "Hush up and eat your soup." My grandfather was Pennsylvania Dutch, and when my sister took German, she learned how very far that phrase is from hushing and soup. And since we shouted it as likely during dessert as soup, it really was a non sequitur.

As an aside, my mother could have been the keynote speaker  at a non sequitur convention. She would spout baffling aphorisms like "time is time" and "money is money" at untimely and uneconomical places in the conversation. 

McCulloch notes that many family dialects are inspired by the children, as with my friend Kate's family expression, "se la vache," French for "such is the cow,"
 which was one of the children's renderings of her father's response, "se la vie," when the children were whining in self-pity."

Kendigese's unsympathetic response to children's perpetual question, "Why?" (pronounced whyyyyyeeee? Close, now do it while you whine) was"Why don't toads have wings?" which short for "If toads have wings, they wouldn't bump their butt when they jump, but they do bump their butt because they don't have wings is why.")

There are other Kendigeses. Heresickness is one. "Homesickness" means to miss home, what happens to you when you come from a home you love, and it can happen in the best of places, even staying overnight at Grandma's, but "heresickness" well that is being in a miserable place. A "thing" is just a thing, but a "dingus" is at thing which my father told us (in adulthood, over the phone) to lift, turn, or relight, and when we did, whatever was not working, would suddenly work. A "good time" is a good time, but a "laughy time" in a fun time, and that comes out of my memory for the first time I ever remember coining a word, when I was 3 or 4 years old.

I don't have time right now to provide an unabridged dictionary of Kendigese, because as Mom used to say, time is time. (And all you old Clevelanders remember what Capt. Penny said about what Mom said.) Besides my goal here is not to teach my dialect but to talk you into listening to your own and your friends' and your in-laws'. If you are confronted by what you think is someone's Familish, ask for the meaning and etymology. Speakers of Familish are bilingual, and their translation might be quite laughy. 

It will not surprise parents of teens to learn that McCulloch notes that high school is the place where kids really note small social details, like who is going out with whom and who is wearing what and --get this-- vowels. Check out her paragraph on Detroit high school students' vowels.

Meanwhile, I have to finish chapter two. I can hardly wait for chapter five, 

Oops!  I meant -------------->


I started this blog in fall of 2011, just as I was coming "Home Again," to the home I was born and raised in, after nearly 40 years of living elsewhere. I came, with the help of my husband, Paul Beauvais, to buy my father's house so Dad could come home to it once or twice a week from Assisted Living. The move didn't help our retirement funds, but it sure created wonderful moments for the last eight years of Dad's life. When he died, just days after his 94th birthday this past March, I felt saddened of course, but deeply at peace for what we had accomplished. Together, we three had really learned to "number our days." I learned about Dad, about us, about dementia, and about aging in America, and I am grateful for those days. 

In the following months, there was a memorial service to plan and execute with a bagpiper and military funeral honors (which Dad had asked for) by two soldiers from Wright Patterson AFB and
Sippo Lake in autumn
a 21 gun salute by our local VFW. Although we held off till the end of April, the small crowd of us at the cemetery had to stand under a small white tent as freezing rain fell, fairly miserable conditions. I know Dad would have said what he always said when you were stuck with a bad situation: "What are you gonna do?" (Go on.) We had the military honors, the 23rd Psalm, the bagpipe, "Amazing Grace." Several people said afterward it was the most moving memorial they had been through. Go figure. 

Afterwards, we went to Sippo Lake, where
Dad had put in so much recreational time, skating and hiking with us as children, and so much volunteer time with the neighbors. At the Marina clubhouse, we had the "bereavement dinner," of Dad's dreams including many many pies home-baked by friends and family. A lunch catered by a high school friend's business. Many people got up and spoke informally and warmly about Dad.

And then, as I've written in a poem recently: "I myself ask what I’ve done with the hours/I used to spend with you, weekly doctor visits/ before stopping for pie, the real event..." Summer seemed to go by so very fast, but then, it always does, like weekends. 

As a teacher for over 40 years, the new year always seems to begin in fall for me. So I am back planning two writing activities in Cleveland, preparing to be a poet in the schools-- heading off to see about first graders at Sandy Valley this week. I am back to sending poems out, being rejected at an amazing rate, and for the first time in ages, I am sending out my family musical, Talk to the Moon, getting requests for synopsis and scripts. (Anyone need a play to produce? Message me!)

This weekend, Paul and I went house hunting in Cleveland for the third time in our lives. We didn't find the house of our dreams yet. We never have because we don't have a dream house. We've made a home of wherever we have lighted-- which has been a lot of places. The term "real" estate just seems very humorous to me. (I've been laughing about real estate terms with my friend Peter who has been waiting nine months just to hear back on his bid to buy a place that is a "short sale." Hahahaha.) We plan to try again. Cleveland has more art museum and orchestra, more poetry readings and poets and writers. (And for Paul, the Beachland Ballroom, for starters.) Here we have woods and lake a short walk away, a well-built house small enough to care for, lower taxes and easy driving...except for all the driving to Cleveland. So we'll see where we are come winter.

Meanwhile, our front porch these days is beginning to look like the photo above that I took five years ago: the impatiens are played out, the mums are up, the pumpkins out. I see my reflection in the door, taking a picture of me taking a picture of my home....again.  

 But though I have learned to number my days, I hadn't gotten back to the blog till today. And if you thought I was getting ready to say that I am letting go of the blog, then, I I have to say, I am not. I am back, still "Home Again," wherever that is, trying to share here a few informal words in prose a few times a month about poems and homes. Again. 

 Teach us how to number our days



I've signed on to do some Visiting Writer gigs for Stark County's Smart Arts (SmARTS), and today, I womaned a table at the annual arts festival for kids at the Canton Cultural Center-- a free day of art making and performing.

My table was about making the "Cut-Up" poem. The idea is that words are cut out of a text-- in my case today, the The New York Times monthly Kids Section--and put into a container (I used envelopes). Each poet pulls the words out and makes a poem of them. Glue sticks keep them in place, and markers provide extra words and illustrations. Many thanks for Harter School teacher Tina Riley, who assisted.

Aside for adults: The form was inspired by the 1920's Dadaists and especially, Tristan Tzara. (He's a hysterically funny character in Tom Stoppard's Travesties. He put the words into his hat, forgets, puts the hat on and sends words fluttering all over. He's in love with a librarian whom, he fears, "thinks of me as nothing but a belle litterer.")

Below are some of the kids and parents who came by and cut up with me. (I have to say, the parents are the real cut-ups.) This was pitched for fifth graders, but many 1st through 4th grade kids did great, too, and the kindergartners just ran bright markers over the page happily. One of the things I love about this project is that it's writing as messiness. So many kids are afraid to "goof up" on paper. These poems aren't about neatness but wildness. It was a good day. If you are interested in trying an online version of this, here is a tool you can use:

And here is another:

And here are the kids at work and their works:

Playground is fun for familys because it good./The thing that makes you dizzy is a tire swing. - 1st grader and Dad ---->

Butterfly discover dreams/appreciate a good story/fly high/ Are you going to try it?

The hat is different parts inside

Kids interested in sledding & cats. 💖

Happy dogs make best friends

You Smile BIG! 
3 Sisters, 3 Poems

The community has an opinion about everything

Speak what you feel because the world is awesome.

Dad LOVED this word selection: panthers, habitat, etc.

An acrostic for her sister Ava, a swimmer
So you have cheese tomorrow? I said, no cheese..- 1st grade

FEBRUARY, How Hard Can Poetry Be?

I know that April is National Poetry Month, but for me, this February seems like my poetry month. 

Writer in the Schools

First, on February 1st, I finished up a visiting poet gig with fifth graders at St. Peter's School in Canton, and on February
Lillian and Dorothy Gish
13th, I began another with Massillon's Franklin School third graders. While I am at it, I am reading up on the history of Massillon, and I learned that Franklin is the namesake of an older Franklin School in Massillon, where the Gish Sisters attended-- when they were in school rather than onstage.

It's been awhile since I have done Writer in the School work, and I shouldn't because I spend way too much time worrying about it and planning, but it is such a good reminder of what fun poetry is. At the end of the first class at Franklin, three children came up and hugged me-- which, as I recall being told, we are not supposed to do in school, but clearly they had not gotten that memo.

And what a different response I got  from the professional Scottish writer who read in Cleveland this month. During Q and A, I asked him what poets he reads. Looking stunned, he said, "Oh poetry is just so hard, so hard." His brow furrowed, and then, "But I love Van Morrison, and songs are poetry, right? I mean Dylan has won the Nobel, and Leonard Cohen." Well, me too. I love Leonard Cohen, and "Brown Eyed Girl" is very singable. But he couldn't even name Carol Ann Duffy? She's the British Poet Laureate from Scotland who has written:

Yes, I think a poem is a spell of kinds
that keeps things living in a written line,
whatever's lost or leaving--lock of rhyme-- 
and so I write and write and write your name.

That just doesn't seem that difficult to me. The children have been reading poems by Christina Rosetti, Carl Sandburg, and Alexander Pope (they thought he was a stitch), and by lesser known contemporary poets, children's poets, and children their own age, and so far, they don't seem to find any of them so difficult.

Read + Write: 30 Days of Poetry

Also, on February 4th, I turned in copy for "Read + Write: 30 Days of Poetry," a blog of sorts that I curate for National Poetry Month at the Cuyahoga County Public Library. Now into its sixth year, beginning in April, the blog presents a poem a day by a published poet from one of seven Northeast Ohio counties. The library sends out an email every day with a link to the poem of the day, along with a prompt, and since we are going on six years now, with no repeats (except for one accidental repeat on my part), we are on our 180th poet this year. I don't think there are many regions of this country where we'd have so many so good poets. (Russia, yet. Nicaragua, yes. The U.S.? Not so sure. But Cuyahoga-- yes!) The poets must have had enough formal publications to be accepted by Poets & Writers, so they all have achieved a level of professionalism. This year, we end with a poem by Leila Chatti, the  Annisfield Wolf Fellow at Cleveland State, and smack in the middle of the month, there is a poem by Charles Malone, "Poetry in the Schools," which has "a bit of piracy in it" as many works written under the influence of children do have.

If I am going to steal any of the lines from the children at Franklin, it may have to be from the child who is just smitten with Godzilla, whom I have yet to deploy in the poem. And such deployment, huh?

If you are signed up to receive the emails for "Read + Write," be looking for the first on April 1st-- and it is no joke. If you aren't signed up yet, you can sign up to receive a writing prompt and a daily poem by a Northeast Ohio poet by signing up here.

My Poet Friends Publish

In addition, this month I've received and read two terrific books of poetry by my friends Don Cellini and Laura Weldon.

Don Cellini is the translator of the bilingual Historia Solar/ Solar History by the Latin American poet Jair Cortes. Cortes has clearly read a lot of science and modernist American poets Eliot, Pound, and Williams, and his poetry can seem hermetic at times. No problem for me or third graders, but just so you know. Don has spent a lot of his poetry life translating Mexican poets, in addition to writing his own poems, some of which you can find at his website linked above, and Cortes' work is lucky to have him.

Laura Grace Weldon is the author of a second book of poetry titled Blackbird which Susan F. Glassmeyer has nailed when she says, "Her poems blossom from an inherent curiosity and grow strong under her compassionate treatment of the subject matter. Such fresh images and heartfelt insights move me to be a better writer." We talk about "voice" in poetry, and Laura's poetry voice is absolutely one with her own voice, as in these lines from the last poem in the book "Anything, Everything:"

"Find everything you're looking for?" a clerk asks    
and I say, "I'm still looking for world peace."

Laura stuns readers, just like she stuns clerks, with sweet phrases whose horrid opposites we've grown inured to. Her very clear natural images, are the ones that we've been ignoring, and suddenly, we can see them for all they are worth, like the crying baby stunned into silence by the grandfather who carries it outside into nature to really see grass, and "trees, birds, rain.".

Finally, for me...

...and this is the kick for my own poetry month-- I decided to take the challenge to collect 100 rejections in 2019. Since literary rejection is my forte, this just meant I had to send more out than usual and not that I'd have to try for rejection. However, in a curious reversal, so far into the year, I've had one rejection and five acceptances. Go figure. I'd call it reverse psychology accept there has been no psychology involved, just steeling myself to do all the copying and pasting and emailing and posting to Submittable and noting on cards where things are going.

I'm also back at blogging, once a week, home again. Hope to see you next Monday.