There are some words that can’t be said in just any voice. In print, poetry must succumb to any voice the reader assumes and sometimes, there are poems that just cannot be fully appreciated if not heard in the voice intended. Another avenue of poetry that I have recently begun to explore is the unsung art of Spoken Word. It might be something I’ll venture into later, but for now, please enjoy my poetry read aloud and the poetic performances of some artists I admire and think you might enjoy. Please comment and suggest other great poets to feature – I am always looking for unseen beauty in the world of words!

September 8 2010

This is my first attempt at a reader’s narrative. It is a preview of a larger project I have yet to find the courage to complete. Depending on the feedback I receive, I may slice and dice it into different stories, other poems, or just keep it as a stand-alone. Any comments are appreciated. Thank you! Please note, the date is not the date; the date is the title of the piece.

The House at the End of the Road

This is a preview of a larger collection of stories, poems and narratives about my childhood in Bay City, Michigan, my Grama Barb, and how, even though you can’t go home again, you can never really leave it behind.

alin with an i

This is the first poem I read aloud in public. A poem about my fair ginger lover before I got it through his thick skull that we are soul mates. There are just some things worth fighting for, and I firmly believe there is no nobler cause than true love.

Bessie Jewell

A poem for my great-grandmother, the woman who taught me about having faith; whose death showed me how it could be lost, whose love persists to remind me that there are such things as angels.

This is a spoken word piece by an accomplished poet with a strong presence. He’s inspired a nation of tear-stained cheeks with this beautiful piece being spread around the Internet like wildfire entitled “OCD.” That old song sung by Roberta Flack, “Killing Me Softly?” Yeah. That’s how I felt as I heard this man spew the words from my soul out for everyone to hear them. I felt his pain because I’ve felt that love. I’ve felt that adoration, and I’ve felt that abandonment. I’ve been the lost puppy, the forgotten child, the casualty of inconvenience. Those words were there, hidden between the wrinkles I’ve worn in the pages I’ve written about it all – but this man, Neil Hilborn, he pulled them all out and he put them together. I don’t know where his pain comes from, I don’t know how fictitious his works are, and if these words are the words from his hidden heart and not just his amazing imagination, then I just want to start a slow clap right now for this genius of the poetic persuasion.

Grab a tissue and check this out.

Her name is Heather, and so is this poem.

This is what senior year felt like: Volume I. First part of a group of poems from the way-way-back machine known as my journals. Stage I of the growing-through-grieving process. No names are falsified because all parties are guilty. Please enjoy the rage.

This is a Spoken Word performance by the incredibly talented Sierra DeMulder of Button Poetry called “Unrequited Love Poem.” Oh, but those are my absolute favorite love poems of all! I came upon this piece while further exploring Button Poetry, which I found after Neil Hilborn’s “OCD” became a Facebook frenzy. (I think this was due to it’s pickup by Upworthy, but regardless, it is an absolute gem.) This performance by Sierra DeMulder inspired the piece I last posted about the girl after me. Before me. What a strange timeline my Fair Ginger Lover and I have skipped around, playing chicken with each other’s hearts. This one is about one of those fixed points in time – you’ll know it as soon as you hear it.

I’ve found that Pinterest can be a huge resource for inspiration, new interesting things to read and experience, and there are some seriously amazing pieces of work to be found. This piece is by Sarah Kay, entitled “If I should have a daughter.”

It’s tough to be the mom of girls. I know – I have my own. I put her through Hell, I’m sure, giving her a taste of the same medicine she gave her own mother, who, I’ve heard in whispers, gave it to her own. The ladies in my life are from a long line of free rein stock and it has done us quite well, I’m inclined to think. We have the wills to survive, and as my mama once told me, “at least we have a 100% track record of getting through bad days.”

I have two daughters and every day I struggle to mend the gap between them in my mind. They are so different yet so similar, to me and to each other, that it is strange, almost surreal to witness. I should be used to it by now, but I still cringe every time I see their fathers in their faces, and I still stop and do a double take when I notice something of myself in them. It is those moments that are stark reminders that I must lead by example – and is my example the one I want to set? Ideally, we all want to give our daughters the moon – and any other thing they may need, want, require or desire. I just want mine to know that no matter what, we’re in this together. And if they ever need to tag me in, I got this.

A laundry list

I posted this poem to the poetry page, but would like to expand it into a Spoken Word piece of my own. Please enjoy the reading of this as-yet-untitled poem I keep referring to as “A laundry list.”

I wouldn’t want another You

I said I didn’t write for vengeance, and this poem makes that statement sound like a lie. But only a little bit. This poem is about a defining moment that set the tone for what kind of parent I was going to be. In fact, it set the tone for the person I was going to be.

Love Affair

I watch history repeat itself with my daughters. Much of it is preventable, a bit of it genetic, some of it just inevitable – and sometimes this is the best part of being the mom to girls. Especially ones as gorgeous as their mother. 😉


“Pass On”

Michael Lee is a fabulous spoken word artist with Button Poetry. Here is an excellent piece I found posted on their YouTube channel. Einstein told us that energy is neither created nor destroyed – it is merely transferred. Thinking of those we have loved and lost, some far too soon, we lose the idea of their energy. We think of them only as bodies, bodies that we can no longer see, touch, kiss, hold, or be close with. It is the closeness we miss, and we forget that those people were loved so much not because of the bodies they were, but the people inside them that they used to be. Every day that I work, I hear my grandmother’s voice in a little old Southern lady who comes in with her friends. Every time I feel the wind on my face as I’m swinging on a swingset, I feel my uncle’s smile spreading across my face. I see my stillborn niece in the tiny bow lips of every baby girl I meet. They are not lost. They are reborn in others, one piece at a time.



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