Poetry Night

Tonight I will be traveling to Iowa City for an open mic poetry night.

Right now I’m going to figure out what I will be reading.

I hope to post some pics when I get home.

I’m a little nervous, since the caliber at this place will be high.

It will be fun though.


I will be reading from my slam poems:

“What Peace is Like” and “Heaven in the Heart”

and from my Fears Series: “Guns”

and from my book, This Sky I Know: “In-voice” and “Morning Star”


My sister said I’d be good at slam poetry. Gonna perform some for my creative writing class when I get a chance

Yeah, good for you!

I am a late bloomer to slam, and they aren’t that great, but it’s fun, and I’ve been told my speaking voice really resonates.

I read one once about my father that I thought made a name for myself. Let me know, I’ll share it with you in PM.

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Sure let me know. I gotta go to class though. later

You spit hot fire broseph

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I’ll share it on this thread. It’s kind of long, and it’s much better when I read it aloud. For all the strong women out there.

The White Shirt
for Jason Cant

I’ve gone out to pull the white shirt
without a man, without a hand, an arm,
pull the white shirt off of the other end
of the spectrum and find a splash in the

eye of the stranger. My father, you have
gone out like a bringer of darkness to
fit into this shirt as I would fit into marriage
or any kind of wedding dress that would

hang like a sign I hold up to protest more
than the cold, more than the source of pain.
My father, you were wearing black when
I touched your hand in the dark and found

my life stumbling along like a hiker would
or a truth that finally comes from the ground
in autumn when I don’t have big thoughts
as much as that moon. My father, your shirt

was discolored from taking out the dirt in
our buried family bones, washing out our
dreams and pounding out the sound of
something lovely, something thin and lovely,

something drunk and thin and lovely. You
are my favorite song, my father, favorite
sight in that shirt I’ve cut straps out of for
my forehead, for my gun wounds, for my

monthly reminder that I am a woman. My
father, you are a man who heard the arts
were put on a leash and walked for miles
until all the traction went out of it and now

we are left slip sliding away. That will be
me in winter, some kind of white shirt
thrown down again and again with a chest
of brown hair under my feet, I walk on men

who haven’t changed the morning light from
their mouths like swallowing a bright noise
left out here to show me the way. My father,
I don’t follow. I don’t see. I barely hear. All

that I do is wash and wash that white shirt
to get the hairs out, to get the blood stains out, to
get the crease across my forehead into the
next layer of sleep, and you, making it work

like so much depends upon the ability to rise,
I only thought it meant out of my body, the
man who wears the shirt has gone out like
a candle that could never fight back the dark

part of longing to let go, the shirt blowing
against the trees like a sheet that won’t
reveal the next chapter we’ve taken like
making it a flag. My father, there were jobs

I’ve done where nothing could be done for me,
no rise, no pulling the shirt away from the bone,
no making the right noise to start dead man walking.
Sometimes that sky is so blue, it makes sense to

work with your hands, to stay busy and to get paid
the smallest amount of space I could take up for myself.
My father, the white shirt does only fit the man of
this world who hasn’t seen last of his dying, but

makes a way that doesn’t fall across dead embers
the way the poet makes a way where there isn’t any.
My father, my father. I have gone out to bring the
lamb home. I have gone out to bring the curtain

around the moon in like a dazzling coat. I have
gone out to bring in the next day building up a
new and forgiving nature that the next artist will
press into their making like a teacher. My father,

you were the one who taught me that days are
made for this, this pulling yourself up, out, right
way up and getting something more than reflection,
something hanging on the moon like a child playing

the flute, it was so young that the neighbors were
wearing pajamas to dinner and leaving their
comments out like tips. I have gone out for the
tips, for the cash, for the white washed wall that

is only mine. I put on it some words. I put on
my best energy. My father, no one has come
for me the way the years come, nobody would
notice me, head down, walking against the wind,

seeing that white shirt blowing against the history
of my delusions, my insanity. It’s enough to
choke back the stars and howl my most lonely
midnight making. My father, you were asleep

when I lost my life, and I took it off of you,
white as any clean break I couldn’t make, and
you, years spent wearing it, shrugged it off
like a moth, another time maybe, another way

out, too dark now to see each other, just
a little off like most teams are when they lose,
but no one throws in the towel, no one except
at day’s end when there is no difference.



Yah! Even got a beat. That’s pretty hip hop and cool. Like it a lot.

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Thanks a lot.

I started a poem the other day…more poetry like

“The sun sets to shine
The moon leaves me blind
Late june and autumn combine
Damn…I got tingles down my spine”

There was more but I need to find it

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@turningthepage: Here’s a sestina I wrote this morning on this holiday.

The Parade

I have taken the parade from behind
my eyes and made it into the art that sells,
sounds that crush out the cigarette,
and moving slowly those people now waving,
now smiling, now playing my loudest
thoughts of them mulling through the muck.

I have taken the art that made the loudest
roar from behind the door of meds and muck
sweet candy, strong coffee, a Camel cigarette,
and made it into this call that goes behind
the easy day that preys on the ones still waving
the flag of their own fighting, word-wet that sells.

I have longed to close that part of me in the muck
with dirt and flowers and dancing in the loudest
shirt pulled off of me into a flag and go on waving
a day-flavor, air dying with me with my cigarette,
the mind that closes the bad dreams someone sells,
into a book that I can tuck in, so much I am behind.

I have known the slowest beginning, burning a cigarette
through the wasted hours, up to here in the muck,
books turn into confetti, and children grow up waving
goodbye, so where did my mind go out from behind
me? It went running down the street in the loudest
car that races more than the moon or a star that sells.

I have pushed the anger up a hill in one of the loudest
jalopies where children come running and waving
and the grown ups, expecting a parade, stand behind,
chug, chug, another push, another beer, another cigarette,
this is where it got easier when we threw off what sells,
then abandoned the jalopy rolling into the ditch with the muck.

Living and dying for my country, this parade has them waving
like erasing my thoughts that my eyes hold behind,
tears, years, so much energy we create from trash and muck,
this procession to the day, this politician that sells,
and barely anyone wants to smoke a god damn cigarette,
take away your soft blue eyes and touch, give me alarms the loudest.

The band’s all here, and the family waits, the candy flies behind
the kids, and I’m caught waving with a sinking feeling into the muck,
another cigarette, another picture that sells, in 6th grade I was the loudest.


Very talented. I like the style

Thanks friend you still writing? Keep your hand at it. Whatcha reading?

Reading tales of power by Carlos castenada. Writing for my class in school and poetry on the side

Great I think you’ve posted about your class keep dazzling them. It’s all a crap shoot you might be hot sometimes let others have their moment. You can improve mostly by great poems and finding ways to make yours withstanding. Good luck.

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