What I’ve Been Reading – 1/10/2022

Santa Barbara Public Library, 40 East Anapamu St. Main reading room at Christmas (1939) | Edson Smith Photo Collection –
Santa Barbara Public Library

Have a good week!

What I’ve Been Reading – 9/20/2021

Have a good week!

What I’ve Been Reading – 7/26/2021

Have a good week!

Life Lately – 6/15/2021

Deafheaven – Great Mass of Color

listening :: Olivia Rodrigo’s SOUR and the Deafheaven spoiler tracks;

eating :: Trader Joe’s vodka sauce (doctored with red pepper and cream, topped with mozzarella), and also the best, homemade chocolate-dipped biscotti from a friend;

thinking :: about baking biscotti, and options for a media tabletop/general storage cabinet (Thanks, Ikea). I am also thinking about my feelings on travel this summer.;

loving :: chocolate-dipped biscotti (Truly a one-track mind), Magic Shell ice cream topping (an old love, re-visited), and ;

looking ahead :: to my cousin’s ongoing graduation celebrations, summer day trips around the mid-Atlantic, and maybe a trip west.

What are you guys up?

What I’ve Been Reading – 6/7/2021

Have a good week!

What I’ve Been Reading – 5/10/2021

Have a good week!

What I’ve Been Reading – 5/3/2021

Have a good week!

April 30th, 2021 – National Poetry Month

Jersey Rain

by Robert Pinsky

Now near the end of the middle stretch of road
What have I learned? Some earthly wiles. An art.
That often I cannot tell good fortune from bad,
That once had seemed so easy to tell apart.

The source of art and woe aslant in wind
Dissolves or nourishes everything it touches.
What roadbank gullies and ruts it doesn’t mend
It carves the deeper, boiling tawny in ditches.

It spends itself regardless into the ocean.
It stains and scours and makes things dark or bright:
Sweat of the moon, a shroud of benediction,
The chilly liquefaction of day to night,

The Jersey rain, my rain, soaks all as one:
It smites Metuchen, Rahway, Saddle River,
Fair Haven, Newark, Little Silver, Bayonne.
I feel it churning even in fair weather

To craze distinction, dry the same as wet.
In ripples of heat the August drought still feeds
Vapors in the sky that swell to smite the state —
The Jersey rain, my rain, in streams and beads

Of indissoluble grudge and aspiration:
Original milk, replenisher of grief,
Descending destroyer, arrowed source of passion,
Silver and black, executioner, font of life.

April 29th, 2021 – National Poetry Month

the beach at sunset

by Eloise Klein Healy

The cliff above where we stand is crumbling
and up on the Palisades
the sidewalks buckle like a broken conveyer belt.

Art Deco palm trees sway their hula skirts
in perfect unison
against a backdrop of gorgeous blue,

and for you I would try it,
though I have always forbidden myself to write
poems about the beach at sunset.

All the clichés for it sputter
like the first generation of neon,
and what attracts me anyway

are these four species of gulls we’ve identified,
their bodies turned into the wind,
and not one of them aware of their silly beauty.

I’m the one awash in pastels
and hoping to salvage the day, finally turning away
from the last light on the western shore

and the steady whoosh of waves driving in,
drumming insistently like the undeniable data
of the cancer in your breast.

We walk back to the car
and take the top down for the ride home
through the early mist.

No matter what else is happening,
this is California. You’ll have your cancer
at freeway speeds. I’ll drive and park

and drive at park. The hospital
when I arrive to visit will be catching
the last rays of the sun, glinting

like an architectural miracle realized.
I realize a miracle is what you need—
a grain of sand, a perfect world

where you live beyond the facts
of what your body has given you
as the first taste of death.