Archive #33
March, 2016
Kathleen Everett And The Depiction Of
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Poet jacob erin-cilberto Meets Bukowski—And Then Himself
jacob erin-cilberto
turning into Bukowski
i fell in love with...
pastured parliaments, mad rivers
righteous clarity
autumns in New England
and Eiffel Towers in the Bronx
that paled in comparison
to that foreign one that wasn't surrounded
by graffiti
and hop scotch chalk lines
and disheveled poets
on street corners
trying to sell their words for a few drinks
and that spit shine
fella dreaming of collared shirts
and brazen ties
bought for the company Christmas affair
and maybe a back room mama
who had one too many,
and was giving something besides
a grab bag present,
or maybe she wasn't
and then i blinked
and fell out of love with...
imagined pretense
subway thoughts, underground morals
teenage angst
dreams of Europe
and strolled ever so pretentiously
into a 9 to 5 existence
sweating ink onto pages
of routine banishment
an exile into a normal life
begging for another fantasy
then settling for a drink or three
to forget who i really am.
Read the poetry of jacob erin-cilberto
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Danielle Favorite
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Danielle Favorite Returns With
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This morning is tinted with ghost-light
Ripe honeydew cubes glisten on the cutting board.
I cover the walls with pages from Vogue:
lips and ribs and skin.
I have two wrists, one navel and three voices.
Rub honey on my lips. My skin
cracks like a cocoon;
a skeleton walks out and sunlight passes through.
Back to you
Tonight the sky’s a dusty chalkboard
with a translucent moon cut from thin paper.
Love, draw me some yellow stars
so I can find my way back to you.
Read the poetry of Danielle Favorite
Read a profile of Danielle Favorite
Ripe honeydew cubes glisten on the cutting board.
I cover the walls with pages from Vogue:
lips and ribs and skin.
I have two wrists, one navel and three voices.
Rub honey on my lips. My skin
cracks like a cocoon;
a skeleton walks out and sunlight passes through.
Back to you
Tonight the sky’s a dusty chalkboard
with a translucent moon cut from thin paper.
Love, draw me some yellow stars
so I can find my way back to you.
Read the poetry of Danielle Favorite
Read a profile of Danielle Favorite
Debbie Strange
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New Tanka/Tanshi From Poet and Artist Debbie Strange |
Photo Art By Debbie Strange (Click photo to enlarge)
that biting winter
my sister carried me
over hungry snowbanks
that swallowed our footsteps
before the bus opened its mouth
Enjoy the poetry and photo art of Debbie Strange
Read a profile of Debbie Strange
my sister carried me
over hungry snowbanks
that swallowed our footsteps
before the bus opened its mouth
Enjoy the poetry and photo art of Debbie Strange
Read a profile of Debbie Strange
Torrin Greathouse
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We Warmly Welcome Poet Torrin Greathouse To Our Pages |
The House, Exhaling
Red light pulses through the fog, car windows sweating
bloody in the early morning light.
Their voices chatter like east flying birds
as they huddle against the gray bay wind.
From across the street, the house stares with dead eyes,
words creeping like a scattered emergency bulletin, eaten by radio
static,
through its open doors.
a body white sheets
widow
widows
buried
alive
(if only)
We would have helped,
if we had known.
And the house exhales,
scraps of newspaper fluttering through the doors
and windows like hundreds of wings.
Four bodies wrapped in blue
carry one body wrapped in white,
skin all twisted up
like dried paper, foxed with age,
and her body is loaded into the back of the ambulance
and somewhere that night
a paramedic will cry, for one more body he couldn't revive,
and tonight, through open windows, the house will breathe
in after years of only exhaling,
till the wood of its lungs will feel like it could burst.
And it would weep if only it could,
tears dripping down its dusty windows, candles pulsing on its steps
in the yellow rhythm of prayers spoken too late.
Read the poetry of Torrin Greathouse
Read a profile of Torrin Greathouse
Red light pulses through the fog, car windows sweating
bloody in the early morning light.
Their voices chatter like east flying birds
as they huddle against the gray bay wind.
From across the street, the house stares with dead eyes,
words creeping like a scattered emergency bulletin, eaten by radio
static,
through its open doors.
a body white sheets
widow
widows
buried
alive
(if only)
We would have helped,
if we had known.
And the house exhales,
scraps of newspaper fluttering through the doors
and windows like hundreds of wings.
Four bodies wrapped in blue
carry one body wrapped in white,
skin all twisted up
like dried paper, foxed with age,
and her body is loaded into the back of the ambulance
and somewhere that night
a paramedic will cry, for one more body he couldn't revive,
and tonight, through open windows, the house will breathe
in after years of only exhaling,
till the wood of its lungs will feel like it could burst.
And it would weep if only it could,
tears dripping down its dusty windows, candles pulsing on its steps
in the yellow rhythm of prayers spoken too late.
Read the poetry of Torrin Greathouse
Read a profile of Torrin Greathouse
From Matthew Henningsen, A Glimpse Of The (Un)Civil War
Matthew Henningsen
Bull Run
Again they flee through us,
Ash-smeared men, delirious
With fear, men of bright
White teeth glinting in
Scorching, dry July heat
That makes delicate ladies in pink
Petticoats sweat bullets that smear
And blear bulbous, top-hatted
Men, resplendent in red vests
That cling too tightly to
Fat arms with dirty nail tips
That point and poke and prod at
The wild men rushing through,
The wild men rushing through.
Read the poetry of Matthew Henningsen
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VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet
Kat Lehmann
Kat Lehmann
from Selected Haiku and Tanka
bowlful of night
with just the right amount
of moon
a sprinkle of stars
that taste like old wishes
❊
letting go
of the unnecessary...
autumn maple
❊
what we can do together snowflakes
❊
for a moment
I see
her face has changed again
a sunrise, quietly
paints a new sky
Read the poetry of Kat Lehmann
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R. Gene Turchin
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VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet
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night driving on two lanes
This road, I imagine, provides
Ice cream delights for eyes that
Wander its edges restlessly while
Sunlight splashes trees in summer greens.
Passing by with quick cute glances
“Aren't the trees soo....”
“Almost like a movie sce”...ne(s) are most real”
The peripheral corner remembers and plays
across dreams.
But let the night curtain fall on
Ropes of rain and thunderous crash, then
Welcome the cast...with new roles to play while
Darkness paints darkness across the (sk)eyes
Tread a cautious step, reluctant page
This script springs not from my hand
For this Road designs its own designs, I
Think a joke, to trick, fool, us all, this dark
night.
Read the poetry of R. Gene Turchin
Read a profile of R. Gene Turchin
This road, I imagine, provides
Ice cream delights for eyes that
Wander its edges restlessly while
Sunlight splashes trees in summer greens.
Passing by with quick cute glances
“Aren't the trees soo....”
“Almost like a movie sce”...ne(s) are most real”
The peripheral corner remembers and plays
across dreams.
But let the night curtain fall on
Ropes of rain and thunderous crash, then
Welcome the cast...with new roles to play while
Darkness paints darkness across the (sk)eyes
Tread a cautious step, reluctant page
This script springs not from my hand
For this Road designs its own designs, I
Think a joke, to trick, fool, us all, this dark
night.
Read the poetry of R. Gene Turchin
Read a profile of R. Gene Turchin
VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet
John Grey To Its Pages
John Grey
Accumulation
First light flakes of snow
fall onto the sidewalk and poof!
they disappear.
No use staring down at the cement
when more of the things
are alighting on my hair,
vanishing among the flecks of gray
without a hint of dampness.
Across the street, a couple
are speaking to each other
but their words do not carry.
And a car is ambling down
the road, so slow, so quiet;
its engine doesn't register as sound.
More flakes pat against
the sides of buildings.
Without my witness,
they would never exist.
A block down, a pretty girl,
long, lanky and blonde,
even with fake fur to thicken her,
awaits entry into the hardware store
where she surely works.
The snow-flakes that disappear
in her tresses, down her neck,
across her cheeks
are as invisible after contact
as the key she does not have
to let herself in.
Eventually, of course,
enough next to nothings
will create something out of this.
The word "accumulate" comes to mind.
But am I not accumulating:
flakes and couple and car
and building and loveliness.
A weatherman might forecast me
as just a dusting.
But I'm out on the sidewalk
on an early December morning,
taking it all in,
and ready to be deep.
Read the poetry of John Grey
Read a profile of John Grey
First light flakes of snow
fall onto the sidewalk and poof!
they disappear.
No use staring down at the cement
when more of the things
are alighting on my hair,
vanishing among the flecks of gray
without a hint of dampness.
Across the street, a couple
are speaking to each other
but their words do not carry.
And a car is ambling down
the road, so slow, so quiet;
its engine doesn't register as sound.
More flakes pat against
the sides of buildings.
Without my witness,
they would never exist.
A block down, a pretty girl,
long, lanky and blonde,
even with fake fur to thicken her,
awaits entry into the hardware store
where she surely works.
The snow-flakes that disappear
in her tresses, down her neck,
across her cheeks
are as invisible after contact
as the key she does not have
to let herself in.
Eventually, of course,
enough next to nothings
will create something out of this.
The word "accumulate" comes to mind.
But am I not accumulating:
flakes and couple and car
and building and loveliness.
A weatherman might forecast me
as just a dusting.
But I'm out on the sidewalk
on an early December morning,
taking it all in,
and ready to be deep.
Read the poetry of John Grey
Read a profile of John Grey
We Extend A Warm Welcome To Poet
James Croal Jackson
James Croal Jackson
Baklava Smile
at four A.M. we drink burning
rivers under the solitary
light hanging from the crusted,
tall white pole perpendicular
to dad's red, handcrafted birdhouse
which spins in the wind.
by five it rains.
we leave the cobwebbed lawn chairs
in darkness and sniffly we travel
to France with rocks in our boots
on hilly sides of streets next to deep ravines.
statues stand tall in driveways
and gleam gargoyle teeth.
sunrise and your baklava smile
is reluctant sweet summer
molasses and you say we will
always be friends but not when
you are cold. I procure a folded
blanket and wrap you in it and
underneath
it seemed appropriate (didn't it)
how we didn't know yet how to cross.
for a long time we did not and
miles make for lost time
adrift of the other
Read the poetry of James Croal Jackson
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Poet Ellen Conserva: Not All Stains Are Unwelcome
Ellen Conserva
Residual
You say you want to
Let me
Forget you.
As if the not remembering is
Done easily
By erasing
Or removing
Or washing
As if you are a sad stain
On my shirt
On my heart
On my soul.
Indelible are you
And no matter how much
I soak
Or try to rub out
Or rinse in warm water
You will remain as a remnant
And a reminder
Of something sweet that landed there
Right there.
I see it
I trace it
With my eyes when I look
In the mirror.
I will always wear you.
I will not fold you tight or
Put you in a drawer
Or use you as a paint rag
Or when I change my oil
Or wipe up spills on the floor.
You have marked something
That I thought was just okay
And made it beautiful.
You make me beautiful.
I have been wonderfully stained
Forever
By you.
Read the poetry of Ellen Conserva
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We Warmly Welcome Poet Lisa Folkmire To VerseWrights
Lisa Folkmire
A Preemptive
Obituary
When I go to science museums with my sister
She likes to tell me how we will die.
She points to the enlarged heart and says
“That’s it. That’s how we’ll go.”
The words tangle between names of family members
And medical tests and medicine bottles
For heart disease and blood pressure
And anger issues and too much salt.
I stare down at the too-large-heart and place my hand over my own
Remembering the time Mom asked why I cared so much
As I cradled mine, beating, bandaged,
Passed its sides between palms as they seeped past tape.
I’m back to drawing my own breath into the too-large-heart
A fog now on display glass, holding the picture of my sister and me
Together with eyes set on our future folly
Of kindness and too high cholesterol.
The two daughters who worked for hours
Hand drawing greeting cards
Cooking dinners on over-worked days
Giving cookies to the neighbors on rained out nights
She continues to compare ratios
And the size of the veins
Saying “three times the size”
And “we could try a stent”
It’s sweet, almost, how she knows that we’ll go the same way
Two same-sized-hearts held between
With strings in knots and veins at sight,
I can read it now: Here lie two girls of too-big-hearts.
One thinking of chapter seven in her sophomore year anatomy class
The other counting the beats against her neck
Begging her heart to stay small forever.
Read the poetry of Lisa Folkmire
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We Extend A Warm Welcome To Poet Christine L. Villa
Christine L. Villa
from Selected Tanka
all these things
we kept avoiding
to talk about . . .
the built-up fluff
in the dryer lint trap
❊
what lies
behind the mauve shades
of mountain dusk . . .
how I long to know
if you're waiting for me
❊
where petals unfurl
into subtle shades
like the clouds in the sky
I am a birdsong waiting
to be heard
❊
the full moon
too huge for my heart
I walk alone
in the growing scent
of magnolia
Read the poetry of Christine L. Villa
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Neil Fulwood And The Joys Of Hiking,
Or Not Hiking...
Neil Fulwood
Trail
Keep to the path. You will know
the path by its coating of moss
and wet leaves. It will try
to unfoot you. Three kilometres
of bad camber and changes
in gradient: it has unfair
advantage. No campfires
or ball games. But you will know
the picnickers by their safe proximity
to the car park. Their flasks,
their point-and-shoot snaps
of the lake. No drinking of the water;
no dog fouling. But you will know
the enthusiasm of the dog
unleashed, its happiness at the path
and the acreages of things to sniff.
You will know its muddy paws,
its tongue unfurled in welcome.
Swat the thick of the dirt
from your coat or trousers.
Stout footwear is recommended.
Read the poetry of Neil Fulwood
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Sarah Frances Moran
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VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet Sarah Frances Moran |
Making Love To The Sea
You walk with feet against hot sand that cannot be kept from entering
the cool water.
With the way the mist of the waves becomes a whisper,
like a lover’s lips close to your ears drawing you in.
You disregard your lack of gill.
Forget the way the anatomy tells you, you have to be.
Take the plunge into the unfamiliar
and make it mold to your skin.
No one ever realizes how hard that swim is.
How it never occurred to you that you couldn’t enter those waters,
until you heard all the screaming from the shore.
How it didn’t matter and how those screams could never be loud
enough
to make you exit,
because you were made this way,
whether it was normal or not.
No one ever realizes how beautiful and brave it is
that even though you’ve been told your whole life you’re meant for the
shore
you chose to make love to the sea.
Read the poetry of Sarah Frances Moran
Read the poetry of Sarah Frances Moran
You walk with feet against hot sand that cannot be kept from entering
the cool water.
With the way the mist of the waves becomes a whisper,
like a lover’s lips close to your ears drawing you in.
You disregard your lack of gill.
Forget the way the anatomy tells you, you have to be.
Take the plunge into the unfamiliar
and make it mold to your skin.
No one ever realizes how hard that swim is.
How it never occurred to you that you couldn’t enter those waters,
until you heard all the screaming from the shore.
How it didn’t matter and how those screams could never be loud
enough
to make you exit,
because you were made this way,
whether it was normal or not.
No one ever realizes how beautiful and brave it is
that even though you’ve been told your whole life you’re meant for the
shore
you chose to make love to the sea.
Read the poetry of Sarah Frances Moran
Read the poetry of Sarah Frances Moran
VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet
Claire Scott To Its Pages
Claire Scott
Pact
I press the pillow
over her face
and I can’t breathe
A pact made long ago on a
sunlit afternoon
as we sipped chardonnay and
smoked Virginia Slims
watching our children
shoot marbles, jump rope
Mabel, Mabel
set the table
Surely we wouldn’t want
to be warehoused in
Applewood or Sweet Pines
squandering our grand-
children’s college funds
Surely we wouldn’t want
to force friends to visit
to feel guilty they prefer golf
or pulling dandelions
Reluctant to see
our marbles roll across
coffee-stained carpets
beta-amyloids
destroying synapses
Reluctant to see us stare
with blank faces, drool Ensure
on flowered nightgowns
complain about strange men
In our closets, under our beds
stealing pearl necklaces
and sapphire rings
plaques multiply
and suffocate
I let go
so I can breathe
The pillow falls
to the floor
I lie down next to
my closest friend
who no longer
knows who I am
signals between cells
gone silent
I run my fingers over
her creased face
I brush thin hair aside and
kiss her dry forehead
forgive me
I close my eyes
as we breathe together
scissored from time
I see a sunlit afternoon
I hear distant voices
Mabel, Mabel
Read the poetry of Claire Scott
Read a profile of Claire Scott
I press the pillow
over her face
and I can’t breathe
A pact made long ago on a
sunlit afternoon
as we sipped chardonnay and
smoked Virginia Slims
watching our children
shoot marbles, jump rope
Mabel, Mabel
set the table
Surely we wouldn’t want
to be warehoused in
Applewood or Sweet Pines
squandering our grand-
children’s college funds
Surely we wouldn’t want
to force friends to visit
to feel guilty they prefer golf
or pulling dandelions
Reluctant to see
our marbles roll across
coffee-stained carpets
beta-amyloids
destroying synapses
Reluctant to see us stare
with blank faces, drool Ensure
on flowered nightgowns
complain about strange men
In our closets, under our beds
stealing pearl necklaces
and sapphire rings
plaques multiply
and suffocate
I let go
so I can breathe
The pillow falls
to the floor
I lie down next to
my closest friend
who no longer
knows who I am
signals between cells
gone silent
I run my fingers over
her creased face
I brush thin hair aside and
kiss her dry forehead
forgive me
I close my eyes
as we breathe together
scissored from time
I see a sunlit afternoon
I hear distant voices
Mabel, Mabel
Read the poetry of Claire Scott
Read a profile of Claire Scott
Poet Evie Ivy And A Rhyme Reimagined
Evie Ivy
The Poem Goes
"There was a little girl who had a little curl..."
He too had a little curl,
just a little.
And when he was bad
it was worms all over.
And when he was good
he’d be a heaven’s gate.
The silence of reality set in,
it became confusing.
We were and stayed friends.
I moved away a bit.
Then I looked back,
thought only of doves,
and heaven’s gate.
Read the poetry of Evie Ivy
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Poet Lee Kisling Succumbs To Impulse,
Thankfully...
Lee Kisling
I Cannot See Your
House from Here
because I tore it down while
you were gone
with a bulldozer and an end-loader
and a dump truck.
Took all morning
and part of the afternoon—nobody
was around except a little kid with a wagon.
I gave him your front doorknob.
Billy or Bobby something.
Whether it is better to dwell in the house of mourning
or in the house of mirth—a moot point in this case considering
that you have no house at all.
Sometimes the Spirit overtakes
a person and he acts
according to his (or her)
preordained notions, lips a’tremble
in the rolling backwash of dust and
cracking timbers.
From my east window I can now see
the mountains far off, and closer in
I can see the florid colors of the billboard-
a little rectangle which portrays
a serious young woman with
wind-blown hair drinking gin.
Well, maybe she’s onto something.
Now I’m going to go search for her
in the mountains where
the wind always blows your hair and
together we may find God
above the tree line – her with
the gin and me with my heavy
unnatural grievances
in Billy’s (or Bobby’s) wagon.
Read the poetry of Lee Kisling
Read a profile of Lee Kisling
ayaz daryl nielsen
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Two Short Poems From The
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further
unkempt words, joining
unfolding, becoming
wayward byways
of resilience, of
heightened awareness,
seemingly pursued
to further
resplendent
byways
beckoning
from just beyond
an everyday thought
the bear in heavy fur
The bear in heavy fur licks its lips and
dreams the taste of berries on bushes
Wildflower seeds waiting below white-
washed chapels of frozen snow listen
to voices of wild geese and wood ducks
carried within an early chinook wind
Humbled, I pour a second cup of coffee,
again renew my promise to keep the
wondrous faith of this earth and my
loved ones, and add a splash of cream.
Read the poetry of ayaz daryl nielsen
Read a profile of ayaz daryl nielsen
unkempt words, joining
unfolding, becoming
wayward byways
of resilience, of
heightened awareness,
seemingly pursued
to further
resplendent
byways
beckoning
from just beyond
an everyday thought
the bear in heavy fur
The bear in heavy fur licks its lips and
dreams the taste of berries on bushes
Wildflower seeds waiting below white-
washed chapels of frozen snow listen
to voices of wild geese and wood ducks
carried within an early chinook wind
Humbled, I pour a second cup of coffee,
again renew my promise to keep the
wondrous faith of this earth and my
loved ones, and add a splash of cream.
Read the poetry of ayaz daryl nielsen
Read a profile of ayaz daryl nielsen
Bethany W. Pope
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From Poet Bethany W. Pope
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Complete Circuit
Venous red, her body streaks through the dark.
I feel her coming, a static surge, the
Xenon-like spark. Her body is so thin,
Ectomorphic in furs. Her dog-like bark
Never echoes on brick. I sit, cold on
Inclement concrete, waiting. I take no
Notice of the wet. Her approach is slow,
Thoughtful; current dulled to warning hum. This
Human is patient. She is no dog. Thrum,
Echoing thrum of her heart, felt through my
Bare fingers. Her dense pelt rests lightly on
Raw bones. I am the master here, alpha
Animal. My friendship will save her from
Cold death. Her electric love will save me.
Note: This poem is a double acrostic
Read the poetry of Bethany W. Pope
Read a profile of Bethany W. Pope
Venous red, her body streaks through the dark.
I feel her coming, a static surge, the
Xenon-like spark. Her body is so thin,
Ectomorphic in furs. Her dog-like bark
Never echoes on brick. I sit, cold on
Inclement concrete, waiting. I take no
Notice of the wet. Her approach is slow,
Thoughtful; current dulled to warning hum. This
Human is patient. She is no dog. Thrum,
Echoing thrum of her heart, felt through my
Bare fingers. Her dense pelt rests lightly on
Raw bones. I am the master here, alpha
Animal. My friendship will save her from
Cold death. Her electric love will save me.
Note: This poem is a double acrostic
Read the poetry of Bethany W. Pope
Read a profile of Bethany W. Pope
Ann Huang
|
VerseWrights Extends A Warm Welcome To Poet Ann Huang |
Emblem
I am the one in love
and know it.
I am the one in love
comprehensively. Pray for
my big heart,
laughing and sinking with
the self-serving things.
Pray for my proud progression.
I am personable and personal,
as frail as fate.
I give gold wishes
and shake silver seas.
I bring
together shattered
shards of glass.
Miles of meanings.
Meanings of miles
akin. The words
are starting to sing
and I am the investor
in all with wings.
Read the poetry of Ann Huang
Read a profile of Ann Huang
I am the one in love
and know it.
I am the one in love
comprehensively. Pray for
my big heart,
laughing and sinking with
the self-serving things.
Pray for my proud progression.
I am personable and personal,
as frail as fate.
I give gold wishes
and shake silver seas.
I bring
together shattered
shards of glass.
Miles of meanings.
Meanings of miles
akin. The words
are starting to sing
and I am the investor
in all with wings.
Read the poetry of Ann Huang
Read a profile of Ann Huang
VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet Veronica Lupinacci
Veronica Lupinacci
Full Moon
The moon was a tangerine and lifted the
night.
The night sat—a gentle fog— just above
the street.
I passed gates woven with southern jasmine, climbed
to the top of brick and iron, rested there
on the hovering night, my bed of mimosa moonlight.
The moon batted her eyes at me. Began to thump,
thump, and swelled and swelled so large with each pulse
she met me right at the edge
of the hovering night. I reached up and tore
a scrap of her peel for myself. Squeezed and inhaled
the light oil sprayed faintly
from the pores, rubbed the fragrance on my wrists.
Pulled myself up onto the soft surface. Walked
in the absence of noise. Even in the blank
of space, I still thought I heard
the smallest music. Following the contralto song,
following faint piano— keys collapsing
like dominos just before they tap the ear
on the shoulder. Each step, sinking slightly into the
spongy surface,
my bare feet dressed delicate in sweet tangerine oil. The
face
of our moon has warm cider steam of spanish persimmon
lemon peach whip, yuma summer saffron garnished with
vermillion
atomic tangelo zest. The cheeks of our moon are calypso
honeyglow
against the cerulean steel sky. The atmosphere
a nervous glittering array of white
tiny blossoms. I laid down on the bottom of the moon,
the side facing earth. Sunk my fingers into pores,
my whole body deep in her pulp. Submerged, looking
down
to the planet, on the underbelly of the moon. I could see
it begin to rain on earth. I could see everything else in the world
that slept on the hovering night go back
where it belonged on a cascade that tickled
blades of grass and made them bow, soaked
into the ground where dead things are kept. There should
be
groves up here in no particular rows with people in hammocks
swaying
among the leaves, growing sleepy, dreaming
of all that small music. Isn’t there
a railroad here? With a conductor in overalls and tight brimmed hat,
pointing
over the mountains to the place I should travel?
There is not. There is only
my moon and her pumping fruit heart.
Read the poetry of Veronica Lupinacci
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