My gratitude to the editors at Spillwords Press, Rebecca M. and Dagmara K., for the invitation to be interviewed. It was a delight and honor.
Category: Spillwords
An Honor
My poem Cooking a Life with a Wire Spine has been nominated for Publication of the Month at Spillwords Press. People can vote for the poem by clicking on the link. You may have to register for free to vote. Thank you!! 🙏🙏🙏
Update: My poem didn’t make Publication of the Month. Maybe another time! 🍾🍾🍾
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Cooking a Life with a Wire Spine – New Publication
Today, as a FEATURED post, Spillwords Press published a memoir poem I wrote about me and my mother. I’m so excited. Thank you, Spillwords!
https://spillwords.com/cooking-a-life-with-a-wire-spine/
This poem is one of 63 poems in my first poetry collection, a poetic memoir of my mother and me. More to come on that!
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Straw House
Spillwords published my poem “Straw House”, which reflects our times with COVID-19. Dare we venture out of our nests unprotected too quickly like fledglings stumbling out of their straw houses into the grasp of the predator?
My appreciation to Spillwords!
Image: https://journeynorth.org/tm/robin/jr/Book_Babies1.html
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New Publication: My Hair Eats Everything
I’m delighted Spillwords Press published one of my poems.
My Hair Eats Everything
Silver pelage. Static cling
Velcro mouth gulping my life.
My hair, a pantry of my days.
Famished patron of my past.
It shows in my sheen, the shine
Of a clean plate.
Baby hair matted with egg,
Pureed peas, sour milk, spaghetti sauce,
Bits of cereal. Mom’s cleansing spit
Over my crown. Kisses planted
In the soil of my hair. Luster of life
Grows into a hungry coif.
The long stems of flowers
Woven into braids. My first perfume,
Splashes of hot lavender baths,
Swashes of wet polish, and Dippity-Do
Cling to my curls and create a crown
Of a complex banquet.
Grandpa’s musty garage, his yard
Of lake breeze. The smell of sand
Tangles my hair into my mouth.
The steam of Grandma’s fried sausage, rising dough,
Stewed chicken, spilled honey from toast,
Dad’s Old Spice snared by my hair.
Sweat from the Ex’s hands
His bad breath on my frizz.
Bloody spittle of squabble,
His ashtray, blight of air,
Day-old wine and stale beer
Linger on my dead ends
Mother’s ambrosia steeps
My life, the whiff of her red lipstick,
Her aromatic apron, her savory hugs,
Her last breath as I held the phone
To her ear for goodbyes. The anguish
Of her affliction infuses me.
My hair swells fragrance
Of holy spring rain. Tiny fingers of new leaves
Sniff of pin oak to my roots. Sticky juice
Of tomato vines cling to my gray locks
As I reach for the fruit. Strands of silver
Extend from cloud. The scent of sun.
©Barbara Leonhard
extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Poetry: The Memoir of the Soul (meelosmom.podbean.com)
my featured image by ivanovgood, pixabay.com
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 