Between the Heron and the Moss: a new book of poetry by my friend, Sarah M. Wells

“Between the Heron and the Moss is a modern spiritual woman’s rendering of the natural world that Hopkin’s poetry embraces: a world so infused by the spirit and grandeur of God that even the silhouette of a heron on a stick, the waxen leaf of a mayapple, or the seeds of sugar snap peas bear brilliant bursts of light, joy, and redemption to those who see to see. Wells beautifully melds the secular and the non-secular, the divine and the human, as she explores what tethers and frees the questioning heart.” –Kathryn Winograd, Author, “Slow Arrow: Unearthing the Frail Children”

What is it about this
one long stick outstretched
across the waters, this
one place within sight
of the roaring road
and passerbys like me , what is it
about this waterway
this time of day
in the dawn on the log
and in dusk, the shadows
across the glass, there he is now
spreading his wings and then
erect again as he waits
and changes space morning and evening
for me. Look look I point
for my daughter as we speed by, look,

did you see the great blue heron?

from Matins and Vespers, Between the Heron and the Moss

Heron near the South Platte River

Snow-Flakes

A poem for a snowy morning by Henry Wadsworth-Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
            Silent, and soft, and slow
            Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
      In the white countenance confession,
            The troubled sky reveals
            The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
            Now whispered and revealed
            To wood and field.

At the River

for my mother 1929-2020

Already the moon pales, half-cast above fields, shifting, done.

The darkness that comes speaks, weaves half-words

of the timorous blown cottonwoods, conducts quiet bird sound,

the long sad cry of wind,

Of suburban dogs, of geese tilting toward silver water.

I stand half in it, in the half-light of barns,

Of remembered porches, half-voices of my mother and father,

speaking to me still

Invitation to the Braided Essay and the DWPC Sunday Salon with me

If you’re interested in learning how to create the braided essay, a beautiful form of the lyric essay, join me for a working session on Sunday, Nov 1st at 3:00 p.m on Zoom. The Denver Woman’s Press Club have hosted these Sunday Salon throughout the Fall. If you are a DWPC member, you attend for free. Non-members pay $5 to attend. You must register and pay in advance. Please use these links below to register. (The photo links are static.)

MEMBERS REGISTRATION LINK:Register with this link to attend: https://us02web.zoom.us/meeting/register/tZMscOCqrzMjG9VKYFyGSjJZDbnsqvlj1IBD

NON-MEMBERS Zoom info : There is a $5 fee to attend. Please register and pay in advance at  https://dwpconline.org/friends-of-the-dwpc/

Writing a Poem Against the “Lone Struggle”: The Gatherings Project

One of the surprises, soul-saving surprises, of this pandemic has been the creativity and generosity of care shown by so many, including the artists and writers of this world. The Gatherings Project is the brainstorm of artist Lynda Lowe: 56 boxes painted by professional artists and then sent out into the world to see what gifts they would gather. The boxes have now been sold and the profits donated to arts funding organization/s with well-established relief funds for creatives. Here’s the story of one box.

A few weeks ago at the Arvada Center, my friend Trine Bumiller handed me a cardboard shipping box tucked into a ragged shopping bag. Inside that box was a beautiful gold-painted wooden box with an orchid (erotic, as Trine described it) by the painter Fred Lisaius

Box painted by Fred Lisaius

And inside that golden box was Trine’s delicate rendering of a pine tree, inspired, I think, by her current gallery exhibit in Alaska, In Memoriam

Trine Bumiller piece

And a poem by the poet Todd Davis about his mother in a memory care unit.

News from Mulligan Hollow for My Mother in a Memory Care Unit in Waukesha, Wisconsin by Todd Davis

And I could add anything I wanted to continue this cycle of receiving and giving during this isolation of a pandemic. And so I did from the poems and photos I’ve been taking during this pandemic. Here, the swallows I watch along the old gravel pits by the South Platte River.

my contribution: To the Swallow This Spring at the Nest Box

There’s something truly beautiful about artist and writers collaborating to bring some solace and support in a time of sadness for so many. See all the Gatherings beautiful boxes. And go to the Arvada Center to see the inspiring Pink Progressions: Collaborations exhibit of paintings, poetry, sculpture, installations, videos, and performance celebrating the 100th anniversary of the passing of the 19th amendment.


Writers Studio at ACC book release reading and recording

ACC Writers Studio Hosts Andrea Mason and Jamey Trotter held a book release reading and recording for D. J. Lee and me on May 1st. We both read from our new books and answered a number of interesting questions about creative nonfiction and the writing process.

If you’re interested, you can hear our reading through the ACC Book Release Reading Link. Use the password: 9h%Ti$28

Celebrating April National Poetry Month

from Veronica Patterson, Loveland Poet Laureate

Thank you to Veronica Patterson, Loveland’s first poet Laureate, for sharing my two poems, “To Three Ducks Flying Beneath the Dog Star” and “Waking After Eighteen Hundred Dead,” as part of April’s National Poetry Month, on her Loveland Poet Laureate facebook site. 

TODAYS POET

Today’s National Poetry Month poet who read in Loveland as part of the Poets in the Park series is Kathryn Winograd. The poems presented are *TO THE THREE DUCKS FLYING BENEATH THE DOG STAR* and *WAKING AFTER EIGHTEEN HUNDRED DIE.* Of the latter, Kathryn writes, “This poem I wrote after the rising of the pink moon and one of our terrible nights of so many dead.”

TO THE THREE DUCKS FLYING BENEATH THE DOG STAR

So little you know, wild-winged
and unshaken beneath a dog star,
half-grazing the pines, the bare winter
aspen I stand in the dark wash of
waiting for the tip of a yellow moon.
In Ohio, girlhood, these April stars
circled a pond bull-dozed
by my father, a raft of cattail
where the red-wings spun their nests
above the scrim of caught water.
Tonight, in this near dark, so close
my hand could circle it,
Sirius hovers above the red factory
lights of Pueblo and the Sangre de Cristo
blue-washed in this hour.
I am cold in this wind, in this spine
of the Milky way,
these blue white stars named
for a bear or a lyre or a woman
weeping her dead into a river.
I think I was still half-sleeping
in a field of grass, in a haze of stars,
in a far and nameless country
you care nothing about,
burying and unburying those I love.
Such quiet, the mining trucks
to the north stalled
and the little generator of a shed
where no one lives in winter
shut down. And then, your wings,
almost, against the moon.
Why am I always alone,
searching for something beautiful?

WAKING AFTER EIGHTEEN HUNDRED DIE

Prayer began early
before the sterling jays
dove, then clattered
at our window,
flicked the blue dark
storm of their tails.
Our pale trees bow down
secretly
and a nuthatch
teeters upside down
from the post of the birdfeeder
I buried with stones
another spring,
his thin straight beak
tapping at the seed
I leave out all night.
My breath,
how lightly it floats
in this chill spring
like a delicate frost
of air
I can walk through.
I take the wood axe
from our tool shed
to split the old wood we felled
and stacked years past.
Last night I stood alone
in the deepening dusk,
in the silence,
as if I could rename each
splinter of star
I did not know.
And then the pink moon
soft as the fingertips
of the dead
slid over the mountain
and I lit fires
beneath a moon
of far blossoms.
How long ago it seems,
springs
when we could just count
the catkin on the budding aspen
and step so carefully
through the winter grass
so as not to crush
the white globes of the wind
flowers lifting themselves
from the cold earth.

~ Published in Colorado, Write On/The Colorado Sun

PROMPT: In her poem “Waking After Eighteen Hundred Die,” the poet does not write directly about this time of the corona virus. And yet the details and images of the poem embody it. Try writing about what you observe in the world now and letting the poem’s title, which the reader will return to, be an anchor.


Kathryn’s new book of essays, *Slow Arrow: Unearthing the Frail Children,* has recently been released. Here is a trailer for her new book: https://www.youtube.com/watch…

Here is a link to more about Kathryn Winograd and her work: kathrynwinograd.com.

From Veronica Patterson, Loveland Poet Laureate 

Write On, Colorado

You can read my poem , Waking after Eighteen Hundred Dead, by clicking on this image.

The Colorado Sun is asking all of you, anyone with the capacity and the willingness to commit your thoughts to print, to share your observations of the many aspects of this remarkable period. We’ll publish select pieces periodically — an ongoing time capsule of sorts — as we confront the challenges ahead of us.

Email your work to kevin@coloradosun.com.

Include your name, address, phone number and a photo. They ask you limit submissions to 1,000 words.

NaPoWriMo Triolet: Late Snow on an Easter Morning

Late Snow on an Easter Morning

I am learning the solitude of black tea citrus rinds and licorice roots,
rosy finch, nuthatch and house wren quibbling at the copper feeder I hung just a day ago
before the late frost air drifted through.
I am learning the solitude of black tea citrus rinds and licorice roots,
so I dry dishes at the sink, forget the days’ count since the last pink moon.
The wood stove burns and unquiet sparrows gather in the gathering snow.
I am learning the solitude of black tea citrus rinds and licorice roots,
rosy finch, nuthatch, and house wren quibbling at the copper feeder I hung just a day ago.

http://www.napowrimo.net/