I don’t forgive him, not yet, / but I let their love for him stand, / a stone I don’t need to carry." "The Shadow I Keep" by @samaureli.bsky.social‬ psalteryandlyre.org/2026/01/26/t...

We just had a snowstorm, the kind that makes everything go quiet and a little unreal. I kept thinking about this poem. What better time to share Into the Cold? Grab a blanket, your favorite hot drink, and snuggle up.

Learn the language of trees. Quiet the mind, soften the heart, and listen. Reposting "Listening" outside of my Substack.

What if the world is always speaking, and the only thing we’re missing is the patience to hear it? This poem continues my effort to slow down enough to listen: to the wind in the trees, to the quiet conversations unfolding beyond my own thoughts.

I used to sprint through life, consumed by work. Then a seismic jolt forced me to slow down and notice the small, quiet things. In that stillness something shifted. The earth’s words rooted in me, growing into the poems I write now.

Poetry changed me. Now the earth has my full attention. I'd like to thank Amethyst Review for first publishing my poem. It is now available on my Substack.

Reposting my poem, "Serendipity" outside of my Substack. We all know what it is to be scorched: by grief, by change, by the sudden breaking of what we thought was solid. We know what it is to be stripped back to the bare rock of ourselves. But the burn is not the end.

We all know what it is to be scorched: by grief, by change, by the sudden breaking of what we thought was solid. We know what it is to be stripped back to the bare rock of ourselves. But the burn is not the end. Like the saxifrage rooting itself in volcanic stone, something in us still stirs.

I’m so excited to finally share official news of my upcoming poetry collection, On the Edge of Knowing (Kelsay Books), arriving early 2026! More soon, but for now, here’s the first look at the cover.

Do you ever find yourself just walking, or doing something ordinary, and you get the sense that the air around you is tightening, whether anything’s actually wrong or not?

I found these photos while organizing my photo library, and I can’t remember where I was, other than somewhere in Massachusetts, circa 2017. I’m still mesmerized by all that green, the kind that feels like the world is quietly reclaiming everything.

Grief doesn’t fade on command. It changes, lingers, and sometimes feels like weather you learn to live with. I would like to once again thank @prosetrics.bsky.social for publishing my poem.

"The Cold Still Knows My Name" is on the somber side. Wrote it after realizing grief doesn’t fade on command. It changes, lingers, and sometimes feels like the weather you learn to live inside.

I wrote this poem after spending some time working in the asparagus patch. Nature has a lot to teach us, and sometimes the best lessons are waiting right in our own backyard. First published in @prosetrics.bsky.social .

Today you find a poem and a short interview. My poem, “Conversations with My Father” was published in Brawl Literature.

I am beyond words. My first Pushcart Prize nomination! A special thanks to Venessa Tai Yeh and Opol for nominating my poem, "Made and Unmade." 😊 Below is a excerpt of the poem.

In the slow rhythm of the garden, I’m reminded that renewal begins long before anything blooms. “In the Waiting” is a meditation on pruning, patience, and the quiet faith of tending what endures beneath the surface.

I was going through my photo library, looking for a specific image for a future poem, when I came across this black and white photo of my hibiscus plant. I love how the monochrome tones make the petals appear even more delicate, almost like thin, translucent paper.

Ever since my trip to “God’s Country,” I’ve been writing more about faith, religion, and my complicated relationship with both. The photo was taken on the side of the road through Grand Teton Park. Something about that place still lingers.

A thousand shades of dust and sage, and one patch of gold brave enough to shine. Pinedale, WY Population 2,034 Elevation 7,175 feet

One benefit to early morning work commutes. The Boston skyline viewed from Memorial Drive.

A foggy September morning, the world fading into gray. These shots were taken on the road from McCall, ID to Missoula, MT, right before the climb through Lolo Pass.

“We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.” — Louise Glück A moment revisited: danger, tenderness, and the kind of rescue that doesn’t always come.

I'm super excited that one of my poems has been shortlisted for the Bournemouth Writing Prize—though I'll have to wait another two months to learn the final results!

More leaf-peeing in the yard. I happen to catch the light just right peeking through the maple leaves.

“How beautifully leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.” — John Burroughs

Before the frost, a final blaze of color. My blueberry leaves turning red, before fading into quiet.

“I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed.” —Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

Perfect Christmas present and great reading! Available internationally from Amazon! Leave us a review 🥳 www.amazon.co.uk/s?k=100+poem...

Sometimes the act of watching light arrive feels like its own kind of prayer. This poem began in my backyard, before the sun, when quiet felt almost holy.

I’ve spent a lifetime not only working in cities, but designing and building their monuments to the sky. “The City Asks for More” is a poem about what we give to the city, and what it keeps. About exhaustion, beauty, and the small rebellions that still sing. First published in @crowkeys.bsky.social

“The City Asks for More” is a poem about what we give to the city, and what it keeps. About exhaustion, beauty, and the small rebellions that still sing. Grateful to the @crowkeys.bsky.social editorial team for publishing my poem, now available on my Substack.

My poem, “Walking Past the End,” published in @crowkeys.bsky.social . A huge thank you to the editors.

Mark your calendar! Autum 2025 (7:2) Issue will be released on October 15th. Look at this gorgeous cover, by “Unseated” Briana Gervat.

What helps you hold on through the silent hours? Do you find meaning in the struggle, or in the moments beyond it?

Somehow, this poem slipped through the cracks. “Unafraid” was published in Roots & Words from Iron Oak Editions and West Trade Review. If you’re feeling lost in the dark, waiting for the light to return, remember: beauty can rise from the ashes.

We are so excited about this! Can't wait to start reading entries! Head over to the website for full submission guidelines...where you'll also find another submission opportunity!💎💎💎

The patient wading of the blue heron. Stillness made visible. Honored to have Blue Heron appear in Humana Obscura, Issue 14. Deep thanks to Leslie Waugh for the stunning photograph that walks beside the poem. You can now read it on my Substack. ☺️

Thrilled and deeply humbled to share that my poem has been longlisted for the Bournemouth Writing Prize by The Bournemouth Journal @bournemouthjournal.bsky.social ! Huge thanks to the amazing editors for this incredible honor. Feeling inspired and grateful! #bournemouthwritingfest

My poem, 'The Day My Father Ran Barefoot at the Dog,' was just published in Unbroken #47. A special thanks to the editorial team. www.theunjournals.com/unbroken47

Excited to share that my poem is out in the Fall ’25 issue of @Songs of Eretz (theme: Digging). Huge thanks to the editors for including it. Think sea turtles, moonlight, memory, and the kind of knowing that runs deeper than thought. You can now read it on my Substack.

Thankful that @doorisajarmag.bsky.social recently accepted 4 of my poems, "Cicadas," "The Knowing of My Name," "Arrival," and "A Light That Remembers,” which will be included in their Winter 2025 issue.

My latest poem, Beyond the Veil, first published in Bainbridge Island Press, POETICS: Corvids, now available on my Substack.

My father’s office was always off-limits, a sanctuary, and a mess. After he passed, I was finally allowed in. This poem came from the quiet hours of sifting through his papers, trying to understand a man who will always remain partly a mystery.

My father’s office was always off-limits—a sanctuary, and a mess. After he passed, I was finally allowed in. This poem came from the quiet hours of sifting through his papers, trying to understand a man who will always remain partly a mystery.

In the rings of a tree, we read time; in their absence, we feel the weight of our unmaking: a poem about trees, silence, and loss. Thankful to the editors of @thomasonianmag.bsky.social for publishing my poem, 'What We've Unmade,' in their inaugural issue.

Coming soon! Three of my poems will be included in Issue 05. ☺️

She’s been sitting like this for several minutes, just staring at me, completely still. When she’s actually stuck, she yowls to let me know. This silence? Definitely plotting my demise.

Though not quite fitting for the current season, I wrote this poem a year ago and submitted it to literary journals. It was accepted in January 2025, and after patiently awaiting publication, the journal issue is finally out. I'm excited to share it with you now.

An editor suggested cutting the last third of a poem since it doesn’t add much substance or new insight. My heart is racing at the thought. It’s a large chunk! Yet, after reading it several times in that new light, I have to agree. Still, hitting delete feels like losing a piece of my soul.