From One Book Lover

Last summer, I challenged readers to write a " burning house " poem: if your people and pets were safe, what would you rescue from your burning house? This was Stacy's poem, and I'm privileged to share it with you.   Pondering the Question I. If I had to leave my home? Evacuate. Flee before the flames, Retreat from the advancing wildfire. To preserve my life, my loved one’s lives. What would I take? What would be important to me? Too important to leave? I have been pondering the question. Thinking. Not of ID and insurance, Titles, deeds and bank documents. What possessions do I need? What material goods? What objects? What things? What stuff do I need from my life to continue that life? Well, obviously, I will need my computer, my phone. How could my life as I know it continue if I lose all of my electronic information? What else would I have to take? Photograp...

Brilliant. (For the record, I follow AP Style.) Courtesy: Online School

Love Story in Black and White What the hell am I doing hugging a white man in an apron? I said it to myself--but out loud!--so that he pushed me away slightly: What did you say? This was the first white man I had dated-- though I was sixty! It wasn't only that I was holding a body close for the first time in years; not only that he was white. Our mothers' fears and angers-- heirlooms of slavery-- had hardened my heart. Perhaps it was the apron. I had never imagined a white man (not a chef) come down to that order. Perhaps the way he met me, beaming, opened wide, confounded my expectations and undid me. How lovely his body as he bends to the wise tomatoes. What does black and white have to do with it, our love that's lasted ten years? Each act of tenderness amends the violence of history.   by Toi Derricotte  Courtesy poets.org Submit a poem to me for Poetry Wednesday or National P oetry Month — and if I use it, I send you a book of poetry. Eve ry body ...

A woman discarded as a child, a man whose fury is stronger than his love, a mother who cannot raise her child out of the rage and societal restrictions of his time, the children who suffer: all this and more is found in The Lucky Gourd Shop by Joanna Catherine Scott. To be honest, I would never have read this book if not for my book club. I nearly didn't get past the first few pages, but I am glad I did.  It was a tragedy, full of heartache and misadventures — what a tale. Charles Dickens has nothing on Scott. The book opens with a mother telling her children what she discovered about their birth family in South Korea. Her teenage son, who was six when he left his birth parents' home, remembers a few things differently — and the story travels to Seoul, a generation earlier, and reveals the tale of their parents' lives (and, ultimately, their own). Mi Sook had an unconventional — even shocking — upbringing. The coffee shop manager falls for Kun Soo, a man wit...

" It isn't going to a bed with a man that proves you're in love with him; it's getting up in the morning and facing the drab, miserable, wonderful everyday world with him that counts."  After a Noisy Night             The man I love enters the kitchen with a groan, he just woke up, his hair a Rorschach test. A minty kiss, a hand on my neck, coffee, two percent milk, microwave. He collapses on a chair, stunned with sleep, yawns, groans again, complains about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.             I want to tell him how much he slept, how well, the cacophony of his snoring pumping in long wheezes and throttles—the debacle of rhythm—hours erratic with staccato of pants and puffs, crescendi of gulps, chokes, pectoral sputters and spits.             But the m...

In honor of A Month of Letters, I give you a poem about — you guessed it — a letter. The Letter   Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly's legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves? Or of my uncertain window and the bare floor Spattered with moonlight? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns, And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness Beneath my hand. I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire Of the great moon.   by Amy Lowell courtesy of poets.org

I don't know about you, but I haven't written a single note. My explanation is — well, unimportant. Sure, I was traveling for the first week. Then I came home and spent three days not writing any correspondences. Then the mail arrived Friday with a stack of letters. I will remedy that this weekend. How's your postage holding up? Just checked out my first-class stamps and discovered I own "forever" stamps. My postcard stamps, however, are in need of penny stamps. Sigh. I'm terrible about picking up postage, which is why I purchase a lot of postage at once (then proceed to not use it in time and have to purchase penny stamps). And me with lots of photos for photo postcards! Don't be daunted. One letter every day the mail is delivered is doable. If you're behind, grab a few postcards to catch up! Use your favorite note cards. Your recipients will be glad you did. Have you found it a challenge to pick up the pen? Decide who's on...

I've got something to say. I just wish I knew what it was. Help this llama find his caption! Here, I'll start: Quick, climb in! I'll explain on the way! or No, I'm Pullyu! Pushm i took Seventh Aven ue . Probably home already, too. (Full disclosure: I read the first one somewhere.)  Now, it's your turn. Submit a caption idea. I'll list the three finalists and let you vote for your favorite. The winner wins a book (selected from a list of available titles). So, submit your caption idea via e-mail or in the comments below no later than February 24. I can't wait to see what you come up with!

Fog The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches then moves on. by Carl Sandburg courtesy Bartleby  

Chuckle courtesy of Twitter and award-winning author Alan Heathcock : Sign O' The Times  Flight attendant: "Sir, can you please power that down."  Me: "This is a book." (For the record: true story.)