The Magic

I cannot stop diving between the pages living a brand new existence each time.

Nor can I get over the feel of the heft of stories held in my hands. Or the smell of the pages enticing me like a siren’s call.

There is an unbelievable beauty in words woven into stories that shocks me anew each time I settle down with a book. 



I watch the season’s greetings begin as others prepare to enjoy the holidays. However, this is the time of year when I begin to hibernate. 

In order to survive the barrage of memories, I drink my dinner and dream for dessert.

 I hover at the edge of the kitchen, reluctant to walk in and try again. All I can do is remember the days when I conjured dishes in the kitchen just to see her smile. 


The Original Southpaw Scribe 

I apologize in advance for this rant but I really need to let it out. 

So…a few weeks ago I jokingly said that I was thinking about changing the name of the blog. Well, what I didn’t know at the time was that there is another blog, a fairly new one, with the same name as this one. Okay, essentially the same name. So I immediately began to think about changing the name again. How did I find out? I went looking for two old poetry posts because I was away from my laptop and external hard drive so I Googled the blog. But it didn’t come up. What did come up was this other blogger’s page.  

And just like that, I was instantly saddened. Like what the heck man? This kinda happened with my Instagram last year when another person asked me to change the name that I’ve had since 2011 or 2012. His user name was similar and apparently he had to use two underscores because of my name. I completely understood but ignored him because my Ig name is like my third choice. Southpaw Scribe wasn’t available when I started my account. 

So yesterday, I was searching my brain for another name because I was absolutely about to change the blog name. Seriously. But then I thought about it and decided that I’m keeping Southpaw Scribe. After all, this has been my blog’s name since 2010. It’s on my business cards,it’s linked in my email addresses, on my Instagram and Pinterest, and I’m really attached to it. 

Thank you for reading! I’ll be back tomorrow with some poetry. 


Nighttime Ritual

​This is a very rough draft of a piece I recently started. It was inspired by a couple of things and I immediately began scribbling it. I’m going to continue  working on it until I feel that it’s just right. Until then, enjoy!

Hands clasped tightly nearly restricting blood flow

Eyelashes skimming delicate skin while holding back tears

Words whispered fervently and repeatedly

Escaping from pleading lips

Knees bent with supporting twisted limbs 

As the side of the bed serves as the altar

For this soul’s urgent prayers


Elegy for My Mother’s Ex-Boyfriend- James Kimbrell




Let it be said
that Tim’s year was divided
into two seasons: sneakers
and flip-flops. Let us
remember that Tim
would sometimes throw a football
with all the requisite grip, angle
and spiral-talk. Let us recall
that for the sake of what was left
of appearances, my mother
never once let him sleep
in her bed; he snored all over
our dog-chewed couch, and in
the mornings when I tip-toed
past him on my way
to school, his jowls
fat as a catcher’s mitt, I never cracked
an empty bottle across that space
where his front teeth
rotted out. Nor did I touch
a struck match to that mole
by his lip, whiskery dot that—he
believed—made him irresistable
to all lovelorn women.
Still, let us remember
sweetness: Tim lying face down,
Mom popping the zits
that dotted his broad, sun-spotted back,
which, though obviously
gross, gets the January photo
in my personal wall calendar
of what love should be,
if such a calendar
could still exist above my kitchen table
junked up with the heretos and
therefores from my
last divorce.
              Let us not forget
how my mother would slip
into her red cocktail dress
and Tim would say,
“Your mother is beautiful,”
before getting up
to go dance with someone else.
              In fairness, let me
confess that I pedaled
my ten-speed
across the Leaf River bridge
all the way to Tim’s
other woman’s house
and lay with that woman’s daughter
beside the moon-
cold weight
of the propane tank, dumb
with liquor, numb to
the fire ants that we spread
our blanket over until
I stopped for a second
and looked up
because I wondered if
her mother could hear us,
or if Tim might not
have stood in the kitchen,
maybe looked out
the window and saw
my white ass pumping
in the moonlight,
and whispered
to himself, “That’s my boy.”

Untitled-James Baldwin

In what may be the single, greatest slip-up of my blogging career (that’s a bit of hyperbole) I realized that I may not have any James Baldin on the blog. Well, I couldn’t call myself a lover of poetry and words without sharing something from another of my favorite literary greats. As soon as this semester is over, I am going to be delving into a lot more Baldwin. I’m looking  forward to revisiting some old favorites and knocking others off of my classics TBR list(yes, that’s a thing in my world). This poem will have to satisfy my Baldwin cravings until then.



              when you send the rain

              think about it, please,

              a little?


              not get carried away

              by the sound of falling water,

              the marvelous light

              on the falling water.


              am beneath that water.

              It falls with great force

              and the light


              me to the light.


Books, Tea and Me

Earlier this week, I was seriously considering changing the name of the blog because I received a new tea shipment and a new book and all I wanted to do was drink tea and read. Unfortunately real life also known as grading and my own classwork interfered with that daydream.  

This week, the dream has been partially deferred since I haven’t been able to dive into my latest book purchases. I can’t wait to crack the spines of the two latest books on my TBR pile but I have been drinking tea every day. For me, there is so much happiness in a mug of tea!

Have a great weekend! And read something great for me. 



Housekeeping- Natasha Trethewey

Natasha Trethewey is magic! I’m really convinced of that. The former two time Poet Laureate of this country is an alchemist. This poem takes the mundane and everyday items of life and combines them into a poem that shows how valuable “things” are to us. 

Enjoy and Have a happy Sunday! 

We mourn the broken things, chair legs
wrenched from their seats, chipped plates,
the threadbare clothes. We work the magic
of glue, drive the nails, mend the holes.
We save what we can, melt small pieces
of soap, gather fallen pecans, keep neck bones
for soup. Beating rugs against the house,
we watch dust, lit like stars, spreading
across the yard. Late afternoon, we draw
the blinds to cool the rooms, drive the bugs
out. My mother irons, singing, lost in reverie.
I mark the pages of a mail-order catalog,
listen for passing cars. All day we watch
for the mail, some news from a distant place.