White Trees- Nathalie Handal

Sometimes, poems tell a story that we weren’t expecting. It forces us to make connections and for me it’s a reminder that we can see the beauty in the most unexpected places. Please enjoy this poem by Nathalie Handal. I hope that it gives you a bit of unexpected joy too on the first day of December.




When the white trees are no longer in sight

they are telling us something,

like the body that undresses

when someone is around,

like the woman who wants

to read what her nude curves

are trying to say,

of what it was to be together,

lips on lips

but it’s over now, the town

we once loved in, the maps

we once drew, the echoes that

once passed through us

as if they needed something we had.


The Patch

This is an excerpt of a poem that I’ve been working on. I’m not in love with the second stanza yet but I wanted to share a bit of it. 


That spot of grass 

Where they laid you 

To eternal rest 

That place lined by towering oaks 

And its carpet like covering of grass

Doesn’t beckon me 

To come visit and tell you everything that’s happened since you’ve been gone. 

It’s not where I go to relive happier times. 


I keep you safe in my memories

Replaying childhood antics, teenaged shenanigans and the ride home from the hospital with your firstborn. 

From The Dark Tower



This post was totally unplanned. I was going to write about how I was torn between writing two stories for NaNoWriMo right up until the last moment (aka Wednesday night). One of the things that I am writing is based on characters with names from Harlem Renaissance authors/artists. While I was researching a site for that story, I was reminded of The Dark Tower, the building that served as a literary salon, during the Harlem Renaissance. The building is gone but the site is now home to The Countee Cullen branch of the New York Public Library.  So today, I am sharing a piece from Harlem Renaissance poet Countee Cullen.

As always, enjoy!


We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made eternally to weep.

The night whose sable breast relieves the stark
White stars is no less lovely being dark,
And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.

Layer by Layer

Finally! New poetry by yours truly. I have been writing a lot but not feeling like my pieces are complete. This is a piece that I keep coming back to feeling as of it needs more. I decided that it was enough. Please enjoy! This is another post that failed to post a month ago so I am sharing it today. 

Image belongs to Taye Hansberry

I cannot unpack my femininity

Like luggage after a long trip.

Removing the different layers

As if trying to decide

What symbolizes it most.

I cannot allow you to define

or detract from it as if you

are the keeper of womanhood.

I will not allow you to usurp my femininity

and intimidate me.

I cannot lay aside the small things that

Make me proud of being a woman

Like dainty, lacy lingerie

Sexy dresses, jeans, heels

Or new jewelry.

My femininity is not a coat of armor but it is something I wear proudly.

So while some think it defines me as less. I know that it strengthens me, it is the power behind my strut, smile and grace.

The Product

They say I’m an amalgam

Can trace both of them in my face 

I’m more of a 3D picture changing with the motions

But I am all their fire, all her sweetness, some of her tomboyness, all of his temper.

I am an ever-changing chemistry experiment between two elements

October- Robert Frost 

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

My Autumn Leaves-Bruce Weigl

Tonight I’m sharing a bit of autumn since yesterday was the first day of the season. I spent it catching up on some grading on my front porch. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, this was once my favorite season. This year, I’m committed to finding my joy in this time of the year. 

I watch the woods for deer as if I’m armed. 

I watch the woods for deer who never come. 

I know the hes and shes in autumn 

rendezvous in orchards stained with fallen 

apples’ scent. I drive my car this way to work 

so I may let the crows in corn believe 

it’s me their caws are meant to warn, 

and snakes who turn in warm and secret caves 

they know me too. They know the boy 

who lives inside me still won’t go away. 

The deer are ghosts who slip between the light 

through trees, so you may only hear the snap 

of branches in the thicket beyond hope. 

I watch the woods for deer, as if I’m armed.