Wednesday, April 8, 2015


the more I live and breathe

Every family has to skip

many kinds of characters. 

Any character can bring

words and speculate:

what isn’t said

isn’t recorded.

Two worlds tease

the story

of Tribal thoughts

from memory.

Sometimes monologue,

sometimes conversations

or what I imagine to be

true writing,


by Deborah A. Miranda

PersonalBest/My Fresh Idea

Reclaim heavy:
some killed 
a familiar.
I made hardly
a fit challenge,
but cherish
the good
only once.
remember  -
because tiny
as a child
that negativity
as sharp
as before -
now harsh words.
help us.
this prayer:
grace-filled plums
and pig fat
honor the rest.  

Margo Solod

Tuesday, April 7, 2015


Found this page from an Irish play in the copy room at work today.  Random submission from Fate.
 "86 RIDERS"

86 riders in a deep grave,

God beginning to ride

the mare beyond and below,

below.  Wash man, make

the finest find. Would it be

a strong wind

raising a star, the moon,

a hundred horses

jumping in

the west wind?

No one looking

for the grave.

Fall down again

or maybe the wind

is fire, a hard cruel

sea.  Listen to the red mare,

the blessing of the black night,

the blessing and sorrow

on this house.

Deborah A. Miranda

"Overlooked Gems"

Just as most 
are lost,
are likely to continue.

In short,
a story day
hums apace,
thoughtful and solemn.

It's obvious
stressed and struggling 
was very
for success.

rarely works.
A bucket
of shortcomings
our competence.

and recognize

Margo Solod

Monday, April 6, 2015

ERASURE DAY 6: "Wondrous Theft" & "Some Stayed"

Wondrous Theft

North to the overlook,
sharp, almost eager crystal
trapped her heart.
Cloves turned
the shining sphere
of silk into the voices
of the dead.  Someone
named Mule dedicated
a proper sweat,
snapped the surprise:
kept you by permission
of February.

Deborah A. Miranda

Others Stayed

They observed
appeared to have 
few reservations.
Some did not exist
west of the celebrations.
They learned
once again,
earnest from essential.
Supreme effort.

Margo Solod

Sunday, April 5, 2015



The stone hour
hit close to home.
We would murder
the different.

At a cross-roads
is a complaint,
a grievance;
Spring events
that handle their own
formation of a violation.

Trust chose not to hear.

A sense of wisdom
has to search 
many a summer
to have one, 
one individual 
that deserves
gray times,
times coming down
with such reality.

Not even a kick,
a murder -
and so 
be different.

Deborah A. Miranda
Any Inconvenience Not Recommended

Up ahead was one
of the two, trying
to call for help.
Didn't get through.  
        Do you think you could?
Not likely.  Why?
        It's hard.
Nearby, horrified
and crazed
with grief.
Just behind, 
just over the edge:
a door.

Margo Solod



a home,
is rooted in
a dynamic
kind of
touch.  All
human lives
open doors,
large spaces.

and submit
and center.

The present
of discovery
also mentors
fosters festivals
of word
and fellowship.
Story is a growing,
intensive work,
a network
of open voices
for our page
and place,
place, place.

Deborah A. Miranda


Despite discipline,
at every turn
restricted, limited.
Who thinks function
alone embraces art?
When I asked,
I wanted how
the excruciating detail –
strength, fatigue, wear
unfortunately an opportunity
to improve before us –
I never did.

Margo Solod

Friday, April 3, 2015



Companion, marvel at the self:
absorb the sea,
an exercise in power.
The song’s spirit
composes, creates
non-human artifact,
a radical maker.
This is why power
represents a union
of blessed rage
and chaos.  The seascape
resists a world beyond
the end; the face of truth
is all skyscapes.  Imagine
the possibility: seduced
by song, forget need.

Deborah Miranda

[If you can guess which publication my erasure poem comes from, I'll send you a surprise in the mail!   -  dm]

"In Perspective"

Stretch across the fringes,
draw over Europe, America,
the Mountain range 
of migrating swallows.
Neither better nor different,
rising swiftly
          to the horizon.
No tilted tabletops
out of sight or anything.
Some fiercely loyal, others
find variety.
           don't follow national 

Margo Solod

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Erasure Poems, Day 2

“The Years”

Glance back –

it is like time-fishing.

Later, soon, back,

back in those days.

At least one summer

my humble luck

changed from fur

to carbon to rock.

Different technology

replaced maps

and incremental

human-shaped bird feathers

made a comeback.

A good piece of “how long” -

just loved to death

sitting in Patagonia

for a decade.

Your first times

last a long time.

A revolutionary

second skin is my own

stainless steel membrane.

More, more – ultimately,

it comes down

to the last more.

Deborah A. Miranda 

Wednesday, April 1, 2015


April is National Poetry Month, and the annual NaPoWriMo marathon - writing a poem a day for the entire month - is underway.  I've tried this before - mostly made it - but I know that the timing is rough: the end of one academic semester, finals week, spring break, and the beginning of our intense four week spring term.  I don't want to set myself up for failure, so I decided to give myself this challenge: one erasure (black-out) poem per day. 

And to make it even more fun, I challenged my wife (the fabulous Margo Solod) to take the plunge with me.

Starting today.

“In Truth”

I must be a
spooked horse.
I dropped the
skull and bones,
of course.
It is time to go
block the sharp sunlight.
The day abruptly
followed the narrow
wing of thick velvet,
waved eloquently,
not even capable
of hard work.
The faint reverberation
of colliding hands
The bright lights
picked up
a slow, deep wave
and myriad sparkling
eyes whispered please.

Deborah A. Miranda 


          crowns            spring
by                       starting

                            Please call.

          We are unable to

                                              we cannot.

Margo Solod