I am thrilled to have a poem in The Opiate Magazine today. 3 more of my poems have been accepted for their next print issue and I am over the moon. My huge thanks to editor, Genna Rivieccio!
If you would like to read my poem, you can do so here.
It is raining in Los Angeles. 31 years ago today, my Mom was buried. It rained that day as well.
Some years I feel the weight of these days on the anniversary of her death, some years I feel it more keenly on the anniversary of her burial. The night she died, everything was so quiet and I felt numb, lost. It was three days later, at the cemetery, that the noise of her absence filled the sky. I stared at her casket thinking how wrong it was that the wood was polished, shiny. Rain began to fall as they lowered her body into the ground. Sobs escaped my throat. My Dad had to hold me upright so I wouldn’t fall out of the chair. It was the day the breaking began to consume me.
I wrote this poem on the 25th anniversary of her burial.
Twenty- five years ago, I watched strangers
lower my mother’s body into the ground.
It was raining that day.
The soil swallowed up her oak and pink satin casket.
Not a place for a woman whose laugh lit up rooms,
whose touch soothed even the deepest aches.
My breath and heart plummeted into the hollow earth and
I broke into pieces that scattered in the rain.
For twenty- five years I have been collecting them.
*first published in Stepping Stones Magazine
Thirty one years ago today, after a long battle with a gene mutation that gave her multiple kinds of cancer, my Mom died. She was 52 years old. This photograph was taken on her 50th birthday. This year, I will turn 50. It has been a lifetime without her and I miss her every minute of every day. Continue reading “Thirty One Years”
I have long been a fan of the literary journal Anti-Heroin Chic! I even quoted it’s editor in a recent guest post on my friend Bryan’s blog, A Crack in the Pavement, so you can imagine how thrilled I am to have two of my poems in their January issue.
If you would like to read my poems, you can do so here.
Although I ended 2018 with the flu, 2019 has begun in ways that fill me with gratitude. I am usually very depressed at this time of year, overwhelmed with grief as the anniversary of my Mom’s death arrives, but this year, mingled with my sadness, is the feeling that she would be proud of me. This is a new feeling.
In addition to “Dress Rehearsal for Claustrophobia”in Riggwelter, 3 more of my poems have been published in Mojave Heart Review today, and I am incredibly grateful. These are some of the most personal poems I have written and I couldn’t ask for a better or more gentle home for them. I begin the year feeling hopeful and grateful and for the first time, like I may be on the right path.
If you would like to read the poems, you can do so here.
I debated writing an end of year post. I have been in what feels like an endless sinking, felt myself fading so rapidly as the days drag forward, bringing me closer to 50 and what I imagined would be an overwhelming disappointment in who I have become. But, then I stepped back, allowed myself to refocus, to see beyond the sadness that I write about so frequently, and breathe in the joy of my life, which I probably don’t write about often enough. Continue reading “The Year Through RP Eyes”
I was thrilled to be a part of the Invisible Vision Project’s interview series! My huge thanks to the creator, Xin Sun!
Welcome to The Invisible Vision Project’s Blog, and welcome back to another episode of Guest Blogger Interview. Currently we are at episode #5! Today’s guest blogger is Susan Richardson, she is a poet and a writer that also happens to be blind. Her blog is called: Stories From the Edge of Blindness. Without further ado, let’s get right into the interview!
I love to read poetry and fiction, and have also recently gotten into listening to podcasts, primarily…
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This may be the most personal post I have ever written. I write about a lot of personal things. I write about depression from within the depths of it. I write about blindness and fear. But, I don’t write about what exists within all of these things, what creeps in through any crack that appears, what has been bred for years inside the very essence of who I am. Shame. Continue reading “Shame”