Story Poems


I offer her the first crocus.
Purple in a red-orange vase.
R: “That was Mom’s,” she said.
Yes. Francoma.
Cousin Cynthia showed me how to spot it.
Highly collectible.
An amphora crested with spring.

She draws closer to inspect it.
Tips it up to drink the water.
She starts to nibble the leaves and blossoms.
Flowers, Mom. To look at.

But, what if essence of crocus surging through her bloodstream
is exactly what she needs?

In some sense, the story-poem form found me as I found the work. Upon reflection, I can see why this form was right for what I needed to say.

The form of the story-poem allows everyone to enter into the world of the poems. In our family we have truck drivers and teachers, lawyers and welders. As I wrote, these human beings were present in my mind as my first audience. I wanted every reader to feel welcomed into the world of the poems and not be shut out. That view kept the poems down-to-earth and accessible.

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