Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Judy Wells Features 4/22/19

4/22/19 Judy Wells hosted by Gary



JUDY WELLS was born in San Francisco and raised in Martinez, California.  She received her B.A. from Stanford and her Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Judy has 12 poetry books to her credit. Her latest collection, Dear Phebe: The Dickinson Sisters Go West is a memoir/novella in poetry and prose about her New England-to-California Dickinson ancestors in the 1860s. She was thrilled to have access to real letters her Dickinson ancestors sent each other.
Her eleventh poetry collection, The Glass Ship, completes her trilogy of Irish-themed works, including Everything Irish and Call Home. Other works includeLittle Lulu Talks with Vincent Van Gogh and I Dream of Circus Characters: A Berkeley Chronicle.
Judy taught creative writing, women’s poetry, composition, and literature at various Bay Area colleges, before a career as an academic counselor and faculty member at Saint Mary’s College of California, working with adults returning to school.  Now a full-time poet, she lives with her husband, avant-garde poet Dale Jensen, in Berkeley. Her website is www.judywellspoet.com.  


SUPERMARKET LOVE

Last week at Whole Foods
as I was reaching
into the refrigerated shelves
for the coldest tofu
with the most future
expiration date
a yellow gloved hand
from the other side
laid itself on mine.
I nearly jumped a mile.
"Oh sorry!" said a woman's voice
from the other side.
A man behind me laughed.

This week as I walked by
the same tofu
section
I heard a disembodied voice
from the other side say,
"I needed you,
and you have never
been there
for me once."
“Yes, I have,”
I wanted to protest.
“Last week!”

From I Dream of Circus Characters: A Berkeley Chronicle
Beatitude Press  

Monday, April 8, 2019

4/15/19 Diane L. Moomey features

4/15/19 Diane L. Moomey hosted by Bruce




Diane has lived and wandered around the US and Canada, and now dips her
gardener’s hands in California dirt. A regular reader at San Francisco Bay
Area poetry venues, Diane has published prose and poetry, most recently in
Mezzo Cammin, The Sand Hill Review, California Poetry Quarterly, Caesura
and Red Wheelbarrow, and has been nominated for a Pushcart prize. In
2016, 2017 and 2018, she won prizes and Honorable Mentions in the Sonnet
and Creative Non-Fiction categories of the Soul Making Keats Literary
Contest. Her most recent poetry book, Nothing But Itself, is available now.
To know more, please visit https://www.pw.org/content/diane_moomey
Diane is also a watercolorist and collage artist, an experience that both
seeds and is seeded by, her poetic imagery. To view her artwork, please visit

www.dianeleemoomeyart.com

Monday, April 1, 2019

4/8/19 Reginald Edmonds features

4/8/19  Reginald Edmonds hosted by Jim




Reginald Edmonds is a poet, activist, and educator based out of Richmond, CA. Reggie was a member of the 2018 Berkeley Poetry Slam team and runs both the Rich Oak Alchemy Slam and the Oakland Poetry Slam and wide open mic. In their free time, they enjoy long walks through quiet graveyards, Hennessy with limes, and listening to trap music. They have two self published chapbooks, I’m Too Black For This Shxt (2017) and Sad Boi(2018).  Their poetry is map of intersections that illustrates the complexity of the human experience. Through their work, they hope you will come to understand how much we all contribute to the degradation of humanity, as well as what we can all do to turn this back around.  
All of My Fish Die In the Middle of the Night and I Imagine Myself Alongside Them.

I awaken to twelve glimmering bodies bobbing on the surface. Their eyes 
Are just as soulless in death as they were in life, bulging 
Pupils staring into the void. A 5-year-old probably shouldn't bury 
Pets by himself but nobody really gave a shit about lasting psychological 
Harm in the early 2000’s so I had a toilet bowl funeral 
Alone. Cried over the time spent excitedly pointing at the fish tank 
Like “look at how responsible I can be mama? Don’t that make 
Me a man now?” But haven’t I always tried to flush 
 My boyhood down the drain too early. Wasn’t I, in my foolishness,
 Craving manhood with my morning cereal. The same masculinity that is suffocating
 Me today. I should have learned that all That glitters is not
 Gold… fish. sometimes, they are just pretty Things waiting for a prettier 
 Death. And what's more beautiful than a Broken dream? Than my body 
 Floating alongside twelve nuggets of gold? Mama says that ​gold look good 
 On us black folks. ​ And don’t I look good, Mama? Am I 
 Man enough for you, now? Wrapped up in so much Masculine gold 
 That nobody hears me screaming? That nobody notices me choking? Will anybody
 Even know that I’m dead until the sun rises in the morning?