Elementary Impressions


Tucking fabric softener

fragrant sheets under her

perfect porcelain chin

I think of you

doing the same from

your place in the world

And I wonder if they know

That the monster in the closet

is the one fluffing their pillow

That the liar breaking promises

is the one making their waffles

and playing tag

That the traitor throwing knives

is the one tugging their t-ball shirt

over their head and

down their vulnerable back

They may not know it now

But they won’t be this tender forever

And by the time they see you

with knowing adult eyes

It will be too late


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Photo courtesy of Pexels, edited by J

About J:

There are a lot of things in this world and among them there’s me, J. Poetry is my way of untethering and embracing the time before and beyond me, reminiscing on…

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Nostalgic hands reach out

to touch this holy mantle,

brushing away dust and

memories best forgotten


I breathe deep and

listen for the

scent of you

to come visit me,

more real and present than

the space in each photo

where your face is

meant to be

but never does appear


Every nerve ending

connected to the

pounding in my chest

screams that you

should be in there,

not ghosted away to

a fortress of his will that

keeps you at arm’s distance

and me without a key


My mind hurls itself at

the locked steel bars,

a battering ram to

the door of all things unfair,

kicking and bashing

until the pain

from bloodied mental knuckles

gently lay me

to the cool uncaring floor

where I weep a river that

floods the moat


Because you wanted to be there too.





The words spewed from your tongue

The ones you swore on a hot June afternoon

To never even think in my direction

But you said them.

And now all that’s ringing in my ears

Is the negative half of the majority

Believing love no more than the tooth fairy

But we can’t let them be right.

We can’t be their sympathy

That knowing sad shake of the head

That pity that reeks of told you so

They have to be wrong.

We have to choke our demons blue in the face

Slather balm over the burn until our words become aloe

Nursing fragile love wrapped in new pink skin

We have to reach across the void.

And heal.


Permissions given by ©J

Photo courtesy of Google Images, edited by J

About J:

There are a lot of things in this world and among them there’s me, J. Poetry…

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Where You Left the Magic


There is a door between the captured air and the free.

Go through it, empty-handed.

Out there, in field and forest,

run without weight of costume and script;

you, grasshoppers, rabbits, dandelions spring up.

In dirt you have common ground.

It is enough.

Put your ear to the earth.

Feel the rumble of highway traffic fade and the crescendo of

black snakes curling, groundhogs burrowing, scurry of insects,

the echoes of lives long wrapped in this clay.

You are no stranger here, no–

you are of this place and this day.

Spin with arms held like kite strings.

The wind gusts away layers of time;

it whirls from your eyes, the dust of hours.

Swallow sunlight and your larynx is clean of the unspoken

and spoken alphabet of regret–

open your hands and sing.

Held up to sunbeams, river rocks shine.

Baked pine-straw scents the air, crunches beneath your feet.

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Is Poetic prose poetry at all?

Article written by yours truly about the difference between poetic prose and short story narrative. What do you think?


Hello all!

Tuesdays will be featuring topical articles related to the world of poetry and writing.

Here I am. The guinea pig, going first.

So let’s talk about something that has been bugging me. I think we can all agree that poetry doesn’t have to be a collection of stanzas or even rhyme. The heart of poetry is expression painted by beautifully clever imagery, allusions explaining a truth. Therefore, poetry can be in paragraphs, in pieces, in pages, in lines…anything.


After my brother sent in a submission that read more like a short story than a poem, I started questioning where that line is, that line between poetic prose and just narrative. And looking back, I realize this has been building, starting with my post “Scrapbook #6” that posted on our launch day, July 3rd. Originally, the post looked like this:

You were sitting in my father’s place at…

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Starving Artist

Full showcase today on PresserPoets. Show some love :)


In this world

Of man-made selection

I’m being left for last pick.

You must be a fortune

To sip champagne at the gallery

While my bed is a curb

With a star gaze view.

You want your finery,

Your reputation,

Your room with ambiance

But it costs my soul.

You drink from my cup

But refuse me

even the scraps of your table.

I can’t trust those human like me

To help a fellow man

When they’re much to busy

Devoting their 1,000+ “likes”

To a cat video.

You’ll drain me

Till I’m bleached bone.

My canvas not a glimpse of my soul,

More a glimpse of your pocket

But alas your supplier I’ll remain

For the brush and oil

Are my flesh and blood,

My only true romance.

(Originally posted on Among Other Things, J)

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Photo courtesy of Pexels, edited by J

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The Life Of Karen Carpenter, In 5 Parts

Hold a gun to my head and I would still share this. Because it is that moving.


1965, Age 15

Take it from me; this life is not very hard.  You awaken.  You get out of bed and pour yourself a glass of water.  You put a list together in your scrambled mind of things to do that day.  The list should be empty.  You put on an old t-shirt; that pair of jeans with the holes in them.  Don’t forget the glove, the ball, or the bat.  
If you want to be like me, don’t let anyone tell you that a girl can’t pitch.  When you throw better than the boys on your street, smile.  When you strike out your brother, smile bigger.  When your mother berates you for getting your good clothes filthy with dirt, let her words go straight to your heart.

1970, Age 20

Take it from me; being famous is tough.  You go to sleep.  You awaken.  You get out of…

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Scrapbook #6

First post on PresserPoets. Squee!


You were sitting in my father’s place

at the kitchen table

when I came up behind

and snuck my arms around your shoulders.

Judging by my mom’s sudden laughter

at your shocked face,

it must have been the first time you’d ever been held in such a way.

And I hold you still.

(originally posted on Among Other Things, J)

Permissions granted by ©J

Photo courtesy of Google images,edited by J

About J:

There are a lot of things in this world and among them there’s me, J. Poetry is my way of untethering and embracing the time before and beyond me, reminiscing on what has been and what might still be, all while pondering where I fit into it all.

My poetic style tends to say much with very little, though I have been known to interrupt that with short poetic prose inspired by vivid reflections upon…

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Welcome to Launch!

PresserPoets is finally live! Go check it out and give it a follow. Submit some poetry while you’re at it! I hope you enjoy. xoxo, J


Today we present to you the soft launch of a new WordPress poetry community, aptly named- PresserPoets.

If you visit our home page, you will see a trio of statements that tell you exactly what PresserPoets is all about:

~Quality Poetry~

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