Return to the Yellow Phase & More Poetry by Adrian Slonaker

Carpe Diem Series

What joy and excitement Adrian Slonaker gifts us today with his poetry! He helps us focus on the continued healing of the world as well as cherishing relationships with loved ones.

My Favorite Line: “a heart healed by
a hand that understood every callus of my fingers.”

“Return to the Yellow Phase”

At the Witching Hour, all of New Brunswick crackled and flickered as it tore out of its
two-month red and orange dungeon and dived into yellow,
so we yelled a bilingual roar of relief like
children chasing freedom from fussy schoolhouse rules in June.
Fourteen hours later, the temperature fidgeted below the freezing point, yet
the frostiness fizzled against the sizzling satisfaction of
naked smiles and a hearty hello swapped with
the strangers sidestepping ice on the sidewalk – the marvellously maskless
couple clutching each other’s fingers while
a flirty sun stripped his own facial covering,
slinking out with his come-hither stare from behind clouds
as I relished a minty-fresh French kiss on
International Women’s Day
from his windy consort,
la plus grande dame du monde:
Mother Nature.

“The Feast”

Connie Francis fretted about “Blue Winter” on a turquoise transistor radio,
an overzealous blizzard blew blasts of snow,
and sneezes sneaked out of
nostrils stricken by nasmork (a funny Russian runny nose);
but coziness flooded a discreet dinner
in the vesper shadows past the vestibule
as the sepia tone Sunday dreariness disappeared in
a limaçon-shaped pesto pizza and
a heart healed by
a hand that understood every callus of my fingers.

Artist Statement:

“Return to the Yellow Phase” was inspired by the return of our province to the ‘yellow phase’ of COVID recovery (8th March), which meant we were finally, after a couple months, allowed to go outside in public without COVID face masks. It was liberating and wonderful to take a spontaneous walk and feel the breezy cold air against my face and see human faces outdoors again! 

“The Feast” is about how a dinner with someone special (seizing the day and taking a chance on friendship, love, romance, etc.) can brighten up one’s outlook on a dreary, chilly Sunday.     


Fond of seasonal chocolate treats eaten way out of season, catchy rock ‘n roll records, springtime rain and cobblestone streets, language professional Adrian Slonaker lives in Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada. Adrian’s work, which has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, has appeared in WINK: Writers in the Know, Cajun Mutt Press, The Pangolin Review and others. 

Carpe Diem & Other Poetry by Januário Esteves

Carpe Diem Series

Let the compelling work of Januário Esteves bring you that carpe diem mood! Sway to the rhythm of his appreciation of life and all that it holds.

My Favorite Line: ” Between hectic hours of scandal
Walk the voice that strikes noisy
At the heart cries for contentment
Of the life that runs uneasily”

Carpe diem

The day passes like a cloud in the sky
Now bright now, cloudy rain
Between hectic hours of scandal
Walk the voice that strikes noisy
At the heart cries for contentment
Of the life that runs uneasily
And go to the matrix of enchantment
To know if it is a happy light of love
Amidst scarce pities
Measure the minutes by patience
From those who already see the deities in the distance
Fleshy and milky give in thrill.


So that life is not just heartbreak
And don’t give in to capricious arbitrariness
It is vital to raise the spirit to the limit of the symbol
Bringing from this strength the hidden deities
And the cruel stupor that brings the disease
Advance without fear the song of praise
For the charm of the dream of modesty
Settle doubts that clamor with clamor
Everywhere share the experience
That translates the transfigured life dream
In the most intimate and painful experience
In chaos do not fall or be vilified
Bringing customs and signs very close
Disguises of others not wanting
Sweet and warm memories of my parents
Juxtaposing correctly in crescendo.


Like a swollen peacock
I made the court around you
And quickly dazzled
For the sweet scream I felt

My head was spinning
My feet flowed in the air
And I didn’t know where I was anymore
Not solid ground to tread

So I support my steps
You struck me
On the verge of kisses and hugs
The two snatched up

We proposed to light life
For the future to generate
The happy seed no doubt
Pray to the splendor of heaven.


Januário Esteves was born in Coruche and was raised near Costa da Caparica,Portugal. He graduated in electromechanical installations, uses the pseudonym Januantoand writes poetry since the age of 16.
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Inappropriately Dressed & Other Poetry by Lynn White

Carpe Diem Series

Lynn White’s elegant poetry today reminds us to boldly be ourselves! Her work inspires that while the world challenges us, we can challenge the world right back.

My Favorite Line: ” Sometimes
you just
have to don
your dark glasses
and stride out to the sun,
regardless of snow, or clouds, or clothes. “

Inappropriately Dressed

I wasn’t dressed for snow,
or clouds,
or wind,
or for walking at all,
if I were honest.
But sometimes
you just have to give it a go
and trudge through the clouds,
kick up the snow in passing,
challenge the wind
with the size
of your hat.
It wouldn’t dare to blow
it away, would it?
you just
have to don
your dark glasses
and stride out to the sun,
regardless of snow, or clouds, or clothes.
you just have to go.

First published in Visual Verse, February 2018

Leaving Home

The van departed
fully loaded,
I stood there
empty handed
and took a last look round
the house
where I’d once been happy.
I felt empty now,
like the house,
empty rooms
and faded dreams.
I was on my own now,
going solo.
I walked briskly away.
I didn’t look back.

I Was Not Like Her

I was not like her,
the girl in the picture
looking out
No I was not like her
not me
not then.

I wore the gloves in summer
that my mother bought me
the classic cut clothes
that she had always
wanted to wear
even allowed my hair to curl
as it wanted to
as she wanted it to.
No I was not like her,
the one in the picture
not then.

But when I broke free
made myself up
wore minis
or long skirts
controlled my curls
with an iron in hand
I think
I became her

First published in Visual Verse, January 2020


Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes.


Find Lynn at: 


Frigid Water & Other Poetry by L.B. Sedlacek

Online Open Mic -2021

We have come to the end of the month and the end of our series. To close out the end of this year’s first Online Open Mic, we have the enjoyable poetry of L.B. Sedlacek! Her work is full of engaging and thoughtful weaving of words.

My Favorite Line: “Imagine that lobster enjoying a three course dinner on the ocean floor (or maybe a last meal)”

Frigid Water

(1)  Don’t attempt to swim.

Holed up in a basement with physics

students transmitting data using

a telegraph’s electronic circuits.

(2)  If you have a life vest, put it on.

December 15, 1955 – some say it

was the first time a computer

remotely transmitted data.

(3)  Pull yourself tight into a ball to

retain body heat.

A 33 year old telegrapher for the

Canadian National Railway took a leap

into modern day computer networking.

(4)  If you don’t have a life vest, grab

anything that floats.

This data exchange saved months

of calculations all with the push of 

a button.

(5)  If someone else is with you,

huddle together for warmth.

A small first step to get computers 

to operate together.

(6) If you don’t have a floatation device,

float on your back or tread water

very slowly.

With only a half megabyte of memory

it solved engineering problems.

(7) When rescued, check for signs of


Natural computer calculations.

Signs of severe body heat loss are

slurred speech and no shivering.

Slowly re-warm your body.


We talk

act foolishly

as if

nothing’s wrong

as if

wires, plugs

are normal

connected to

the body

to keep

it breathing

lissome, fair

even as

the organs

shut down.

Gastrine Mill

Lobsters have teeth in their stomachs

for chewing their food

(even at their last meal)

a fact about as strange

as coffee on ceiling tiles

or houses sitting on triangle lots

or detached mothers watching their

kids play at the park.

Imagine that lobster enjoying a

three course dinner

on the ocean floor

(or maybe a last meal)

swimming around in a giant fish tank

without a way to escape

a fact about as real

as the sandwich generation

a fatal diagnosis

a missing person found alive.

It’s always better to chew food

thoroughly ‘cause you don’t know

when you will eat again,

(the last meal).


L.B. Sedlacek has had poetry and fiction appear in different journals and zines.  Her first short story collection came out on Leap Day 2020 entitled “Four Thieves of Vinegar” published by Alien Buddha Press.  Her latest poetry books are “The Poet Next Door” (Cyberwit), “The Adventures of Stick People on Cars” (Alien Buddha Press), “The Architect of French Fries” (Presa Press) and “Words and Bones” (Finishing Line Press.)  She is a former Poetry Editor for “ESC! Magazine” and co-hosted the podcast “Coffee House to Go.” LB also enjoys swimming, reading, and playing ukulele. 


Twitter: @lbsedlacek

Instagram: @poetryinla

Facebook: @lbsedlacekpoet

LB’s latest poetry books are: “Happy Little Clouds” (Guerrilla Genesis Press), “The Poet Next Door” (Cyberwit), “The Architect of French Fries” (Presa Press), and “Words and Bones” (Finishing Line Press). Her first short story collection, “Four Thieves of Vinegar & Other Short Stories” came out on Leap Day 2020 from Alien Buddha Press.

Flown Shine & Other Poetry by Hiram Larew

Online Open Mic – 2021

Skip into this week with some delectable poetry by Hiram Larew! His soothing style will surely be a refreshing treat for your spirit.

My Favorite Line: “Angels at once glow inside this as harked and before or around what silence sings of all here gone
on shoulders that bring of ever will be”

Flown Shine

Angels be gown of these trumpets
Sliver of wings such hush hover
and backlit surrounding
or flown shine
Angels at once glow inside this
as harked and before or around
What silence sings of all here gone
on shoulders that bring of ever will be
Their sighs or divine
Their notes feather the lifting

Quiets Come

(This poem first appeared in Fine Lines.)

All is up
all is sky
All is wings and tops and rise
All is up those branches hum
and whistles high
how quiets come

Or beams of clouds this world of still
that flies towards yes
and shall —
above what will and all
Where most of more
calls glowing


Who crowed me
Who put this rain shower on
and ran my gutters
Who did the sun go back and forth
and move me clouds
Who slanted me up here off down top
And who oh who climbed the reach
rose blooms to vine me

Gift of Guess

How fog comes towards
a newness in our older days
a blue inside of gray
or spidered doors
And leaves
leave such sounds as true
as browns beneath
or stones their damp
or lamps switched on

Then what dusk does as well
Its onion skins
or tree-root steam
or crinkled light
that makes all crows
their evenings

Or how musty years
in grapes that hang
or wasps or carried pails
And fielded ways
come in between —
This gift of guess
on shelves of webs
in jars of nails


Hiram Larew

Larew’s poems have appeared recently in Poetry South, Honest Ulsterman, Contemporary American Voices and Best Poetry Online.  His Poetry X Hunger initiative is bringing poets from around the world to the anti-hunger cause (

September 29th, 1999 The New Man by Anthony Mondal

Online Open Mic – 2021

Anthony Mondal’s encouraging writing prompts us to focus on authenticity. Take some time to read his delightful work and don’t miss out on his new Spotify readings!

September 29th 1999 The New Man (From my New York Journals)

To be a Unique Individual is your very own birth right- It is also your God given right to be so. Hence whatever impediments and barriers stops or prevents you from reaching and blossoming into your total potential individuality, should be swept aside- may it be religious dogmas, the societal norms & conventions or even wishes and desires of your parents and relatives. No one knows what’s best for you except You and your deeper self. And a New Man will burst forth and come into being…Not bound by traditions and conventions, but listening to his own voice and consciousness – An enlightened being, not prejudiced and contaminated by old traditions – a very authentic human being. Wherever there is Beauty, Knowledge, and Individuality, he will always be at home. The time is perfect and ripe for many such new men and women and also much needed. He will evade and escape all previous forms of category and categorization. He will end oppression of man by man. The new man will be a warrior and the most truthful preserver of Human Liberty, Equality and Freedom. For he has tasted the ecstatic joys of freedom himself and wants mankind to be drunk with the same intensity of Joy and all of earth will sing and dance in delight. Life on earth will be an endless celebration of joy and creativity. Nature too will shed her mourning gown and dance in blissful ecstasy.

© Anthony Mondal 2021

Check out Anthony Mondal on Spotify! It includes his poetry reading as well as a radio interview on WYCE Grand Rapids:


Anthony Mondal is a poet, novelist and actor. He considers himself simply as an artist beyond the confines of nationality and religion. He proudly calls himself a citizen of the world. His most recent book of poems was titled A Burst of Sunshine, which is his second published book. He lived in New York City for almost ten years pursuing writing, acting and song writing – well, then he had a breakdown! And now our artist recuperates/resides in Michigan, USA. As an actor he has appeared in the film “Sabrina” and the TV show “Strangers with Candy” (2000). He received his BA from Calvin College in geology in 1995. He worked in the World Trade Centre, Building One in 2001 and has survived.

Currently he is working on an existential novel tentatively titled “In Search Of…” and is looking for a publisher/agent for his completed Memoirs.

Read more about this author at:

Dancer & Other Poetry by Anabell Donovan

Online Open Mic – 2021

Like a lullaby sung to sadness, Anabell Donovan’s poetry comforts while telling its story. Come read her marvelous work!

My Favorite Line: “Break a vow of silence and whistle Mozart, pace with memory and awaken sorrow’s wreath round their brows.”

In this empty shell,
where time flushed out
the yolk and yellow,
he is the smoothed out
jagged persistence,
the bare bones
on which the essential rides
subtle muscle and shadow days.

His weathered body moves
Deliberate and stealth,
shapes angles and patterns
in space,
calls forth the golden center
in the flower’s folds,
rhythms fleshed,
sinew enunciated.

I move to his prompts,
body to body response,
and I know this is beyond
precise etches embedded in ritual,
for we have loved deeply,
he has lifted and lowered
me unto him with ease,
as the first wave
flaunted thunder,
rose, surged, and crashed
in the primal,
on a shore untouched
he traced the spiral
in the shell,
the breeze,
the wheat stalks,
the sway within
and with all.

His name is unknown,
unnecessary as gossamer
drapery on the door.


We followed our father,
shoulder to shoulder
my brothers and I,
gazed at him adoringly,
behind elaborate masks
and plumed hats.

Follow his lead,
stomp, stomp,
charge the toro huaco,
he was the bull on fire,
amidst flute and drum,
loud firecrackers,
and his laughter.

Yet his illness
wouldn’t be tackled head on,
he raged against it
then went to work,
his balls standing on end,
he said every day.

He walked by me with a gun,
said he’d kill himself,
and I was silent,
my breath hanging
over the roses in the garden,
but there was no sound.

He moved to a bordello
across town,
the bull on fire had to charge
one last time,
and I saw him
smothered between breasts
and thighs.

At his funeral,
I recalled when he sped
around a narrow curve
on his Electra Glyde
and crashed against his brother
in an army jeep.

He was in a coma for four days
and lost the center of his forehead bone.

I wondered if his face
would collapse into that dent
and had to be convinced
to see him in the coffin
for a last goodbye.

Perhaps the dent was God’s sign,
for my father wrestled with God
and contended with life.

He reserved the mark for extreme unction,
for that priest’s thumb
to bless him with oil.

Some bulls are saved by a different fire
than the one that burns them,
and in his final moments,
he didn’t prevail
but he received a blessing.

My last farewell tasted
like salty tears and sacred oil,
as I kissed his dent
and his folded hands.

I let him go in peace.

Do you…?

Harried days a slow sundial chases shadows, 

salt statues glance back,

eyes caked in permanent tears.

    Do you still throw open every window

    to softly elated Spring days in Winter?

    Do your curtains still rustle and cascade

    to the pensive sound of Portuguese guitars?

Cliff dwellers and hermits groan

the deep ache of darkened wells emptied

down an endless spiral shell.

Break a vow of silence and whistle Mozart,

pace with memory and awaken

sorrow’s wreath round their brows.

    Do you still lace sturdy coffee

    with Bailey’s Irish cream?

    Do you still put a new penny

    in your black-eyed peas?

The city is in ruins.

No one comes back.


Anabell Donovan (Anna Eusthacia) is a psychologist and educator dedicated to student success. She wants to “start where language ends.”

Present & Other Poetry by Joan McNerney

Online Open Mic – 2021

Spring is upon us and Joan McNerney is here to get us in the spirit! Come read her enticing and vibrant poetry!

My Favorite Line: “Just today a breath of warmth brought alive crepe myrtle buds.”

Joan McNerney


You gave me
five brown pods
to grow in
my garden bed.
I put them
in a glass jar
with my locket.
Five brown pods
winding through
heaven. Weaving
night with winter
wishes for wisteria.
In a flower dress
wandering over
perfumed fields
I sleepwalk
searching for
my golden locket
and your embrace.

Joan McNerney

Tree Whispers

Blue diamond rains bring
filigrees of golden light…
so many shades of spring.

Sun beams on a single leaf.
This small star pulsating
from my wet apple tree.

Bright new leaf
fits hand perfectly—the future
lies in your palm.

Trees cascading over emerald
grass. This noon swollen
wet bursting with water.

Now even heaven
is tinted green as birds
linger under branches.

Joan McNerney

April Blue

This is when we search for
color to transform cold grey.
Rainfall begins its magic
high lighting sky blue.

We see stacks of luminous clouds
as plants pop out and forsythia
bursts into sparkling yellow stalks.
Just today a breath of warmth
brought alive crepe myrtle buds.

Aromatic lilac bushes cluster in
soft bunches while birds and bugs
encircle them. Ten pretty trees
all dressed up in lustrous greens
boogie through noontime breezes.

Get ready for this blast-off of spring!


Joan McNerney’s poetry is found in many literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Journals, and numerous Poets’ Espresso Reviews have accepted her work.  She has four Best of the Net nominations.  Her latest title is The Muse in Miniature available on and

Millilitres & Other Poetry by Patricia Walsh

Online Open Mic – 2021

Our artist for today is poet, Patricia Walsh! Journey with her through the imagery and sway with each emotion.

My Favorite Line: “Waiting in the sitting room to simply apologize, An improvement to existence, summer cleaning”


Remembering trouble, I will wait for you
But for now I sleep, the anonymous arguments
Not looking my way once, typical persuasion
The overtured kiss preached to its final orders.

Perfecting for lost time, calling on election
Made with local ingredients, outgrown permissiveness
Driven through the lonely reckoning, however long
None for the arrogant instructions permanent.

The sacrosanct lectures, delivered through the rain,
This godly hypocrisy runs by the gallery
The misspelt overtures, eating out of the queue
Friends remaining staid, waiting on orders.

Tales out of school, walking into perfect dominion
Misunderstood colour shirt rings the changes
This viral vicarious partnership fulfils a prophecy
Association on a level runs past scrutiny.

Smoking past decorum, drinking through miseries
Not seen, happier that way, common ground foretolf
Expecting grace where docked, running safe
The perfected mornings, no associate will dismiss.

This sober quietude, no money made,
Hung and drawn silently, a fiscal smirk
Ripping hearts out of cavities, a remedial splurge
Risen by inflation, still remaining attractive.

Molecular Fallout

To complicate a parish, this was your reckoning
Welcoming firstborns to a messed-up planet,
Flying by midday a course denied
Computer music overhead initially looking for same,
The illiterate expense of a world service
Burrowed in the cold an obvious reward.

Tied to perfume, the rebel fragrance gone stale
Washing away iniquities blotted out slights
Drinking plenty of water, all for the good
Borrowing manufactured literature, not right now
The hapless forms grievances in the sundown,
The unfinished magnum opus cracks itself open.

Wondering what next to do, sealing depression
The after-hours scenario, anorexic acid sinks
Waiting in the sitting room to simply apologize,
An improvement to existence, summer cleaning
The incriminating jettisoned, faithful to the truth
Walked into these things with both eyes open.

Inflicting a singular music on the better ear
Watching through slick thoroughfares at night
Theatrical dancing in the catchall oasis,
Gifted, and booted, sleeping into a one-off purpose
A happy patience runs past eyes for the music
Years of acceptance fall out in the dark.

Raptured Puncture

In a tabernacle of a tower
Simplistic breakage mars its way forth
The incessant dream scared to submission
The insolvent modesty running past censure
The slow puncture back catalogue rendered sane
Watching for a given offence run forward.

Given leeway to annoy people, typical slant
The cracked-down behaviour avoiding respect
The sentient angel regarding his fork
Substitution for a long time, however straight
The buried common knowledge rises again
Star-crossed hatred turfing out the familiar.

Thriving on deviance, only if you’re sick
Buying and selling personality the hippy shakes,
Typefied to exclusion, sick to the bone
Abhorrence of the female pint writ large
The gluttonous paper, no apt disease
Love rendered apart over manufactured distance.

The paranoid spike, in pleasures obviated,
Kept back through rebellion, a slighted sore
Money on condemnation guaranteed prophecy
Not having a clue as to what the problem is
Photographing sweet purchases out of context
Confessed to a witchcraft boiling over purpose.


Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Mourneabbey, in north Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Narrator International;  Trouvaille Review; Strukturrus; Seventh Quarry; Vox Galvia; The Quarryman; seeBrickplight, The Literatus, and Otherwise Engaged. She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014.  A second collection of poetry, titled Citizens Arrest, was published online by Libretto in 2020. A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in early 2021. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.

Respect My Magic & Other Poetry by Linda M. Crate

Online Open Mic – 2021

It is important to focus on inner strength and self worth when outside elements fight against it. Linda M. Crate addresses this today in her awesome poetry!

My Favorite Line: “stop breaking my wings because you don’t want black feathers in your garden.”

respect my magic
you only want my magic
when it is butterflies,
laughing sunlit afternoons,
and creeks glittering and welcoming;

you do not want my thorns
or my thistles or my darkness

you worship the light
but without the darkness
she wouldn’t exist

we all have each of them in us—
so why do you shrink away
from every spell of my darkness
as if it is the monster that will
devour you?

i am more than softness and petals
sometimes i am sharpness and claws,
but that doesn’t mean you’re right
and i am wrong;

you are wrong for trying to push
me into your boxes and form me into
someone or something else.
linda m. crate

stop breaking my wings
when i am love and light
full of flowers and music
everyone wants a piece
of my enchantment,

but when i am wrath and rage
full of thorns and claws
everyone wants me to be
calm and docile;

as if there is not a time
for peace and a time for war—

i fight for my freedom
should appreciate my wilds
and my ferocity as much as
my clouds and my castles

because all of them are a
part of me,
but you want to cut and paste pieces
of me until you form a perfect being;

i wish you could see that i am
fully formed as i am—

stop breaking my wings
because you don’t want black
feathers in your garden.
-linda m. crate

it is then that they beg for my light
my love is
deep and i am
and i am told that i am

but i am not only a
fierce warrior and goddess
but i am full of light magic, too—

it’s just no one takes me
until i sing the song of sirens
or bite like a vampire;

no one wants to listen
to my rose petals
or the lyrics of my birds
until they’ve pushed me and i have
fallen deep into the oceans of my rage
it is then that they beg for my light.
-linda m. crate

no matter my shade or scars
you want my joy
and happiness,

but sometimes i am
stranded in the

and i need people
who appreciate
my magic no matter
what form she takes
rather than those who only
want me to bind myself
into someone else for their

i am not only the flower,
but also the thorn;

and i need someone who can
understand i will always
fight and advocate for myself because
i am beautiful

no matter my shades or scars.
-linda m. crate

if you can’t help me, leave me be
you claim you want
me to be happy,
but i don’t know if that’s
always true;

when i follow my dreams
and walk in dark forests
you seem to think that i am

walking in places i should
not go—

instead of trusting me
or the process,
you doubt me every step
of the way which makes this
journey all the more

until i am able to manage
the thing you said i couldn’t—

and then you want to say you
never doubted me or my skills,
but my magic and i know you’re
-linda m. crate


Linda M. Crate’s works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of seven poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is: the samurai (Yellow Arrow Publishing, October 2020). She’s also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018). She has published three  full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020), The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020), and Mythology of My Bones (Cyberwit, August 2020)
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