Monday, June 15, 2015

Voice Over for "At Thirty"

Motionpoems reminds me of poetography, so it's no wonder I'm drawn to it.  The only difference is that a motion picture rather than a photograph accompany the poem. And of course, with film, comes sound as well.

I recently answered a call for "voices" by a director of a motionpoem. The result is the following little nugget of art. See if you can figure out which line is my voice. And please note: I did not write this poem. At thirty, I was having the time of my life in Turkey, quite different from this speaker's experience.

"At Thirty" A poem by Paula Bohince, adapted by Thibault Debaveye for Motionpoems

At Thirty from Motionpoems on Vimeo.

Saturday, May 9, 2015

Glass Stain

God’s rays, through windows, in colored shadows stain
her skin, a prism of paint descends on dismal sky,
red hair, pale light cascading around her pain.

Under church canopy, sheltered from the rain,
verdant vines enlace her arms, birds fly in bluest dye, 
God’s rays, through windows, in colored shadows stain.

Across her skin, mermaids smile, flowers bloom in vain,
and beneath the canvas, a faintly heard cry,
red hair, pale light cascading around her pain.

The color of His stain, a kaleidoscope to her vein,
surfaces to beguile butterflies perched nigh,
God’s rays, through windows, in colored shadows stain.

As a curtain of light or the scent of amber He reigns,
lulls her with rainbows from panes of glass up high,
red hair, pale light cascading around her pain.

Here the light is wan, but here she can remain
captured in a dance of brilliant light and dye,
God’s rays, through windows, in colored shadows stain,
red hair, pale light cascading around her pain.

first published in Old Red Kimono. Carrollton: University of West Georgia Department of Publications and Printing, Spring 2015. Vol. XLIV. Print.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

The Lazyboy

On my walk to dance class
because the Lazyboy was facing me
I stopped next to a busy street
in a white stone driveway.

Beside a truck, it sat without
its carpet, table, lamp or TV,
head and armrests discolored
from unwashed hair and greasy fingers.

All the spasms of light it’d absorbed-
sitcoms, commercials, late night movies
cast across sky blue fabric in morning,
navy in midday, wee hours grey.

I walked behind it, looked out at the street.
What would we be watching,
this Lazyboy and I? Voyeurs of what?
White, black, red cars blurred past.

Sunrays reflected off windshields in fits. 
I sat. I rocked. I swiveled. I reached deep
into its crevice and retrieved the remote.  
I pulled the lever.

first published in Hartskill Review: A Journal of Contemporary Poetry and Poetics. Vol. 2, Issue 1. Ed. Joshua Hjalmer Lind. Eau Claire: ThrewLine Books, 2015. 5. Print.

the blackest imaginable white

there is no horizon.

nothing is crisp, everything the same shade of white.
you assume gravity is in check, that you’re standing upright.

from your mind’s eye, you conjure up turns you normally base
on split second analyses of angles and shapes.

a distant version of yourself, you feel you’ve been here before,
but all you truly know is where earth pushes up more.

in vain, questions eddy in this whitewash guise;
you might as well ski with eyes closed, you realize.

if not for the lone tree, a child’s scribble on the page,
speed and direction would be impossible to gauge.

but when a turn takes your gaze away from this pine,
and before you’ve found a new guiding sign,

your stomach falls into your throat; you turn upside down,
tumbling in an inner ear tempest, empty of sound.

and for a brief moment, the blackest imaginable white
beckons you to the edge of the world, in blinding light.
first published in Hartskill Review: A Journal of Contemporary Poetry and Poetics. Vol. 2, Issue 1. Ed. Joshua Hjalmer Lind. Eau Claire: ThrewLine Books, 2015. 4. Print.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

my father's fading

tinker, tinker 
tin, tin, tin

the light of his own time
blown from human circumstance 
like electricity that began at a bell
now the rest of some obscure color


the smoky arrangement of this word
from ripples of my father’s fading
a bell ringing throughout my toes

tin, tin, tin

his hands, teeth, guts, thoughts even
might be stars or railroad spikes
he has to be stars

tinker, tinker
tin, tin, tin

Harding, Paul. Tinkers. New York: Bellevue Literary Press, 2010. Print.


This is a poem created from the source, Tinkers, by Paul Harding, for The Found Poetry Review’s 2013 National Poetry Month initiative, Pulitzer Remix. In April of 2013, I was one of 85 poets responsible for creating and posting on the project’s website,, one found poem a day from this Pulitzer Prize-winning work of fiction.

First published in Two Cities Review. Spring 2015. Online. <

Monday, January 19, 2015

Staged Reading of my play, "The Asymmetrical Embrace," Seattle, Feb. 8, 2015

Join the Seattle Playwrights' Circle for a staged reading of Caroline N. Simpson’s new play, The Asymmetrical Embrace. Based on the lives of the Van Goghs, a woman ends up in a triangle of love and conflict when she marries an art dealer who insists on supporting his mad brother’s art. The play will be performed in a lightly-staged reading by local professional actors.  A talk-back session with the playwright will follow the performance. All are welcome to attend. Wine and refreshments will be served. $5 suggested donation at the door. 
February 8th, 2015, 6pm
Elliott Bay Book Company