Did You Know That I Sing Too?
Okay, that’s a lie. I really can’t sing. In fact, my singing turns wine into vinegar and kills houseplants. But my husband can actually sing.
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Okay, that’s a lie. I really can’t sing. In fact, my singing turns wine into vinegar and kills houseplants. But my husband can actually sing.
Yeah, I admit it. I went a little haiku crazy. After my last post about not being able to stop haiku-ing, I kept going. And
I’ve made no secret of my blog-crush on Suburban Haiku. Peyton is simply a master of the 5-7-5 art form. (I’m totally gonna fan-girl her
This poem is a followup to last week’s haiku. Both are bound to make me some enemies over on the right side of the country. (Don’t
It’s unseasonably warm here in California. (Please don’t hate me, rest of the county.) Warm weather and G&ts always inspire bad poetry. Here’s my latest
Every once in awhile I am inspired to write a haiku. I mean, I’m no Suburban Haiku—not by a long shot. But I just discovered
Oh, my yoga pants, ‘Tis your season of greatness! Please pass the egg nog.
After I posted my bad poem from college, my friend Jonathan texted me to tell me that poem hit an all-time low of horribleness. I
I loved 4th grade, and a big part of that was because I had an amazing 4th grade teacher. She had a knack for bringing
So I’ve been hearing a lot about wrecking balls in the news lately, and it reminded me of an image from a poem I wrote
When I was in Junior High, I pined after the same cute preppy boy, Brian, the entire three years of middle school. I was madly
I wrote this poem in high school. It’s in my journal next to some very bloody drawings (red pen, not actual blood) and lots more
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