In June 2005, I began a weekly poetry practice. The goal was simple: to write a 10-line poem every Tuesday. The purpose was to have a manageable deadline to create new work and a dedicated platform to share it. I sent my first 10-line Tuesday poem to about 200 people. More than eight  years and almost 4,500 lines later, I continue to write "10-line Tuesday" each week, and these poems now go out to nearly 1,100 people around the world. A backlog of poems from the past two years can be found here.


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September 30, 2014

the chances
Someone is trying to have a baby, and the chances, while slim, stir up hope others thought
long gone. Someone else is dreaming of a painting still absent from the canvas, but she knows,
deep down, the blue to start it. Someone else rises for a job she doesn't love, but a line of light 
stops her midway through the drive and she points her phantom camera. And on it goes,
the tremble of belief that dares us with its smallness. How an inkling seed can bloom
before it hits the dirt. And even if it fails, some flower - stubborn as an itch - remains intact,
our minds a greenhouse where the temperature rarely changes, the air humming like a womb.
It's true, the crash may come, our wild fictions tumbling to earthbound fact.
But I don't want to write about that. Someone is trying for a baby. A canvas, white and rough,
gestates with the thought of blue. The chances, while slim, are always enough.

September 23, 2014

At last night's dinner, a friend said, "I actually felt the earth tilt" and it sounded
so epic, a cosmic sea-change, a seesaw from one world to the next. And I wondered,
for a moment, how it would be to jar my life loose of its axis, break the orbit
of familiar rotation, dismantle the bricks that keep my house grounded.
Sometimes, escape wags its finger and beckons like a dare, and the brief thrill
of upheaval makes you second-guess what's calm and sure and still,
a wild summer tempting you from a mellowing fall.
I looked at my plate, fish nesting against salad, a mound of greens cradling it all.
However the planet had tipped, I hadn't noticed, the change hardly seismic in effect.
Quiet is better, I thought to myself. I'll take all the peace I have left.

September 16, 2014


The counter never fails to need another swipe of the sponge. The laundry -
like Sisyphus - piles up the moment I fold the last clean shirt. The plants still
want watering, despite the hose that sated them two days ago. The boys plea,
once more, it's not their turn. I wonder, some days, when the channel
will change, when the work will finish for good. And yet, last night's dishes
are behind us, and the crumbs that dot the sink are from the bread 
I sliced this morning, when I woke with a fresh supply of hours and plans and wishes
for the day. I filled my cup. I wrote a poem. I made the bed.
A cadence blooms inside the clean-up. The track finds traction with each spin.
The path insists on finding us, again and again and again. 




September 9, 2014

the light between the cables

Not when you're in the thick of it, fighting one embarrassingly ordinary 
battle after another. Not when your gaze trembles at each obstacle, real or imagined,
like those hurdles on the high school track which, when you had legs for it, weren't scary
at all but beckoned you to leap. And not when records of old failures spin your mind
into a dizzy carnival, turning you timid, too shaken to look. But it's there, nonetheless,
waiting to be seized, a window to a view sometimes so vague, you'd mistake it for mirage. 
It may never get any clearer than this. There will always be a reason to fixate on the mess
of wires instead, spend your remaining minutes on the futility of disentangling. So close
your eyes if you have to. Let the color reassemble the way it first intended, pixel by pixel,
in the tiny miracle of becoming. The whole sky lives there. It always will.

September 2, 2014

what there aren't words for yet

What those hummingbirds in your chest whisper when you tell
your first lie. The toothy rumble of the lions that scare
your lungs into giving up. The edges of a leap—half-murmur, half-yell—
the steer your feet away. The guffaw from the shadows tempting you to ignore
your own magnificence. The boisterous roosters pecking holes in your plans. The tire
tracks cajoling you to stay on course. How we search for a plain sentence
to fill the cracks of heartache, for language to pull us, like a ladder,
out of each dark and muddled well. We think thunder is a metaphor. Or the fence
dividing one yard from the next, its own instruction. But the story's yours, you know.
There is no better way to say it. Make the words up as you go.