Tutu Hockey: Poet's Seat 2017

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:self.migration: (poet's seat finalist 2017)

Here is the new unpublished poem that made me a finalist.

: self.migration :

I self.migrate here, from there

I drive unfettered multiple times to multiple states to multiple addresses

I cross unchecked boundaries, through invisible state lines, past fenced farms and gated communities

I am free so I self.relocate here, since I am free to relocate anywhere in America

I bring boxes filled with memories, with enough to rent a storage unit

I arrive unscathed, unhurt, but not exactly state-approved

Does Massachusetts care that I am here?

I self.migrate with papers, with proof, without arrest

I raid my fiancé’s space, his territory, his living room

I marry him, and I marry his identity and my identity and take his name

I register my car, get my driver’s license, and register to vote

Would this happen if I was from Iran, Nigeria or Guatemala and not from Wisconsin?

Does Massachusetts care that I am here?

Does it matter that I am a Connecticut-transplant, a journalist, formerly employed by a tribe?

Cameras pointed at cars would be able to find me eventually

How long will it take for me to become a local? How long?

How many years?

Does Massachusetts care that I am here?

I find descendants here of many generations, of bloodlines not my own

How long before I am questioned?

(written in the BigY parking lot)

and the Bardo Group's MAY 2017 BeZINE published me HERE
May 2017, Vol.3, Issue 8, Honesty and Transparency the Post Truth Era

[...I finished Crime Machine by Giles Blunt (OMG, I love his entire crime series), finished Letter from Point Clear and Prince Edward by Dennis McFarland, then on to any book I can find by Wilson Roberts who I met at the Poet's Seat contest. And my friend AskiAkira published a new book HAIKU POEMS which I reviewed on this blog and on Amazon. I'm reading a pile of books at one time - it's my escape.]

One task at a time... I have to remind myself.

poetry rituals

OUT OF PRINT

I use a pen-name for poetry/prose/short story... (aka Laramie Harlow)

Writing Rituals

As for rituals, I recall writing a poem about my mixed-breed dog Bubbles when he died; I might have been 10 or 11 years old.
I was grieving very very hard, crying and so miserable, I had no choice but to write something down. Honestly, after that, I knew (for me) writing was therapeutic. It’s was about the same time I started a diary/journal.
Losing Bubbles was my first “serious” poem about death, losing my best friend, my dog. No one ever read that poem or any other lovesick poems that followed.
Actually I was a closet writer most of my life!

In the years that followed, I filled many cheap spiral notebooks with all kinds of poems, rants, quotes, other author’s poems, like Judy Garland and Lois Wyse (http://www.poemhunter.com/lois-wyse/). Both ladies: remarkable poets!

(This was before blogs.)

OUT OF PRINT

It might be therapeutic to go back now and reread those old notebooks? ~~Maybe,~~ not.

I'm always working on something, like a new chapbook Mental Midgets: Am I Supposed to Be Doing This?

Poetry book contributor:
TENDING THE FIRE 2017
IN THE VEINS 2017
POET'S SEAT 2017 FINALIST