Hey there! I have another sneak peek poem from The Bones in the Garden to share! Enjoy!
Author: emichpoet
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Sneak Peek!
The Bones in the Garden, my second book of poetry, is going to be released very soon, so I thought I’d give a preview of one of the poems in the collection. The poem I’m reading here is “The Bones in the Garden”, from which the title of the book gets its name. It’s one of my favorite poems and I’m excited to share it with you!
Just some quick background: this poem started as a write for a contest. We were tasked to do three things: we had to start the poem with the words “tell no one”, it had to take place in a garden, and it had to have an air of mystery about it. As I began writing, I crafted the first sentence, which had this lovely, melancholic rhythm to it, and then I envisioned a narrative around it. It was rooted in the darkness of the brutality of racism, and once I saw it in my mind, it was all she wrote.
Please feel free to comment and share!
Let’s Talk about…The Bones in the Garden
Two things about me as a kid: I don’t remember being overly enthusiastic about learning history, and although I was an avid reader (I read a crazy combination of things like Stephen King and Sweet Valley High, for example) I almost never read anything that reflected me, my identity, or people who looked like me, mainly because that literature did not exist or was not readily accessible to me. Certainly those teen romances I read never talked about romance between black teens nor did they not exult the beauty of black guys.
Weird start for a blog post, I know. But as I work through the process of getting ready to publish my second poetry book, both of these things about me are important because this collection largely reflects those two character traits. As a kid, I don’t really remember enjoying history that much…but as an adult, I enjoy it. In particular, I am fascinated by African American history and black history, mainly because it was expressly something that we didn’t learn about in school. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties and was studying abroad (in France, of all places) that I met an older American black woman (we were both studying French) who sat me down and explained to me the particulars of African American history in ways that I had not imagined or even understood before. It was a revelation.
As my second collection of poems gets ready to be published, it finds its voice among the history of Black people. I use my narrative voice to tell just the tiniest fraction of the stories of the struggles that black people have gone through—and “struggles” is an easy word, a light word, a non-combative word to talk about some of those experiences, because we all know that those experiences went far beyond “struggle”.
But in ugliness, one can still always find beauty. In darkness, one can always still find light. In The Bones in the Garden, when we move past horror, there are other things. There is triumph and vindication, and of course, there is love. Always love. Sometimes subtle, sometimes explicit, but there is nothing like the love of a good (black) man. I don’t think they always get enough credit.
Which brings me back to where we started. As I kid, I read a lot of stuff as a kid, but nothing that reflected me or my history as a woman of color. This wasn’t a bad thing per se, because I loved to read and those reading experiences helped expand my imagination and creativity….to the point that I can now write and share stories that reflect me.
From my short story archive…
A little something I wrote back in the day. If you like it, share and leave a comment! I’d love to hear from you! 🙂
Phone Calls and Conversations
At precisely six-oh-eight, the phone rang. Its chime bellowed through the house, a dark summons that would only bring bad news. Terrible news. Dreaded news.
She didn’t want to pick it up; instead, she wanted to yank the cord from the wall and rid herself of its heavy torture and be free of its ugly burden.
But instead, she only closed her eyes, steeling herself from what was to come, and picked up the phone.
“Momma?”
“Joseph?”
A heavy pause occupied the line for a moment. And then: “He’s gone, Momma. He’s dead.”
The news was not unexpected, but still, with a sharp intake of breath and a wail of grief, Janet began to cry. On the other end of the line, Joseph waited quietly, patiently, as his mother pronounced her anguish.
Little by little, Janet pulled herself together—somewhat. She spoke through her tears. “Did he…did he suffer, Joe?”
“I don’t think so, Momma. I think it was….quick. He saw me, knew I was there, and….I think it was enough.”
For the moment, her breathing calmed and became a little more even. “And did you tell him, Joseph? Did you give him my message?”
“I did, Momma. I told him that you wanted to be here, but you couldn’t stand to…to….”
Janet sniffled. “Go on, Joe.”
“I told him that you said no matter what, you loved him and you always would.”
“What’d he say?”
“Said he understood, and he was sorry. Sorry he hadn’t been a good son, and that he’d made things so hard for you.”
“Made things hard on me? He was as good a son as he could be…I mean, could have been…”
The change in tense made her stop abruptly and her tears fell fresh, her pain renewed. She whimpered, her eyes filling until the amount was too great and they started to overflow. She did nothing to stop the downpour, but rather stood with phone in hand, thinking about her son: Cyrus. For a moment, she slipped back in time and she remembered when Cyrus had fallen sick with pneumonia. His fever had run high, and she had taken him to the doctor. She had stayed at his bedside the night, watching over her son, waiting for him to get bett—
“My god, Joseph, my god! Maybe I should have been there! I should have come! Why didn’t I come? Oh my god, Joe, why, why, why!?” Abruptly, she was yelling and crying, filled with doubt and self-contempt and guilt. “Why was my son taken from me?”
Her pain grabbed him through the phone lines and the many miles between them, and squeezed him tight. His chest tightened in anguish. A heaviness formed in his own throat, and Joe found that speaking demanded an inner strength that he wasn’t sure he had.
“Momma?” Even to his ears, he sounded far away, as if speaking from a dream.
Or a nightmare.
“Yes?” Her grief-stricken tirade abruptly broken, she croaked a response that was laden with tears and heartache.
“I’ve got to go now. They’re moving the body, and I want to be there.”
“What about the arrangements, Joe? When can we bring him home?”
“I talked to Mr. Winslow a few hours before he….. Winslow okayed everything. We’ll bring him home tomorrow, Tuesday the latest.”
“What about the funeral home? I don’t want any circus!” Now she was fire and anger, protective of Cyrus until the end.
“I know, Momma. I talked to the funeral director already, and he says he’s done this type of thing before, knows how to keep it discreet. It’ll be alright.”
With her free hand, Janet wiped the tears that slid down her cheeks. She stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen, and her gaze wandered haplessly about until her eyes settled upon the markings etched into the doorframe. Her fingers grazed the etchings and triggered a memory: it was here where she would mark the ever-increasing height of her boys when they were little. Joseph had sprung up quickly, but Cyrus would forever struggle to keep up. He would pout and complain and wish he could be big like Joe and Janet would hug him and tell him that one day, he would be big in his own right, he would be a giant on his terms.
“Momma?” Joseph’s voice spoke concern for his mother.
“I just can’t believe it. I mean, we knew this was coming, but I was certain that some—“
“Don’t do this to yourself, Momma.” Joseph tried to maintain a hard line with his tone, but he struggled.
She didn’t hear him. “My baby is gone….”
“Stop it, Momma. It’s no use.” His voice cracked a little; the pain in his mother’s voice unnerved him. He wanted to reach through the phone line, through time and space and hug her, comfort her, but of course, he could not.
Fighting his own sorrow, he took a deep breath himself, filling his lungs with precious oxygen, and it settled him somewhat, cleared his head. He continued. “Mr. Henry did all he could for Cyrus, fought ‘til the very end.”
Janet nodded. “I know, I know.” Moving through the kitchen, she found a seat at the kitchen table. Rubbing a hand across her furrowed brow, she flashed on an image of Cyrus as a baby, and grief shuddered through her. A heavy lump formed in her throat. “I thought….uh… I’m sorry, Joe…this is so hard…”
“I know, Momma.” Joe couldn’t be there to console her, and it hurt like hell.
His mother continued, still weeping. “I thought for sure we would’ve heard from Blake.”
“I know, we all did.” Silence, and then: “I’ve really got to go. The body—“
“Yes, okay. Call me when it’s done.”
“I will.”
“Oh! And Joe?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, baby.”
He choked up then. “I love you too, Momma.”
####################
At six-ten, the phone rang. Sabrina whispered a prayer to a god above, hugged the photo close, and then picked up the phone.
“Baby?”
“Paul?”
He didn’t hesitate. He knew she’d been waiting too long. They both had. “It’s done, baby. He’s dead.”
She closed her eyes. Thank god, she thought to herself. At long last, it’s over. And though it was the announcement that she’d been waiting for, she found herself crying.
Paul heard the uneven intake of breath, the soft wails, and asked: “You’re crying?”
Her nose was running. She sniffed. “Yea, I am.” She hugged the picture in the silver frame even closer to her person, willing her spirit to somehow touch and merge with the spirit of her dead child.
“Are you okay?”
“No, but I will be.” She pulled the photo away from her chest, and gazed lovingly at the face that smiled back so warmly, so lovingly. You always had a beautiful smile, Sabrina remembered. It used to light up a room.
“Sabrina?”
“I’m sorry. I was just looking at the picture.”
Her husband understood immediately. “She’s with us, Sabrina. She’s looking down from wherever she is, and she’s smiling.”
She nodded, although she knew her husband couldn’t see. “I know, but—“
Her husband didn’t let her finish. “There are no buts, baby. It’s done, and now we’re gonna let go, and move on.”
She wiped the tears that fell still, however silently. “You’re right, of course, you’re right.” She paused, and for a moment, her mind wandered and then stopped on a question. “Do you think she’d be upset, Paul, that I wasn’t there? That I didn’t see?”
“I was there, babe. I saw. It was enough.”
Surprisingly, a heaviness that she hadn’t known was there seemed to lift itself from her chest. A lightness touched her as the weighty knot of grief that she had carried for so long began to slowly roll away. She breathed deeply, and the air freshened her lungs. “Did he….I mean, were there any last words?”
“You mean, did he apologize?” Paul gave a harsh, ugly laugh. “He apologized to his momma. Said sorry if he caused her any pain. But our pain? No, he didn’t even acknowledge it. Maintained his innocence ‘til the very end.” The sharpness in his tone indicated the level of anger and bitterness that he still held. “Some mother he had. She didn’t even show up,” he muttered.
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure if she was angry, or disappointed, or just didn’t care.
Perhaps it didn’t matter.
“And the warden?”
“Warden Winslow presented his condolences to me, to us. Kept the media at bay too, otherwise it could have been a zoo.” He paused. “But the lawyer did try. Wanted to hold a press conference right there at the gates.”
“Which lawyer?”
“The asshole one, Henry. Went on and on about a travesty of justice, the murder of an innocent man and all that bullshit. But the warden shut it down.”
Sabrina looked at the picture of her daughter, whose brilliant eyes radiated the happiness and hope that only the young can exude. A sudden anger clutched her, and her words bit with both heavy sarcasm and great sorrow. “What about the murder of an innocent girl? Did he speak to that?”
“No, babe. He didn’t.” Her husband spoke with a finality that immediately dispersed her anger, and abruptly, she refocused her energy on the picture before her, on the child that she lost but still loved every single day.
“And Blake?”
“No. No call from Governor Blake, no stay of execution.” He paused, and when he last spoke this last time, his words brought an end to a decade of grief and sadness. “Cyrus Jackson is gone, honey. And now it’s time for his family to grieve.”
Husband and wife fell silent for a moment, and then Sabrina took the last word. “We finally got justice for her, Paul. She can rest easy and in peace.” Her voice thickened with emotion, and again the tears came down. “And now, so can we.”
SC LitCon
Another weekend, another book event, another adventure!
This past weekend, me and my trusty sidekick–the lovely and talented Stella–found ourselves in Columbia, South Carolina. We were there for the SC LitCon, sponsored by Blu Impressions Publishing, and we had a fabulous time! We met tons of authors, great people, and enjoyed some sites and delicious food. It was a short visit, but a fun one. Check out the pictures below!
Nubian Books
Another weekend, another book signing! This weekend I was graciously hosted by Marcus Williams of Nubian Books right next door to me in Morrow. Through sun AND rain, we were still able to show up and show out! I got lots of love from the community, and I can’t thank you all enough!
Nubian Books has been serving the Morrow community for the past 25 years. It specializes in books by and for people of color. Additionally, for members of the Divine Nine, the store is also local hub to buy Greek paraphernalia, from shirts to hats to pins and everything else in between (those Greek umbrellas sure did come in handy when the rain came, I tell you what). This exclusive combination of black-authored books and fraternity/sorority gear make this bookstore a wholly unique destination to get your “black on”. For more information on Marcus Williams and his bookstore, read this article by The Atlanta Voice.
The Bones Are Coming!
So excited to announce that my next book is currently underway! What an exciting process this is! With the help of the fabulous team at Tell Tell Poetry, things are moving along and the new book should be released by the end of the summer or the early fall. I feel like with two books under my belt, I am officially solidifying my place as a bona fide author!
This next book will continue my narrative journey in verse, focusing more on poems and narratives closely tied to the black experience. This collection will also celebrate love, denounce rejection, agonize over loss, and tell a scary story or two along the way. I cannot wait for you to get your hands on it!
In the meantime, one of my brilliant daughters came up with some ideas for the cover. These are rough sketches that she came up with, but I actually thought they came out pretty good, all things considered. As I wait for the cover ideas from the Tell Tell team (they used some of her sketches for inspiration), I thought it would be fun to share them with you as a sneak peek of what is to come. Feel free to leave a comment or feedback if you like them–she’ll appreciate the compliments!
The Crazy Book Lady
The past weekend found me at The Crazy Book Lady, an indie bookstore specializing in used books and good old-fashioned board games. It’s a bookstore where everything old is new, the people are warm and friendly, and with a vibe that welcomes one and all. Located north of downtown Atlanta in Acworth, I spent a pleasant afternoon promoting and signing our books with other authors. The shelves are overflowing with books and games so you know there are treasures to be found if you’re willing to get lost a little (who doesn’t love getting lost in a bookstore)? They also hosted various groups for games; there was a little room for folks who were into Dungeons and Dragons, and another group playing chess. The owner made all of us feel right at home. If you’re into old, weathered books, perhaps a collector of classic books, or want a bargain on children’s books, this is a great place to come and visit.
Oh, Summer!!!
Can we talk about it? The joy of summer??? I remember packing up my classroom at the end of the year as usual, with a level of impatience that cannot be described. It’s the idea of late, unrestricted nights followed by even later mornings (the alarm has been disabled), travel, reading, writing, TV binge-watching….all of it. Whatever my heart desires. My time is mine to do with what I please.
And here we are, four weeks in (with four weeks still left to go–woo hoo!), and I’m reveling in it. Spending time with my kids, getting caught up with my reading, getting my exercise in at my leisure…and in the middle of all it, still promoting Five Dreams. There have been book fairs and signings (some successful, some not) but it’s been time to just meet people, share poetry, and interestingly enough, rest my mind and take some time off from writing (which is why I haven’t made a blog post in a minute).
What’s that you say? No writing? Absolutely. Summer is completely about rejuvenation, and as I rolled out the door for the last time at the end of the 2023-2024 school year, I inadvertently but necessarily took the pressure off my shoulders to write as well. I know some people believe that to be a successful writer, you must write every day, even for five minutes…and I get it. It helps to keep your writing sharp and your skills up-to-date. But too much of anything can be detrimental, and I don’t think we give enough credence to the idea that sometimes we need to refill and replenish the wells from which our creativity stems.
But lucky for me–I have no such qualms!!! I’m happy to let my mind unwind with nothingness, silliness, or randomness…the end result is that eventually, that desire to write will return, and when it does, my well will be full, ideas plentiful, and the stories will come. So I can relax and wait for it. I’m good.
I will share this though: that’s the thing about time off. This happens to me every year, and I actually wrote a poem about it once. I had all these big plans to write a whole bunch of stuff, but the vacation clock started and I realized that I had no desire to write at all—well, except for this one poem that I happened to write at the beginning of vacation one year. Once completed, I didn’t pick up my pen for a minute…and I had no regrets.
This poem is called Quest Aborted, and it is taken from Five Dreams.
Quest Aborted
They gave me seven days
To write my next great verse
To put my pen to paper
And in my words become immersed.
A week to write my tale
To forge great lines with words and tone
Undisturbed by life’s distractions
Here in the quiet of my home.
Oh, seven days! Yes, seven days!
How I’m apt to fill the time,
With ode or prose or tale to spin
This work should be sublime.
The clock will tick its passage
As I scribble, pen, and write,
My greatest manifesto
Meant only to delight.
But as I sip a glass of wine
And the music softly plays
The words are slipping from me
And the hours turn to days.
The quiet is a solace
And the peace brings comfort too;
The will to bring a tale to life
No longer does ring true.
My mind is wont to rest
And my spirit wander free
Words and verse and prose and tale
Will steal serenity.
So for seven days—oh seven days!
I’ll take my leave of this scribe’s chore
And grant interlude to find me
That my spirit be restored.
Where has the Time G O N E?
Holy crap! Where has the time gone? It’s already mid-May! April and the beginning of May has been busy, busy, busy between work (of course) and book promoting, I almost don’t know if I’m coming or going…almost.
The month of April held an interview with Poetry Matters Project for National Poetry Month in April, and Five Dreams won First Place for Contemporary Poetry by The BookFest Awards–that’s two awards for this collection! This month also saw me at various book festivals (with a mini-high school reunion to boot! Shout-out to my class of ’89!) as well as an Open Mic in Decatur, GA. The beginning of May did not let up, with book signings in McDonough and Locust Grove. As the school year winds down and vacation keeps calling my name louder and louder, the summer looks bright and full of promise with more signings and events, more fun and adventure. I’m meeting so many nice and interesting people, sharing my writing, and just getting out there. What a joy it is at this stage of my life to be free to do my thing!
Find here some highlights of the past two months, including the interview with Poetry Matters Project–hoping to have many more in the months to come!
Pencil
It’s National Poetry Month! Let’s get into it!
No long intro from me today for this poem. Rather, I would just tell you that I wrote this based on a prompt. Apparently, March 30 is National Pencil Day (who knew???). It commemorates the anniversary of the US patent granted for a pencil with an attached eraser (again I ask, who knew???) As a result, we had to write about a pencil–specifically, we had to write about a writer searching for the perfect pencil. This is my take on that prompt. I don’t expect this little ditty to take home any grand awards or survive the long arm of time but still, it was fun to write. I’ve included the audio clip as well. Enjoy!
Pencil
There’s a story I want to tell,
a poem I’d like to write,
it demands a very good pencil
in order to get it right.
I could use a colored pencil,
scribble my verse in a vibrant hue;
gold or emerald or ruby red,
so many colors to choose—
Or here, a charcoal pencil,
its lead black like the night,
perhaps an ode of darkness
to strike fear, give shivers and fright.
Or perchance a graphite pencil,
a dependable number two
and craft a rhyme that’s simple,
full of sadness to make one blue.
But here I see a pencil,
modern and mechanical,
my words must be precise and exact—
but still they will be diabolical.
Or what about a pencil
whose lead is made of wax?
Upon some glass I’ll script my verse
with clever words and syntax.
This task before me is grand,
the chore that awaits me is great!
The choice that I make
must be sure and swift—
my mind is full of words and can’t wait.
Because the tool that I will choose
dictates the poem that I will write;
would that the pencil of my choice
send my verse off in glorious flight.
It should carry my dearest reader
to far-off distant lands,
swell chest with grand emotions,
whatever my mind demands—-
So with care I’ll choose my pencil
I’ll decide which one is right,
I’ll script my ode (of verse, not prose!)
and with that, good day and good night.
–Elizabeth Michaud
The BookFest Awards, Spring 2024
So excited to share that Five Dreams won first place for Contemporary Poetry in the The BookFest Spring Awards! That makes two awards for my book (Five Dreams was named a 2023 Finalist for both the American Best Book Awards for both General Poetry category and Narrative Poetry category.) I gotta tell you, it’s pretty exciting!
Want to see what all the fuss is about? Click on the links below to get your copy today from your desired independent retailer! If you’re local to Georgia, consider supporting one of the independent booksellers below and let them know I sent you! Or you can find my book on Amazon, Books-A-Million, and Barnes and Noble! Thanks for your support!
A Study in Alliteration
It’s National Poetry Month–let’s get into it!
Of late, I have been dabbling with writing poems using alliteration. When it all comes together, it is really kind of a fun thing to do. It is definitely a challenge because it demands very concise language to convey the message using as many words with the letter(s) that you are repeating. I love it!
I wrote this one from a prompt. It required that we use “Wild Wicked Wind” as the title of our piece. Given the nature of the title, it seemed to scream “Use alliteration!“, so I did. Also, it just so happened that the weather around that time was dreary…and it all seemed to come together for this little ditty. I hope you like it! Feel free to comment and share! I’d love to hear from you!
Wild Wicked Wind
A wild wicked wind
wails in the sky
wildflowers wilt, wither
and waste away
while willows weep their sorrow
for summer gone
This wild wicked wind
wakens winter
and we wonder with weary
when we will welcome back
the warmth of the sun
Elizabeth Michaud
Shortcuts to Storytelling 2.0
It’s National Poetry Month!!! Let’s get into it!
The thing I love about writing poetry is that it allows me to tell stories in a short, concise, and still creatively demanding kind of way. Years ago, when I first started this blog, I started it to promote the short stories that I was writing, but it was around that time I also began to dabble with poetry. I actually made a post about how I got into writing poetry, called Shortcuts to Storytelling (shared after this post). It’s some fun writing, I’ll tell you what, but more about that later…in the original post.
Because I like to use poetry to tell stories, it’s important to note the fiction-like nature of my poetry. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Sure, some of the topics I write about are personal in nature, others might speak to societal ills, and still others make nods to historical events, but the large part of my poetry really does center around good old-fashioned storytelling. It’s why I enjoy it some much: I can create a random tale with a clear beginning, middle, and end while still following the demands for a poetic form (or not), when the occasion calls for it.
Which leads me to the following poem here: Eleven is Our Special Number. I wrote this for a prompt-based writing contest. The prompt demanded that we use a poetic form called hendecasyllabic. The prompt designer wanted the poem to be only one stanza, it had to have eleven syllables per line, and as an added challenge, be eleven lines in length. However, the topic was ours to choose. In trying to figure out what to do, I thought I would tell the story of someone (not me!) celebrating the love of her life while further incorporating the number eleven throughout the poem. It was a fun write, totally made-up, but celebrated one of my favorite topics ever: love. And who doesn’t enjoy a good love story? 🙂
Find here the poem Eleven is Our Special Number. You can also listen to a recitation of it as well. Enjoy!
Eleven is Our Special Number
He woke me on the eleventh day of the
eleventh month of the year; he whispered sweet
nothings eleven times in the curve of my
neck and my ear. He promised me treasures, ten
times and once more…oh! my heart set aflame with
desires galore…the world, on its axis,
spun round and round, for this man and his love that
knew of no bounds. At the eleventh hour when
the clock shared the time, on my finger he slipped
jewel divine. Eleven times yes to my
love…we cherish now eleven years of love.
Elizabeth Michaud
Shortcuts To Storytelling
Original post date: AUGUST 3, 2012
Sometimes I feel like writing a story.
I sit at my computer with a couple of ideas floating around in my head: something twisted here, something perverted there. Or, in a shocking twist from my usual fare, sometimes I want to venture out and write something light or funny, something that speaks to blue skies and never-ending happiness (I know, I know, but what can I tell you? Sometimes I have my softer moments…but I digress…)
Yea, sometimes, I’m in the mood to write a story, whatever it may be.
But sometimes I don’t feel like going through the rigmarole of writing a long story (even a thousand words can feel long when you’re not in the mood). There are days when it seems like it’s just too much effort or it’s going to take too much time. When you’re a busy wife and mother, time is precious and trying to find those minutes can be hard to do.
So, what to do, what to do? Write…don’t write… I could be plagued for an eternity by this dilemma…
Write…don’t write…
Fortunately for me, I discovered a solution to the problem: poetry.
It’s not something that I do every day, write poetry, but it’s something that I’m getting into. However, I’m not into poetry that functions to describe the one thousand different nuances of a cloud–that shit gets on my nerves. Nor do I like poetry that endlessly, nonsensically, for example, talks about the random nature of a shopping cart sitting in the middle of a freeway while an old man blows his horn to the sounds of elephants marching by. I don’t know what any of that could possibly mean, and it makes my head hurt trying to figure it out.
I’m sure there are some of you out there who know what I’m talking about.
Of course, there are people out there who will completely disagree with me on this point, but that’s okay. I don’t doubt that there is a value to that kind of poetry for someone else, just not for me. And although I would be the first to admit that I have used abstraction as a poetic device, at the end of the day, what matters for me in poetry is reason, logic, and sense in verse.
But most importantly, I look for a story in poetry, where there is a definite beginning, middle, and end. I want to know what happened and why.
It’s been kind of a cool revelation for me—that I can tell a complete story using the brief nature of poetry.
As I write more and more, poetry has become another way for me to recount a tale. It requires a different set of skills: the ability to be brief and concise and demands that I have a breadth of vocabulary at my disposal to do so. Further, it calls for a definite structure: plot, conflict, conclusion. Certainly, I’m not describing anything new. The poetry that I write is narrative poetry, or prose poetry. But what I am noticing as I get into it is that it seems to be a lost art.
Edgar Allen Poe was a master of narrative poetry. From such poems as The Raven to The Bells, Poe wove stories using verse instead of prose to spin his tales of woe. It doesn’t hurt that those poems also tend to be dark and somber, which is right up my alley. The darkness draws me in, and the rhythm and the skill of his pen keep me on the hook. When I read his poems, I frequently feel like I’m on a journey, forever dark and treacherous, one that usually ends in despair. But, as with any good narrative poem, I know why, I understand how I got there, and whether or not I like the conclusion, there is one. And for me, that’s important. The man has told me a story that is as good as any flash fiction out there, but with a great lyricism and rhythm.
For those of us who read poetry, clearly we read it for different reasons. Some people do in fact want to know about all the many ways you can describe a cloud on dreary, rainy day. That doesn’t do it for me. Neither does the “random nature” of the meaning of life as seen through a shopping cart sitting in the middle of a freeway while an old man blows his horn to the sounds of elephants marching by. Who could possibly give a shit about that??? (Okay, okay, I know that there is somebody out there who does, but it’s not me.)
But open the gates for me, show me the path, and lead me to the other side, and I’m there.
When I write my poetry, I am very often trying to show the progression of a situation or a circumstance. This is no different than writing a story, but as I stated earlier, the difference is brevity.
One of my favorite poems by Poe is Annabel Lee. He talks about his the great love between him and his wife, then her tragic death, and his anger at the heavens for causing his loss, and how he looks after her spirit even in death. It has all the elements of a good plot, and it engages me as well as any other tragic love story out there—without the huge time investment or length requirements.
You know, there’s a naughty little expression that says that “It’s not the length of the wand, but the magic in the stick.” I think that holds true when writing. Prose doesn’t have to be long to be great (and let’s be clear, just because it’s long doesn’t guarantee that it will be) and poetry can be just as powerful as any story.
And that’s a good thing, because sometimes when I want to write, I just don’t want to write a lot.
EM
Lost Rites
This poem was crafted after I read and watched a series of articles and reports about the state of Mississippi burying unidentified persons without notifying their families. Click here for a link to the series on this issue from NBC news.
How They Buried Me in Mississippi
They buried me in the dirt,
in old soil with others like me:
souls that were lost to misdeeds or crime,
to misfortune or calamity.
They buried me without regard
for my mother, my cousins, my brothers;
those who had looked for me day and night,
with no help from police or their officers.
They buried me in secret
behind a blue curtain of lies;
they said they reached out to my folks,
but I know they didn’t try.
They buried me without ceremony,
with no words or even preamble.
It didn’t merit their time, they said
because I’d been found among the brambles.
They buried me without a tombstone
to mark the place where I now rest.
They put me in an old cheap box,
making no inquiry into my death.
They buried me in a pauper’s field
because to them I was an unknown.
It never occurred to them at all
that I had family, friends, or a home.
Now I lay here where I am buried
in this pauper’s field for the damned;
loved ones to never know our fate
and condemned to this no man’s land.
--Elizabeth Michaud.
All Rights Reserved.
Once Upon a Time Not Long Ago…
I used to write short stories. And really, as a poet, I still do. I love narrative poetry because I am actually still writing a short story, it’s just that it’s in verse form. It satisfies my need for instant gratification because once I latch onto an idea, I can turn out a poem pretty quick.
However, once upon a time not long ago, I wrote short stories. I only really stopped because I get lazy and sometimes I don’t feel like putting in all the effort needed to write a good short story–it can be time-consuming, and life being what it is, I just don’t always have the time to write something longer and more detailed. So I shrug my shoulders and move on…
Having said that, I do want to share one of my favorite short stories I wrote a couple of years ago. The story was based on a prompt: we had to write about a camera (1K words max). I was part of an online writing group at the time, and I was friends with the judge who came up with the prompt. I know for a fact that he came up with that prompt just to needle me, (I was frustrated by the lack of “quality” prompts) but I got the last laugh because I came up with a fun short story, if I do say so myself.
The only thing though is that I could never come up with a title for this story. Bums me out to this day, because I really do love this little tale. So I had this idea to share it with you: maybe you have a suggestion for a title? If so, please be sure to leave it in the comments!
Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy it! 🙂
EM
Untitled
The old man told me he wanted me to write a story about a camera—and a scary story at that. Fuckin’-A, I told him. Who ever heard of such a thing: a scary camera? Was he kidding?
He looked me dead in the eye and told me no, he wasn’t kidding, and if I didn’t like it, I could always find another job with another magazine—he was pretty sure that editors from other horror anthologies were just lined up outside my door just waiting to nab a talent like me.
I wanted to tell him to fuck off and ram this shit writing job right up his ass, but it hadn’t even been two hours when I’d heard from the landlord, bitchin’ about an eviction or some shit. I could still hear his shrill little voice in my head screaming about late rent and fees, and as I looked at the big boss, I nodded sullenly and went back to my cubbyhole to write.
A fucking camera. Good grief. Who came up with this shit? I thought to myself as I settled into my chair. My desk was nothing but mounds and mounds of paper: stories and articles for edit and review; correspondence and manuscripts from lowly, two-bit writers who would never have a chance (not if I had my say), empty plastic bottles of vodka disguised as mineral water; bills, bills, and more bills. Old sandwich wrappers from a million lunches eaten at this desk dotted the desk in worn color, and some half-chewed candy bars poked out from underneath the various stacks, remnants of snack times long gone. Center to it all was my old computer, dusty and drab, a dinosaur by today’s standards, but it was only five years old. Certainly, it had been with me longer than any of the girls I had dated of late, and frankly, I had more affection for it than them.
I tapped the keyboard, and within a moment, I had a Word document open, and was idly typing nonsense onto the screen: It was a Polaroid Sun-Dog instant camera…no, no, wait a minute, that wasn’t any good. That was from a Stephen King novel I read once. I shook my head, pressed the backspace key, and started again. With a click of the button, it sucked the soul right out of the subject—for Pete’s sake, could that have been any more obvious?
The more I tried to write, the worse it got. One stupid cliché after another. One borrowed idea after the next. My head began to pound and in frustration, I began searching the vodka-water bottles for a little something-something to take the edge off when suddenly, the phone rang.
“Grant,” I snarled.
“Congratulations!” an automated voice on the other end responded. “Your number was randomly selected by our system to receive a prize—“
Just as I got ready to hang up, the voice said: “Do not hang up. At least wait until you hear what you’ve won, Grant.”
That the automated voice knew my name made me stop. “Hello?”
“You’ve won a Nikon Coolpix digital camera!”
I sat back in my chair. “Is this a joke?”
“Not at all, Grant. This is your lucky day!”
I straightened, my search for drink completely forgotten. “Who is this? This isn’t a machine!”
The voice barreled on, oblivious to my protestations. “Now you can capture every dark, miserable, crappy moment in your life! Got a sucky boss? Take a picture of him! Got a crap landlord? Take a picture of him! A tiny office? A shitty desk? A fucked-up love life? Capture it all on pristine, sharp, digital film!”
I looked around the office to see who the prankster was, but even with a quick glance, it wasn’t hard to count all the employees as present and busy. No one was pranking me, at least not here in the office.
“Who the fuck is this?” I lowered my voice, growling. “What do you know about me and my life?”
“Take a picture of it all, Grant. Everything that you despise, everything that’s making you miserable, everything that is robbing you of the happiness that you deserve. Snap a photo, and when you’re done looking at your memories, just delete them. Delete them all.”
What did that mean, take a picture and then delete it? Like, delete a facet of my life that I didn’t like? Like, get rid of it? Destroy it?
Something began to pierce my thoughts. Was it possible?
The automated voice was ever chirper, ever stilted, and it disturbed me. “Your prize will be delivered to you shortly, Grant! Be sure to sign for it!”
The call was winding down. “Wait a minute!” I cried. “Who is this? When will it be delivere—“
The line went dead. I pulled the phone from my ear, my mind reeling, when I heard someone call my name.
“Grant Holder! Delivery for Grant Holder!”
A UPS man in the iconic brown uniform was on the floor, a package in hand, and a touchpad in the other. Smitty, the office manager, was pointing him in my general direction. Over there, he mouthed.
The UPS man brought me the package. “You Grant Holder?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “Delivery for you.” I signed the electronic clipboard, and before I knew it, he was gone and I held a package in my hands.
I decided to open it in the restroom where I could have a modicum of privacy. I tore the paper from the box to reveal the camera: a Nikon Coolpix, as promised. I decided to test it, to see if it worked. I held the camera up, and extending it away from me at arm’s length, I took a picture of myself. Then I flipped the camera over to regard the image on the screen: the bags under my eyes were jet black, the second chin had at some point become a third; my thin, greasy hair was even thinner and greasier than I remembered. I felt sick and thought I would gag.
There were a lot of things in this life that were making me miserable: the job, the booze, the women. But looking at that picture, seeing the horror of my physical appearance, I knew the heart of my misery was the only the contempt I had for myself.
Suddenly, in my head, I heard the automated voice: “Take a picture of it and delete it! Delete it all!”
And without thinking, without hesitation, I hit delete.
All That I Am: 2.0
Hello all! I’m B A C K!!!
Back, you say? Back from where? Who even are you?
It’s kind of a weird statement, right? With the launch of my website, you’d think I was “new” to the world and ideally, I should be introducing myself accordingly.
Except…
This is not my first foray into the blogosphere…in fact, this ain’t even my first rodeo.
It definitely ain’t my first blog post.
Except that for many of you, it is. This is the first time you’re meeting me, as it were, and as excited as I am to introduce myself to you, I gotta stress: I’ve been here before.
I started this website years ago when I published my first book. It was a book of short stories of horror, and in an attempt to get some traction going for that book (and my writing), I started this blog. Right here on this very site.
And I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote—I mean, it felt like a lot of writing, given that I worked a full-time job (sometimes I worked two jobs), was married, and had three young children at the time. It was a lot, but I poured my heart into it anyway…but alas, I never got the impression that it took off the way I imagined it would. Certainly, my first book did not do well at all…and if this blog was to be a venue for success, I didn’t see it. And in the meantime, I still had to work and live my everyday life: away from the blogosphere, away from my dreams.
So slowly but surely, somewhat defeated, I stepped away.
I put that first book on a shelf somewhere not easily visible (so I couldn’t be reminded that it was a dud), stopped posting to my blog, and eventually, it was like none of it ever happened. Went back to my daily life: worked, got divorced, raised my kids. Thoughts of being a writer hit the back burner and went up in smoke…
Except…
My pen wouldn’t always leave me alone, my imagination still stirred, and despite it all, sometimes, I still wrote.
I switched from writing stories to writing poetry because (and here’s an interesting tidbit about me), I’m both lazy AND impatient (probably not the best character traits for a writer) and poetry was a quick way to write a narrative fast without a whole lot of effort.
But here’s the thing (oh, “here’s the thing”! That’s a little nod to a dear friend of mine—you know who you are). Without realizing it, I had something to say, and poetry captured all that I wanted to express–and then some. It became an outlet; maybe not every day (sometimes weeks or months or even years would go by between poems) but when I was struck with the desire to be creative, I would scribble a verse or two. And over time—twelve years or so—I discovered I had a publishable body of work that would become Five Dreams.
Go figure.
Which brings us back to the present and this (re)introduction.
Funny how things go, ain’t it? To get this book off the ground and market it properly (I’ve learned a few things since my last stint in self-publishing) I find myself back here, to my old original blog and interestingly enough–surprisingly enough–it feels like returning to something familiar. Like revisiting an old friend I haven’t seen in ages.
Like coming home.
And just like any reunion, I found things here in my original blog that moved me and touched my spirit: my first posts. Looking back on them, I remember how unsure I was when I started, how nervous I was to be open and out in the world with my writings and my random thoughts.
I don’t even know why I felt that way—I had like what? Twelve followers??? HA!
Yeah, that makes me laugh. But aging and wisdom are a beautiful thing, and I love being here again, with less concern and more freedom to just be me and enjoy this ride, wherever it takes me. It’s not every day you get a second chance to do something you love and enjoy, so I’m going to coast on this wave and just do my thing.
Right now, my thing is to introduce myself to you.
And it occurred to me that the best way to do it is with a throwback post—one that did a heck of a job of presenting myself to the world, even if I didn’t think it did at the time. But I feel the strength of those words now, and I embrace them.
Because hey, I’m back—and I’m better than ever. If I do say so myself.
So check out my original post written way back when. It’s an oldie but a goodie, and I think it’ll tell you everything you need to know about me.
And welcome (back) to my website. I’m glad to get to know you.
EM
PAST EVENTS
March 2024
March brought more exciting news! Five Dreams on the shelves of another local bookstore: the one and only @theBookCellar in Conyers! What a great little bookstore! And I’ll be back there in April for the Conyers Book Festival! So if you’re in the Conyers area and have a minute, pop into the bookstore and pick up a copy of Five Dreams! My book is in good company next to RuPaul and Deion Sanders!
February 2024
February is love’s month…and I loved the fact that my book sold out at Story on the Square in McDonough!!! I went back as soon as I got the news to restock their shelves! Hopefully I’ll be back again very soon with more books in tow! Visit @storyonthesquare to get great books and sample some great drinks and beer!
In February, I had the pleasure of being a vendor at the National Black Arts Festival Blacklisted Book Fair & Conference! What a great event! The festival celebrated the banned and blacklisted books of our celebrated authors like Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, and James Baldwin, to name a few. There were also storytime events for children, various author-anchored speaking sessions, and so much more! As a vendor, I had the opportunity to meet readers of diverse interests and sell and sign copies of my book to poetry lovers. Along with my trusty sidekick, the lovely and talented Stella, we had a truly fabulous time! Thank you to @nbaf for allowing us to participate!
December 2023
Thank goodness for family! For my first book of poetry, my family and friends (and some new fans as well!) came out to support my first book signing for Five Dreams! We laughed, took pictures, had some impromptu poetry readings, signed books and had an overall good time! Thanks to all those who came to support!
November 2023
One of the most exciting days of my author life: I got my book on the shelves at a local independent bookstore: Story on the Square in McDonough, GA!
If you’re local and would like to get an autographed copy of the book, then head on over to the Square for great books, craft beer, fun events, and more!
UPCOMING EVENTS
April 2024
SATURDAY, APRIL 20: CONYERS, GA
The first big event of the spring will be right up the street in Conyers! Plan for a day of food, fun, merchandise, and books, books, and more books! If you are in the Greater Atlanta area, stop on by! Would love to meet you!
Thursday, April 25 @ 7:30
It’s gonna be a busy week in April! Come see me, and these other fabulous poets Jhane, L.S. McKee and Glenda Bailey-Mershon at Charis Books in Decatur for a night of poetry readings, book signings and sales! For more information about the Charis Poetry Showcase or to purchase copies of any of the featured books directly from the bookstore, click here.
SATURDAY, APRIL 27: PITTSBURG, TX
I’m so excited to be coming HOME, to the best little Texas town there is: Pittsburg, TX! And for our famed hot links, no less! I’ll be there with bells on to sell and sign copies of my book, see old friends (Class of ’89, I’m talking to you!) and just have a grand old time! I can’t wait!
About the Author
Elizabeth Michaud is a mother of three adult children, a teacher of foreign languages, and a writer currently living in GA. Originally from TX, Elizabeth has been writing since she was a teenager. Five Dreams is her first collection of poetry, which was recently named a 2023 Finalist for Best Book Award for Poetry.
When she is not working or writing, she can be found enjoying the company of her children and family, reading, watching TV, playing word games, and hosting the occasional game night with friends and family.
Elizabeth Michaud 