Meet the Poets: Al Rocheleau

Al Rocheleau

Al Rocheleau

On this final day of National Poetry Month, I’m pleased to close “Meet the Poets” with a tribute from my friend Al Rocheleau. I couldn’t help but be struck by the fact that all the featured poems were memorials to someone loved and lost, something I had not planned on, but I appreciated this look inside the poets’ hearts. Such tributes can be difficult to write; at least I have found this to be the case with my only two attempts.

It has been said that poems are “among the most compelling expressions of emotions.” That certainly applies to the offerings from the five poets in this series, and I hope you have enjoyed their words, and their memories, as much as I have.

* * *

Al Rocheleau’s poems have appeared in over 40 magazines in the United States, Canada, the U.K., France, Austria, and Poland. For many years he hosted popular online workshops and served as Poetry Editor and Senior Columnist at Amazing Instant Novelist, a writers’ site sponsored by America Online. In 2004, Al received the Thomas Burnett Swann Award from the Gwendolyn Brooks Writers Association. He has lectured at Emerson College, the University of Massachusetts, and for many writer’s groups, including the Florida Writers Association. In 2010 his poetry manual, On Writing Poetry: For Poets Made As Well As Born, was published by Shantih Press and is available from In 2012, Al developed and launched “The Twelve Chairs” seminar program, offering a 180-hour course in poetry writing for poets of all levels. He is a member of the Florida State Poets Association and resides in Orlando, Florida.

“My father-in-law, George Daignault, died from final stage Parkinson’s disease in early February. I had known the man for thirty-six years; he was a good friend, and it was my privilege to be his primary caregiver the last five months of his life. He had spent that life as a truck driver. He was a good man, good family man. When I elected to write something for him, I found it difficult to proceed. I finally settled on the ballad, a simple form (not simple to write, however) that could be turned into a song. In the middle of the night, two days before his funeral, it came together. I had written many elegies before, but none like this, none this close to me. I am thankful that the ballad form was around to frame George’s times, and his time with us. I asked a friend to finish the music and to sing it at his service; he did.”

* * *

George, A Ballad

You drove the drifting snow along,
you drove in days of heat,
you separated right from wrong
with pedals at your feet.

7 b George portrait closeup

George Daignault

The trucker’s life’s a simple one,
you go from A to B,
you try to make it back again,
again, to family.

“Goodbye Annette, goodbye my Gette,
and goodbye Annmarie,
I tried my best to be the man
you’d look up to, and see.”

Your baritone could fill a room
with confidence and quips,
yet melt to squeak of sentiment
as tears slid by your lips.

Calendars can fly away
their pages with a breeze,
but memory calls the living back
and brings us to our knees.

“Goodbye Annette, goodbye my Gette,
and goodbye Annmarie,
I tried my best to be the man
you’d look up to, and see.”

Working man, your day is done,
deliveries are through;
rest yourself within His arms
as we deliver you.

“Goodbye Annette, goodbye my Gette,
and goodbye Annmarie,
I tried my best to be the man
you’d look up to, and see.”



Meet the Poets: Walter de la Mare

In this week’s tribute to National Poetry Month, I took a little detour into the past. Unlike the other poets who generously agreed to share their work with my readers, Walter de la Mare is not a personal acquaintance, having died four years before I was born. I’m not very familiar with his work and suspect most people today would say the same, as he is rather out of fashion, though at one time he was one of his country’s most popular writers.

But for many years I have loved the sole poem of his I could recall reading, in a long-ago anthology . . . a poem not considered his best, that also appears to be largely forgotten, though an illustrated copy was deemed by some admirer to be Pinterest-worthy (and what would de la Mare have made of that?). A poem that never fails to choke me up just a little with its sweet note of hope at the end, no matter how many times I read it.

Walter de la Mare

Walter de la Mare, 1920

Walter John Delamare’s early life was prosaic enough. Born in 1873 in Charlton, Kent, in the south of England, one of seven siblings and left fatherless before he was five, Jack, as he was familiarly known, became a statistics clerk at seventeen, lacking funds for a university education, and remained in that position for eighteen years. While the fortunate bestowal of two Civil List pensions, in 1908 and 1915, respectively, freed him to concentrate on his craft, authors ranging from aspiring to despairing to successful can relate to the hopes he must have entertained throughout the writing and submission of hundreds of poems and short stories, as well as five novels, not to mention the fact that while Henry Brocken sold a mere 250 copies and netted only a bill for excess proof corrections, Memoirs of a Midget and Collected Stories for Children earned two of Britain’s oldest literary awards.

Several of de la Mare’s recurrent themes in all the above genres—death, dreams, and commonplace objects—appear in this week’s poem, along with the “undercurrent of melancholy” that runs through much of his work. But who was the eponymous fiddler, the wizard behind notes that surely sparked an uncontrollable urge to dance in feet of all ages or moved listeners from laughter to tears in a single melody? A real-life acquaintance, a figment of the author’s imagination, or perhaps a sort of alter-ego? Was he loved for more than his music? Did he have a voice outside that music, or did it end when his instrument was broken?

None of that really matters. What does matter is how, in thirteen short lines, the poet channels the flame of a personality without name or physical description (aside from the slightly ambiguous “stooping”), who discovered and lived his richest, interior self through the expression of his gift.

Much as, I suspect, de la Mare did himself. As all artists long to do. And in the end the art, the music, could not be silenced, emerging from branches symbolic since ancient times of the promise of new life.

* * *


Once was a fiddler. Play could he
Sweet as a bird in an almond tree.
Fingers and strings—they seemed to be
Matched, in a secret conspiracy.
Up slid his bow, paused lingeringly;
Music’s self was its witchery.

In his stooping face it was plain to see
How close to dream is a soul set free—
A half-found world;
And company.

His fiddle is broken.
Mute is he.
But a bird sings on in the almond tree.


For more on the life and work of Walter de la Mare, visit The Walter de la Mare Society.



















Meet the Poets: Anne Peterson

Anne Peterson

Anne Peterson

In honor of National Poetry Month, Part III of “Meet the Poets” again brings us the work of Anne Peterson. Anne is  a wife, mother of two and grandmother of four, poet, speaker, and the author of over forty-two Bible studies as well as the books Real Love: Guaranteed to Last, Broken: A Story of Abuse and Survival, Emma’s Wish, Lulu’s Lunch, and The Crooked House.

Today Anne honors the short life of her sister on what would have been her sixty-first birthday. Peggy Gollias Dianovsky disappeared in September 1982—according to her husband, she left their home of her own accord after an argument (during which he admitted to having beaten her). But she never returned, or made any contact with her family, including her three sons. Twenty years later, her missing person case was reopened as a probable homicide and went to a bench trial, but although the judge believed that Peggy had died as the result of a crime, he did not feel he had enough evidence to rule that her now-remarried husband had been responsible, and handed down a “Not guilty” verdict to Robert Dianovsky.

From 2010:

“We miss Peggy so much. She was supposed to be here sharing our lives with us. Instead, we see her kids growing up without knowing her and now we see her beautiful grandchildren who have only heard about her.     

“After the trial we had a memorial for Peggy. It felt too little and too late. Each of us got up and shared what she meant to us. So many years had passed since her disappearance, consequently the room was not packed with people. At the cemetery we stood by her empty grave looking at a picture of her when she was a little girl.   

“We will never forget her, we will never stop loving her, we will never stop hoping to one day know where her body is. And all of us can testify that time does not heal all wounds.”

Please welcome Anne to Postcards From My Head.

* * *


“Divorce,” the letter read; “violence,” it went on.
A long-distance call made: “I can’t talk now!
He’s harassing me again.”

Hours later a phone rings, and two sisters talk.
One tells of a hurting heart and ten years of pain;
the other sobs in silence.
“Calling the police was easy,
I wish I would have done it sooner.”

Days later, another caller, “She’s gone.
No one knows where. She never showed up at work.
Her husband says she just walked out.”

Disbelief fills a sister’s heart,
Too many questions invade her mind:
Why would she leave her kids?

Why didn’t she take her car?
Why not wait for the money that would be hers the next day?

Some questions in life get answered, and some take time.
It has been thirty-two years since two sisters talked,
And one still hurts.

Peggy Dianovsky

Peggy Dianovsky

* * *

Connect with Anne and find more of her poetry at You can read Peggy’s full story in Broken: A Story of Abuse and Survival. And if you or someone you know needs help with a domestic violence situation, please call 1-800-799-SAFE (7233).

Meet the Poets: David Cohea

David Cohea

In Part II of my series honoring National Poetry Month, I’m pleased to showcase the work of David Cohea, General Manager of King Features Weekly Service and editor of ReMIND magazine.

“I’ve been writing poetry seriously since 1990 or so but for the past 20 years almost completely off the published radar. Back in the nineties I won several poetry prizes [the Thomas Burnett Swann Poetry Award at Seminole State College and Academy of American Poets Prize at Rollins College] and published in a few college literary mags. Since then most of my work has appeared online under a pen name. I find that the mask allows me to speak more honestly and deeply about the heart; history is mystery when spoken through the ritual mask.”

In 2013 David published the eBook Over Here, a collection of narrative poems about the Iraq-Afghanistan wars as they continue to be fought by returning vets, “raising the question whether it’s their war or our peace that is making healing so difficult.”

Please join me in welcoming David to the blog.

* * *


wildflower crash






Dying sometimes is huge: a booming ball
of fire, fuel smoke thick and black as tar,
the wreckage of a single trope for travel
spread over six square miles of wheat.
What’s left of the living is small: Body parts
like strewn litter, torsos still buckled in seats.
The toll of the wreck’s scorn of living
is both the smashed engine and the deck
of playing cards spreading a too-late
tarot from a carry-on. Each adds the other.
But there’s no known multiple for the
monkey doll found atop the sunflowers.

The world is fast zooming in, but for an
afternoon the catastrophe is a private war
between shocked villagers and rained dead.
Little is happening in any official sense; pro-
Russian rebels have the guns and poke curiously
at wreckage with their barrels. Local miners
walk the fields marking remains with white
streamers. They cry through handkerchiefs
held to their noses because the stench of death
has caught up with what scours their eyes
every time they look. The war is thus lost by
both sides, the living halved, the fallen
from so far and high to arrive so dead.

Pity the journalists who came to pay witness
for the world to horror’s scale. One reporter
interviewed by NPR had walked the fields all night
following rescue workers tagging the dead.
Most of the bodies were intact but twisted wrong,
congealed into postures like wax effigies passed
too near the flame. At dawn they came upon
yet another child near a patch of sunflowers—
a little girl no more than three wearing just a
red shirt. So many of the dead were naked,
stripped by the ghastly angelus of their fall
from thirty-three thousand feet into the news.

The reporter’s voice was darkly calm, her chosen
words on morning drive-time radio like a tiny
swaying bridge over the outrages she had seen.
Inferring no more than the first scant facts offered,
blurring her own outraged emotions beneath them,
wearing the mask of her profession to speak the
naked truth. (We’d been warned of graphic blight.).
No matter that journalism is a falling trade.
Witness for the community has such small value
when everything is slipping into big media’s mire.
We’ll forget this horror soon enough, attracted
like bees to the sulfur stench of the next burnt
flower. Can you remember what happened to
the other Malaysian Airways jet, or is its cargo
lost because we forget our yesterdays that fast?
Who are we without those lonely figures taking
notes all night in the smouldering fields of blast?

Imagination fails at the dead’s ground zero. Instead
I wonder how the witnesses were harrowed there.
How deep the smell and carnage roots down
into the lobe their minds and hearts must share.
Then reporter was a transcription of what the locals
told her, through a translator, of the jet’s explosion
and fall; she became their wonder at the flash
and great black plume, the horror of slow descent
of shattered things falling back toward Earth,
suitcases and engines and bodies in long streamers
falling slowly in memory like tears down a face.
How does such a witness remit the reporting drone
from human face in the window when she flies home?
How can sudden birthday streamers for a child
ever not be at once both terrifying and cruel,
so scornful of the girl they that morning so alone?

On the day before the crash, in another world far
from here, a New York Times photographer
was in Gaza City covering the Israeli air assault,
staying in a small hotel by the Mediterranean Sea.
He’d just returned from taking pictures at a funeral—
a man and his son killed while driving away from
a bombed building. The afternoon was glittery
and breezy off the sea, so different from the
entombing miseries collapsing fast behind.

Three boys were playing soccer on the beach,
their voices blent with bells and cawing gulls.
Suddenly an explosion from a shack atop a seawall
then fire, a fourth boy running from the smoke.
A second explosion and the four boys—cousins
all—were sprawled dead on the sand. The man
walked onto the beach fearing his imago in the
crosshairs of Israeli guns, focusing his lens
on distraught and crying men carrying their
boys too heavily in their arms. The soft warm
sand absorbing the blood as it always has,
the sea glittering, purer than ground glass.
And the breeze beyond the frame is lifting
and fluttering, happily waving our pale strips
at the wide indifference of an arch blue sky,
the final witness to our long descending cry.









– Since 2006, about 30 percent of U.S. journalism jobs have been eliminated due to contraction in the industry.

– In 2013, 105 journalists world-wide were killed in the line of their work.  The three beats covered by most of the victims were politics, war and human rights.

– Sabrina Tavernise is the New York Times journalist who has been at the Malaysian Air crash site in eastern Ukraine from the outset. One of her stories can be read here.


Meet the Poets: Christine Klocek-Lim

In honor of National Poetry Month, I’m delighted to feature several talented writers on the blog, beginning this week with Christine Klocek-Lim.

Christine is an acquisitions editor for Evernight Teen and Evernight Publishing, and the editor of Autumn Sky Poetry Christine Klocek-LimDAILY. She received the 2009 Ellen La Forge Memorial Prize in poetry and has written four chapbooks: Ballroom – a love story (Flutter Press 2012), Cloud Studies – a sonnet sequence (Whale Sound 2011), The book of small treasures (Seven Kitchens Press 2010), and How to photograph the heart (The Lives You Touch Publications 2009). She is also the author of the bestselling young adult novel, Disintegrate (Evernight Teen, 2013). Her science fiction novel, Who Saw the Deep (Evernight Publishing, 2013) was a Semifinalist in Amazon’s Breakthrough Novel Awards 2012.

Christine’s work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and was a finalist for 3 Quarks Daily’s Prize in Arts & Literature, Black Lawrence Press’ Black River Chapbook Competition, and the Kenneth & Geraldine Gell Poetry Prize. She was also a semi-finalist for the Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First Book Award, the Sawtooth Poetry Prize, the Philip Levine Prize in Poetry, and for the Brittingham and Pollak Poetry Prizes.

Today’s poem is one of Christine’s favorites and is included in her upcoming full-length poetry book, Dark Matter, to be published this autumn by Aldrich Press. It first appeared in Diode, Vol. 3, No.2, January 2010 and was nominated by Diode for Sundress Best of the Net 2010. Christine says:

“I wrote this poem on April 21, 2008, as part of my astronomy series and for NaPoWriMo [National Poetry Writing Month]. When I began writing it, I was thinking of my great-grandmother, and then my grandmother, and then my mother. My mother is still alive and doing well, but my grandmother and great-grandmother are gone now. I tried to imagine what it must be like to face what must be eternal darkness: the end of life. I wanted to imagine it as something joyful as well as frightening, and this poem came from that idea.”

Please join me in welcoming Christine to the blog. You can find her on the Web at

* * *
Supernova remnant Cassiopeia A 
One night the angels came
for her, rustling their wings
in the starlight. She was sleeping.
They grasped her arms and ankles,
lifting her away as though
she weighed nothing at all.
The next morning her feet ached
and her daughter gave her comfort.
That night again they took her,
carrying her past the atmosphere.
She told them she wanted to see
Cassiopeia and they brought
her to the mountains of creation,
dipping her hands and toes in the dust.
She woke dreaming of beauty
but could not walk. Her shoulders
ached and for the first time
she feared. Again in the darkness
the angels found her, hiding
in the bathroom, holding her arms
around her heart. They sang
and she fell asleep. This time
she remembered nothing but
could not smile. In the morning
she found feathers in the bed.
When night came she lay awake
in the dark, pinching her skin,
imagining grief as they gathered
around her. She did not speak
as they pulled her close, pressing
their fingers against her eyes,
brushing their lips to her hair.
She wept and did not look back.
The angels laughed, pretending
happiness, but she felt how they
trembled, holding her too tightly
for hours. That morning she discarded
fear to explain love to her daughter
but by nightfall she knew the angels
had gone and she braided her hair
with sorrow. And when she died
she dreamed of angels crying
in the explosion, scattering
their light in the infinite dark.
Cassiopeia A

Cassiopeia A

In Which the Advent of Spring Makes My Pants Want to Get Up and Dance

Meadow dance

Earlier this week, I was trying to make myself sit down at my laptop to work on a writing assignment. Trouble was, I just didn’t really want to. Sit down, that is. Or work. Now that is not unusual for writers in general, but it wasn’t hard to conclude what might be at the root of the strange feeling in my blood that made my limbs want to twitch in a manner commonly referred to as dancing. Even though there was no music on.

Even though I don’t dance (at least not in a way anyone would want to actually witness).

But I’ve felt that way several times lately—not like I wanted to dance, necessarily, but like I wanted to, well, something. To move. To get going. To DO something.

I even thought about—wait for it—exercising again!

Too bad spring only comes around once a year. I might be slimmer if it did more often.

I wanted to run through some woods (even though I don’t run, either) under a canopy of green. I wanted to feel dirt under my feet and to inhale that indescribable scent that comes from the burst of new life.

Turns out there wasn’t a thing wrong with me other than a touch of that old spring fever.

Granted, the coming of spring isn’t as big a deal in sunny Central Florida as it was when I lived up north. For a couple of years before we returned to my home state, I loved to stroll through the woods that backed our house, especially on those mornings I got up to discover that the stick-figure trees had gone bushy-green overnight.

Did it happen overnight? Probably not, but it sure felt like it.       Woodland path

And all this week, with spring edging ever closer, I’ve wanted to throw open every window in the house and let the breeze blow away the last tinge of winter chill and accumulated dust . . . yet in my neighborhood we seem to have skipped spring and gone straight to summer, with a pollen count so high I had to borrow from my mom’s stash of allergy medicine for the first time in I don’t know when.

But I don’t care. Today is the vernal equinox, the first day of spring, and dammit, my pants want to get up and dance (hat tip to Dr. Hook).

It’s SPRING, people! Get out there and rejoice. Pollen and all.

* * *

Is spring fever for real? The experts say there is an actual biological component. To put it simply, the lowest levels of brain serotonin are found in the winter and the highest levels in spring and summer, which “may help explain why many people feel better and more energetic in the spring.” Others cite the increase of light during the spring months, causing the body to produce less melatonin and a “reduced desire to sleep”; dilation of blood vessels with warmer temperatures; an increase in endorphins and hormones.

(And here I  thought it was just the joy of being able to ditch those winter long johns and itchy wool sweaters.)

Serotonin and hormone levels aside, the vernal equinox—the first official day of spring—is a big deal, symbolizing the regeneration of nature, with its own myths, traditions, and even superstitions. For example, one popular belief, often attributed to the Chinese, is that you can stand a raw egg on end on this day. Of course, it is also said that you can do this on any other day if you just have enough patience, but go ahead. I’ll wait. Another old fable advises that you’ll want to kill the first adder you spot in the spring if you wish to overcome all your enemies.

By the way, before this halcyon time of year came to be known as “spring” in the 16th century, it was called Lent, or Lenten. And the first known use of the term “spring cleaning” dates to 1857.

Spring cleanBut what’s up with that annual rite, so much a part of our culture that manufacturers of cleaning products ramp up their advertising in late winter?

Perhaps the answer lies in Jewish, Chinese or Iranian tradition. In Iran, the pre-new year ritual known as khaneh takani, or “shaking the house,” means that everything from ceiling to floor and in between gets a thorough scouring. Once the house is shaken, the new year, and spring, can arrive. (I know a good shaking would benefit MY house! I might even find some things that went missing years ago.)

In the Jewish faith, Passover is a time of house cleaning as well. Because slaves in Egypt, including the Jews, were fed unleavened (yeast-free) bread, it serves as a symbol of their subjection. During Passover, the presence of leavened bread in the house, even if it consists only of crumbs, is considered an insult to God, so homes are well scrubbed beforehand. Could this be the origin of our more modern spring cleaning? Since both events occur in April, many think so. Then again, we could have the Chinese to thank, as their pre-new year sweep is designed to rid their homes of bad luck and misfortune that accumulated in the outgoing year.

* * * 

Whether the warmer air and longer hours of sunshine make you want to wash your windows or fly a kite or take a  Dandelion teawalk in the woods—or something else altogether—one thing that makes spring special is that, like the dawning of January 1, it signals new growth and new beginnings. If you’re like me and haven’t been doing such a hot job of keeping certain “resolutions” you made a few months ago, spring is a great time to dust them off with the furniture,  even if, like me, you’ll probably have to repeat the process about as often as you dust your furniture. Or maybe you’ll enjoy improving the look of your lawn as well as benefiting your health by gathering some dandelions for a cup of tea.

Whatever you end up doing, remember that no one said it better than the late and much-lamented Robin Williams:

“Spring is nature’s way of saying, ‘Let’s party!'”

So proceed accordingly.

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That’s One Brave Chick

Sara Bahai

Sara Bahai

I’ve never met Sara Bahai outside the pages of my local newspaper or laptop screen, but I wouldn’t mind doing so. I’d like to look her in the eye and shake her hand. People who do things I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to do tend to affect me that way.

Sara’s brand of bravery comes from being a member of what’s been called the world’s second oldest profession: She drives a cab.

Now I’ve only experienced the passenger side of that profession, and even that a mere handful of times, but my understanding is that, at least in America, practitioners have witnessed pretty much everything from the expulsion of body waste to acts better reserved for the privacy of the boudoir, as well as domestic arguments and costume quick-changes. Of course, not every day is that exciting, or even potentially risky.

But Sara plies her trade in Afghanistan, where she doesn’t have to worry as much about romantic spats or handing out barf bags as she does the male passengers who have no qualms about castigating her for “un-Islamic” behavior.

In 1996, women were banned from driving, under penalty of death, by the Taliban. Once its rule ended, they slowly began reappearing behind the wheel, thanks partly to the efforts of the German-based organization Medica Mondiale, which launched a driving course for women in 2002. However, they are still far outnumbered by their male counterparts, and reactions range from the astonished (“Look, it’s a girl!”) to the negative (threats of kidnapping or worse), even as some men informally teach their wives or regularly allow their sisters to take the wheel in an effort to normalize the sight.

As for Sara, while she admits that her male customers are never happy with her, despite the fact that Islam does not actually prohibit women from driving, she doesn’t get upset; she just tells them exactly what she thinks.

Which led me to think, as I put down my newspaper with a smile, “That’s one brave chick.”

* * *

I’ve been driving for enough years now that I don’t quite recall what my feelings were upon grasping the full implications of operating a gas-powered metal behemoth, other than a twinge of healthy intimidation, but decades later, I still enjoy a good cruise with the music cranked up and the sunroof cranked open. Sara’s first turn of the ignition felt like “someone had given me wings,” and if her maiden voyage in a neighbor’s car consisted merely of a few miles around her neighborhood, it was enough to get her hooked. So she took a two-week professional driving course and applied for her license.

But that wasn’t enough for Sara. To help provide for her ailing mother and her widowed sister’s seven children, she Sara Bahai decided to become what is believed to be her country’s first female cab driver. Nor was that the only pattern she broke—despite a number of marriage proposals, she’s the sole sibling of fourteen to remain single. Looking at some of the “very unhappy” unions among her sisters, she has no regrets, especially since she wanted to demonstrate to the world that Afghan women were born for self-sufficient independence as well as marriage and motherhood.

Her female passengers tell her they’re proud of her. Some of them giggle under their burkas at the sight of a female cabbie, but they also feel more comfortable with one. And if she tells them much about herself, perhaps they’re as impressed as I was to learn that she does her own car repairs, buys and sells secondhand cars, has started her own driving school, is a beekeeper who earns extra income by selling homemade honey, and still finds time to be a human rights activist.

No wonder the gal is single. Who has time for a husband with that kind of schedule?

* * *

While Sara’s been a cabbie for over a decade, she still encounters a share of resistance in various forms. But like any trailblazer worth their salt, she pushes through it. And I hope that the next time I start my old Honda and tool down the road without fear of much beyond an unexpected traffic jam or possible flat tire, I’ll remember this middle-aged woman a world away who surprised and inspired and infuriated her fellow Afghans just by driving a car.

Just by being one brave chick.