Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Our Birthright




Don’t say, don’t say

that no one can help us now—


there are hands all around us,

all of them reaching,


in every corner appears

bright wings,


and, like a miracle

that’s always been waiting


to happen, out of the stump

of yourself emerges


your own open hand.

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You Are Invited



Today, a party, and the whole world

is invited. No written invitations,

but the occasion? It’s Wednesday.

And here we are, all of us, in the same place

at the same time. Might as well

get to know the person standing

next to you—learn their name,

shake their hand, discover

all you have in common—

the party goes on tomorrow, too.

Bring your own. Bring something

to share. No RSVP, just show up.

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Yesterday, I had an interview come out in Writing to be Read, a blog about writers and Writing. We talked about inspiration and creative habits and the art of performing … and a whole lot more. You can read it all here.

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The words that will change us

remember, perhaps,

when they were first found

by the person willing

to serve them—


they carry in their serifs

a willingness to wait,

late nights of wrestling silence,

the wing of receiving, the joy

in sharing the gift.


When we read them, they enter us

like tiny notes in a score we never knew

we were part of until one day

there is music everywhere

and we are the ones being sung.

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Hello Poetry Friends!

Today I got word that Jazz Jaeschke at Story Circle Book Reviews did a wonderful (positive!) review of my most recent book, Naked for Tea. 

“Trommer’s poems run the gamut from the sensual to the sublime,” she writes, calling the voice in the book “wise, practical yet whimsical.”

You can read the whole review here.

You can buy the collection here. at the publisher’s website, or on Amazon.

And if you have read the book, will you please consider writing a brief review of your own and putting it on Amazon here.


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I’m learning to write tension in my scenes,

to add desire, danger and distress,

to focus on what my character wants

and all the forces keeping her from getting

it—a train arrives too early to be caught,

she doesn’t get the job she wants,

she doesn’t have the funds to pay her rent,

she loses her cat in the city again—

I am trying to let bad things happen.

Otherwise there is no tension,

and, as the book on writing says,

No tension equals boring. Think

obstacle, it instructs. Think grief and

shame and fear. But all I want to do

is make my character cheerful,

happy, glad. I want to immediately fix

all the problems I won’t let her have.

I want to make her life easier—

give her security, friendship,

great sex, true love. Is it so wrong

to want to serve her everything

I want? Create opposition, says the book,

and I try, I do, to write in her weaknesses,

let her mess up, struggle on every page.

But oh, to make her life not just happily

ever after but happily all along the way,

perfect and boring, the kind of life

that no one has, the kind of life

that no one wants to read about,

the dream job offers streaming in, the lover

ever attentive, handsome, adoring,

the sun shining as she thoughtfully sips her tea.


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They hang in the closet,

their shoulders fading, all these

clothes I can’t bear to take

to the Second Chance.


The black cocktail dress with the plunging neck

its bodice snug, its open back,

made for a sassy uptown evening

with cosmopolitans and canapes,


and the deep red jacket, more

froth than cloth, artsy and hand stitched,

perfect for Madame Butterfly at The Met.


The silvery coat that fits

like snake skin, just right for

an art opening or a wedding

on yacht in the Mediterranean.


And I can imagine wearing the long

silvery skirt on a beach in France

while the wind gently tugs it

as the sheer fabric gathers the light of the setting sun.


Perhaps I could wear with it the long strands

of pearls that curl into a blue velvet bag in the drawer

keeping company with the blush

I bought five years ago and never put on.


Every day I walk to the same plastic hanger

in the middle of the closet and pull off the same

black cotton dress, somewhat shapeless,

perfect for pulling dandelions in the garden

or going to the grocery store to buy some eggs, or

driving my son to math camp or hiking on Bear Creek Trail.


Every day I choose it, every day, and why not, when it’s

equally well suited for paying the electric bill and washing the breakfast dishes

and dusting the unplayed piano. Just right for waiting on hold

for the insurance company to answer my call

or writing an article about the history of kitchens or

changing the water in the fish tank, or, for that matter,

cleaning the closet as I look again at all those

beautiful clothes, and choose to leave them

for some other woman I used to look like,

let them hang there,

right there where they are.

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want to find him in my kitchen

with his big muscled arms

and his spotless white shirt.

Call me James, he’ll say, as I

pour him a glass of sauvignon blanc.

He’ll pull out a permanent marker

and write his name on the glass.

What are you doing? I will gasp,

and he’ll say, When I’m around,

there’s a world of crafty possibilities.

He’ll pull out his trusty white magic eraser

and wipe the glass clean,

then give me a spin and say,

Open for me your oven door.

Oh James, I’ll say, you don’t mean …

and he’ll say … that I will bring

my legendary clean

to your oven glass? Why yes,

Rosemerry, I can lift away

grease buildup from hard to clean places,

and he’ll smile as he gives me a flex.

Kitchen sink next? he’ll say

with a wink, and he’ll swagger

across the room. I’ll swoon.

I never knew you’d be so, so,

so … I’ll search for the words,

… adept at sticky residue, he will suggest,

and I’ll guide his hand to my

faucet. Say good bye to water spots,

he’ll say with a grin, his teeth

glistening like new white backsplash tile,

like unused linoleum,

and we’ll dance together on the sparkling floor,

our sponges in hand, drawn to whatever is dirty.

The room smells of meadows and rain.

And oh darling, he’ll say, we’ve only just begun.

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In my heart, a mandolin

just waiting to be played—

there are music sheets,

ignore them. Doesn’t matter

if you know how to play.

What matters is you try.

What matters is you practice

tuning the strings

until you find the way

to make them sing.

What matters is that

we both know there’s

music in there just waiting

to be found and

your hands are curious,


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in the relentless drought,

finding inside me

a pond somehow still present,

an unstoppable,

insistent spring

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