I’m Going to Be a Mommy!


As you are reading this, my husband and I are hopefully somewhere holding our baby boy. (That’s assuming this kid doesn’t decide to make a late appearance!) Either way, today, the 26th of May, is my official due date. The day our entire world is destined to change in the most beautiful way. But today represents something else as well: it is my sweet, funny, fiercely missed grandfather’s birthday, and we have all been keeping fingers and toes crossed that he’s told my son how cool it would be to share a birthday with his great grandpa.

I’ve scheduled this post ahead of time to let everyone know that while I may be disappearing for a bit, I won’t be gone permanently. I’ll just be taking some time to learn how to care for a very tiny human being and soaking up every precious moment as a new mother. So, thank you so much to those of you who have been following my blog; I am grateful for every single like, comment, and share. I’ll be back soon to read more of your beautiful work, and will likely be bursting at the seams with poems about my son and every small new thing I’ll be in awe of.

Until then, be well, my friends.


Nicole Marie


If you’re coming across my page for the first time, thank you for visiting! While I’m away, here are some pieces I hope you might enjoy:

a poet to her son

My Grandfather Who Lingers Still

This is How You Grieve Him



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who I am and who I will be

I am having trouble
imagining you outside of
my imagination
outside of my own skin,
you are still so much a part of me
that there is no explanation
for the waves that move
without routine between my bones

your eyes are still all
clouds and smoke –
I dream of your mouth
like cinnamon
that will bow,
that will open
and call out for me

this foreign, self-defining thing
I’ve put up on the mantel
and dusted like some
undeserving prize is
something too surreal to
take down, to examine too
closely for detail, I am
so afraid it will slip smoothly
between my fingertips

for now you are still
the loveliest figment
nestled between who
I am and who I will be,
this small thing, this
awkward fleeting girl
with the readjusting
heart for you, my son.


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You Told Me Not to Tell

Nicole Marie:


Originally posted on The SisterWives:


In the wake of a news week where we hear yet another story of abuse and violence in the form of molestation against young girls, words were written that stopped a whole lot of people in their tracks. A friend and fellow blogger wrote a post that brought people to their feet, asking us to shout with our virtual voices to #CallHimOut – because enough its enough.

It’s time for us to stop being quiet and let the world know that THIS IS NOT OKAY. It is also not okay to protect the perpetrators and abusers. The victims have no reason to be ashamed, and they should never feel as though they have to protect the monster that stole their innocence and violated their bodies.

Today, it is our honor to have Nikki, another brave young woman coming forward to tell her story. It is hard to read.  It will make you feel a…

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interior decorating



matters of the heart

are barely

smoked up rooms

where you lay down your bones

when you’re feeling




I sport wallpaper skin

you nail photographs

to my chest



around our shortcomings


I’ve never been one for interpretive dance –


all elbows, you are

whole body, I am


so now


I steer my grief

so much like a ship’s sails

around your ambiguity

that is haunting me


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“A New Poet” by Linda Pastan

Originally posted on Words for the Year:

Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods. You don’t see

its name in the flower books, and
nobody you tell believes
in its odd color or the way

its leaves grow in splayed rows
down the whole length of the page. In fact
the very page smells of spilled

red wine and the mustiness of the sea
on a foggy day – the odor of truth
and of lying.

And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only

in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.

from Heroes In Disguise, 1991
W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY

Copyright 1991 by Linda Pastan

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yesterday I saw your face in my coffee cup


one hundred and eight days later your voice will
not stop pouring from my fingertips in shapes that only
faintly resemble your kindness, there is no possible way I could
ever lasso all of you and have anyone understand how strongly
I can feel your hands as they rest on my shoulders

it is still new as any passing season to me, the
intricate bindings in my chest that spell out your name

sometimes I wait for your call –
cruel, but a trick of the mind I guess

I welcome anything to make me forget for minutes, seconds

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paper fires

you string me up

like paper flowers


you –


sandpaper fingers,

your hard work makes territory

of my skin and still I turn my mouth

upwards in slow motion.


I read my future

by the soft light of you.


recognition pours from your bones

and uncurls me like paper fires in reverse;

I’d spent years digging through the ashes of my

childhood only to find my voice in your chest


that splintered, vulnerable thing

that lets me thank you every morning

when we are nothing more than a

confusion of limbs and braille lips


barely ever necessities we are,

but I won’t bother with words when

I can read you with my eyes closed.


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Don’t call me a good mother

Nicole Marie:

“And when he practices courtesy he honours the soul of another human being. And that of his very own soul.” Absolutely amazing post – please give it a read.

Originally posted on A Leaf in Springtime:

DSC07483 - copy1

Don’t call me a good mother.

For being good somehow means doing all the “right things”. And to be honest, I’m not necessarily all that concerned about doing the “right things”.

I’m more concerned about doing the brave thing. The thing that is needed to be done even when nobody understands. The thing that might raise a few eyebrows. Or even shock some folks. The thing that is contrary to what is popular or trendy. Contrary to opinions, charts and reports. Contrary to what everyone says is right.

For I am more concerned about the man my child will become one day. Even more than my own concern for being rated good.

For you see, I am not merely raising a child. I am raising a new race of man. A father. A husband. A friend. A team mate. A son. A seeker. A world citizen.

And because of that…

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Nicole Marie: Featured Poet

Nicole Marie:

I’m guest-posting over at Laura A. Lord’s blog today! Please jump on over and give her page some love. :-)

Originally posted on Laura A. Lord:

Meeting Nicole was like finding my poetic soul-mate. This woman is seriously talented. I hope you all will show her some love today!

bwme2 Nicole writes:

I made the very loose decision at the age of ten that I wanted to be a writer of some kind. I kept journals, wrote poems about boys (and tumbleweeds) and maintained straight A’s in all of my English classes. Since then I have wanted to go into Forensics, Theater, even Dentistry, but I always came back to my first love.

After attending community college for 2 and a half years and taking every English and Writing course I could fit into my schedule, I transferred to Rowan University where I received a Bachelor’s in Writing Arts (with a Creative Writing concentration) in May 2011.

I am Contest Coordinator and Assistant Poetry Editor for non-profit magazine Philadelphia Stories by day, and by night (and, sometimes day) I…

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Poet Hop: Laura A. Lord

Happy Monday, everyone!

(Oh – and May the 4th Be With You!)

My friend and fellow poet Laura A. Lord is throwing an epic Poet Hop party, and today she is kind enough to grace us here with her writerly presence! Please read on to find out more about this extremely talented author and her work, including a chance to win a free copy of her newest collectionOf Roots and Wreckage!

* * *

Author Laura A. Lord (Isn't she the cutest?)

Author Laura A. Lord (Isn’t she the cutest?)

Laura A. Lord is the author of numerous collections of vignettes and poetry and one awesome children’s book about a T-Rex screwing up her entire day. It’s absolutely a true story.

Laura’s work has been featured in The Beacon, The Collegian, Whirl with Word, Tipsy Lit, Precipice, Scary Mommy, The Powder Room, The Reverie Journal, and Massacre Magazine.

Laura’s collections focus heavily on women’s issues in today’s society. She writes:

I haven’t traveled the world. In fact, I’ve never even been on an airplane. My upbringing has been a sheltered view in a static, rural town. But I’ve lived enough lives for twelve people. I’ve gone through stages of names, tearing them off like a badge on my shirt and replacing them just as easily.

I’ve got battle scars. I didn’t wage war against domestic abuse. My fight or flight kicked in and I ran. I hid, cowering and broken, and spent years trying to get the needle threaded, to stitch the holes in the patchwork quilt of my self-esteem.

I never fought the demons of drug abuse and alcoholism. I spent weeks on my sofa, weak and thin, while my mother made me grilled cheese sandwiches and I tried to figure out if I wanted to live or get high.

I survived my teenage years, not by resilience, but by pure luck that my attempts to end it were never fruitful.

I didn’t learn to love me until every man I’d chosen had managed to redefine “love” as some twisted, ugly thing. Loving myself was never pretty.

I wasn’t the hero in my story, I was the human. And this human is writing that story and she’s got a hell of a lot to say.

Her newest collection, Of Roots and Wreckage, focuses on where she grew up. Split into three sections, this collection explores the ideas of “roots” and hometowns, of people and change, of aging and death.

Want to win a free copy of Laura’s Of Roots and Wreckage? Enter Laura’s Goodread’s Giveaway Here!


Here is a selection from Of Roots and Wreckage:


Home Grown Saints

The fire kick-started this demolition,

and so they bulldozed the town,

drug commerce by its fingernails

out to the highway.

They painted the shop windows black with

white birds in flight –

Trapped, unmoving.


But we put in sidewalks, they said,

and I watch the old woman,

arm severed by the thick tangle

of plastic bags –

their gaping mouths vomiting

split peas across

pot-holed tar…


They want to make us into a Saint,

import a history and haul in

the Bay, kicking and screaming

while they drop their lines

and trawl the chicken necks

for a heredity they can use.

Our birds need an inheritance.


So the town hall sits –

a lopped off head in the

center of retail’s graveyard.

Long toothed white columns,

impatient finger tapping

along bricks that tripped

my grandmother in ’63.


There’s a whole lot of change coming, they say.

They’re shoving it into the empty spaces

between an Irish pub and

a five star dining experience

two blocks from the prison,

three from where the click

of your car locks can be heard.


It’s an audible shunning,

the flurry of wings.

You painted white birds

on all the windows,

the black-toothed maw

where all we’ve got for sale

are home grown saints.

© Laura A. Lord 2015


Pre-order your copy now!


You can find this author and poet in all these wonderful places!








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Independent Author Network


Please give Laura’s work a read – you won’t regret it.

And check out my guest post over at Laura’s blog tomorrow!


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