Tag Archives: blog hop

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!

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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!








Google +


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!


Filed under Writing

The Most Outlandish Tale About Anxiety and Depression Ever Told.


Wait wait, the story doesn’t start here!  This is a blog hop, people!  Click HERE to start from the beginning.

I have the tendency to park at least 8,000 miles away from the mall, somewhere near that one overhead light that blew out weeks ago and no one ever fixed, the only sign of civilization a flattened soda bottle and an empty fast food wrapper and some guy in dirty jeans and a windbreaker in the middle of July smoking a cigarette by the soda bottle and fast food wrapper.

So now I was half walking half running to my car, fully expecting the elderly lady with the white hair to pop out from the shadows with a nail file pointed in my direction. My stomach was in knots and suddenly my fingers had turned into carrots, and there I was fumbling with my keys horror movie style while the invisible villain breathed down my neck.

Finally inside, I locked the doors and whirled around to check the backseat. As usual, no serial killers.

Almost home, my breath had finally gone from about-to-give-birth to some definition of normal, and instead of searching for a paper bag to breathe into I was now in want of wine, tightly drawn curtains and some depressing ‘90s alternative rock, so I changed into the Disney pajama pants I hadn’t washed in at least two weeks (they smelled a little questionable but I put them on anyway) and crawled into bed, ready to break the world record for feeling the most sorry for myself.

Click HERE to continue the story.


Filed under Uncategorized, Writing