Poeting Returns!

That’s right, your favorite poetry blog is making a comeback just in time for Halloween! We’ve got a bit of news as well:

– We’ll be posting on Tuesdays and Thursdays now! Mindy’s taking the Tuesday slot and Anne’s got Thursdays.
– This is a formal invitation to any and all guest poets! Email us at annemindypoets@gmail.com and we’ll get things rolling. We’re always accepting new guests, so bust out your dusty poems and spit shine your new creations!
– Hold us to it: we plan to be much more active on our social media! Expect big things from us, we’re gunning for it!

We’re so excited for the next year of Poeting, and we hope you are too! See you soon!


This week’s guest poem is by Lesley Robertson. Read it below & feel free to submit your own response to the prompt for this month, found in this post! Email us at annemindypoets@gmail.com!

The ties that bind are not that strong
We’re tied together with feeble threads of yarn
Strings knot us together
Anchor us in place
But they’re easily unraveled
Easier replaced

I’m Lesley. I love beautiful words and beautiful music. Therefore I aspire to write beautiful poetry.

The heart is not an empty vessel

This month, we want to hear from you! Take a look at the prompt below. It comes to us courtesy of Poets & Writers. Here is Mindy’s offering. Why don’t you give it a try and send us what you write? We’d love a chance to consider it as a feature poem during the month of June.


The heart is not an empty vessel

Rivers of blood
gush and pump
through the heart.

clench and eject.

DNA whirrs
through the branches,

I the sum total
of a body of solitaries
blazing DNA,

tough-ass women:

the NASA engineer Edna
who crocheted
a moon landing,

the war-torn fashionista Senta,
German refugee,

the tavern-owning poetess Mickey
purveyor of the Cricket in Times Square,

her prolific mother Leila
dead at thirty-three
after birthing five children.

Unfertilized egg self
how tiny you were
nestled in the ovary
of Senta Dye
who brought forth
Biancamaria Senta
who brought forth

the happenstance
of a single person
zapped into existence:

a single sperm
from the son
of a single mom

from the fleeting life
of Leila

joining with the egg
of the first daughter
of the refugee Senta

surviving Nazis,
surviving childbirth,

and creating


© 2018 Mindy Goorchenko All rights reserved. Here is a link to my published poetry collection, The Latent Talent of Conception. Thank you for your support!

sundew (morning)

This month, we want to hear from you! Take a look at the prompt below. It comes to us courtesy of Poets and Writers. Anne has responded to it this week, and Mindy will have a turn next week. Why don’t you give it a try and send us what you write? We’d love a chance to consider it as a feature poem during the month of June.


sundew (morning)

your tendrils take me in
and consume me
in one slow, silent motion
somehow I never know
until it’s too late

beautiful from a distance
violent when approached
and yet, some wonder remains
somehow I never know
how to look away

stuck in the gelatin arms
of a painful, broken love
that refuses to recognize
its own toxicity

somehow I never know
to swallow the bitterness
coated in sweet denial
somehow I never know
the pain portrayed
as kindness

somehow I never know
there’s more to life
than putting out fires

What the x-rays don’t see

Our last poem by Mike Filce is here, and we’re heartbroken about it, but next month brings a new guest and new excitement!

To live a paradox is new to me –

To live and, yet,

wish – intermittently – to die

To find that place of relief –

of lightness, of bodi-less utopia —

I wonder if even Hell could be worse

than these moments –

hours, days of despair

that cripple, that emasculate,

that strip me bare.

Mike Filce lives in South Lake Tahoe and teaches English at South Tahoe High School. He and his wife Anne have two children, both currently attending college.


Here is the third thought-provoking piece by Mike Filce, our guest poet for the month of May.

We just don’t know,
where all this confidence —
where these small victories
over perceived obstacles and foes,
over fabricated challenges —
will take us,
but we plan our votive offerings
on the altar of human achievements,
adding our tiny flame
to the collective torch
feeling adequate in our doing—
that it counts for something—
and take comfort in the fact
that we are not alone
in measuring ourselves thus,
even while knowing the doublethink—
that God, if we so incline,
wants us to be different,
to be the lone voice howling in the wind—
but that—self-imposed exile—
is the one sacrifice we refuse . . .
the one too terrifying to confront,
at the risk, even, of changing the path
of light into the finality of dirt . . .
laying bare our underlying lack of faith:
we don’t believe—not really—
for if we did, absolutely, then
we would hardly demur at carrying the cross.
Instead, we hedge our bets —
pursue totems of our age and station —
in case that’s all there is.

Copyright 2018 Mike Filce All rights reserved

Sons and Daughters

Our guest poet Mike Filce brings us a piece this week about a poignant parenting perspective.

Sons and daughters

A daughter
caring, nurturing,
nothing to please
to serve,
even her brother –
who has already
learned that he’s
the type girls
will want to
take care of –
he’s in training.
and so is she.


Copyright 2018 Mike Filce All rights reserved

They Say

Our guest poet for the month of May is Mike Filce, who shares with us his special brand of contemplative free verse.

They Say

They say many things
of life’s regrets
of the readiness to die
before one’s time
yet that can only
be where it is
and not before
and certainly not later.
They speak of muse
that wandering rogue
who chafes and scratches
and fails to live up
to his name.
I am proof, after all,
of dreams deferred,
readily devoured,
forgivingly applied —
that absence of measuring
until some later time
which never has to come
at this rate.

© 2018 Mike Filce All rights reserved

Mike says: I live in South Lake Tahoe and teach English at South Lake Tahoe High School. My wife Anne and I have two children, both currently attending college.


It’s our last week with Briana Herr, and we’re sorry to see her go. But next week, we’ll feature the work of S. M. Holland, a poet and author of the Get in My Head series! Check out Briana’s last poem below:

I am not some kind of toy
That you play with.
Moving my parts,
Hitting me against the floor,
Bring me to the mall.
And then put away once you get bored with me.
Only to pull me out again,
starting the cycling anew when you remember me in the closet.

I am not an CD
that you pop in a player.
Singing along to my lyrics of my soul.
Only to take me out and put back in my case.
Hoping that the scratches and smudges from your fingerprints will just evaporate away in there,
by the time you get my songs stuck in your head again.

I am not a playground.
A place to go for free entertainment.
To touch, poke and prod.
A place to run circles around and trash
Leaving maintenance and upkeep to an unseen group.
To Abandon when storm clouds come out
only to come back on the next Sunny day.

I am not a thing
To be used and abused.
To be throw out when you’re through with me.
Left on the side of the road,
hoping that someone will take care of me.
Only to buy me back when you need me again.

I am not an object.
I have thoughts and feelings.
Hopes and dreams
Drives and ambitious.
Flesh, muscle and bones.
I breathe air. Blood rushes through me!

I am
A human.

hiya! my name is Briana F. Herr,
I’m a coffee addicted night owl. I love Anime, comic books, video games -yeah, pretty much anything nerdy.-

I love musicals and cheesy Disney channel original movies. I hate slow walkers, waiting around, waking up early and adulting.

the empty room

Sitting in an empty room
The rushing of blood is the only noise that could be heard.
As it travels from my heart to my toes and back around.

When that becomes too much to stand,
I turn on music.
I fill the room with words and lyrics of the rise and falls of relationships and human emotions.

But the quietness is still there.

So I turn on a TV too.
The noises of letter based sounds almost give me my fix for human interaction.

But it’s silly to have both a TV and music playing at the same time.
So I always end up turning off both of them.

The high pitched ringing in my ears settles in.
The noise that happens in the absence of any other sound.
The low melodramatic hum that just services me the harsh truth.

The room is still empty.

So I take to the outside world,
The busy Street, the crowded areas.
Lights and sounds trying to fill the open air.
The friction of shirts and coats rubbing against each other
As people hasten past me,
Satisfies my need for physical contact.

But the uniform pounding of lost soul’s feet aligned with the tune of my hammering heart.
Feeling like one of many red blood cells trapped in a vein,
I pulled myself out.

Down the isolated road home
it soon dawned on me, like the rising sun
with Rays of pinks, oranges and bubs of baby blues.
It wasn’t the room that was empty.

The feeling was inside of my chest.

hiya! my name is Briana F. Herr, I’m a coffee addicted night owl. I love Anime, comic books, video games -yeah, pretty much anything nerdy. I love musicals and cheesy Disney channel original movies. I hate slow walkers, waiting around, waking up early and adulting.

thought about you.

If thoughts were raindrops
The world would be covered in an boundless sea
Deep and blue as your eyes
and with infinite possibilities
of what scary things hide underneath,
I’m Just another sucker drawn to your light.
Drawn to the false ideal.

If thoughts were grains of sand,
It could count all the seconds that have dropped away before me.
All the moments I have spent with your face imprinted on my mind
Watching my life slip away with.
Counting to the end of my time.

If thoughts were fingerprints
I’d be covered in yours.
From my head to my toes,
seeping into my soul.
Until the lines on my skin look like your fingertips
Scarring my body with your mark.

If thoughts were matter.
I would be in the middle of a black hole.
A dark void to be swallowed whole.
Totally Surrounded By your presence,
a endless pit of negativity.
Unstoppable force of destruction
Until nothing was left of me.

But thoughts are thoughts.
Racing around with no control.
They run through my mind.
Looping on repeat with no end in sight,
On Repeat with Nothing but my regrets with you.

Bipolar Weather

This month’s guest poet is Briana Herr, aka Booboo! She brings us this deep, painful poem with a disclaimer.

This poem was inspired by individuals struggling with untreated bipolar disorder. If you’re having trouble with your own mental health, please call this hotline: 1-800-273-8255, and/or tell a friend.

You switch between the seasons.
One minute you were summer,
All sunshine and melting hot air.

Next moment you were winter,
falling snow and blistering cold storms.

It’s hard to keep up with your bipolar weather.

Sometimes you’re muggy days,
Fair grounds and laughing people.
Far too soon it turns into frigid nights,
Below freezing and total blinding white out.

I switch between the seasons.
One minute I was spring,
So full of life and warm breezes.

the next moment I was fall,
withering away and full of pouring rain.

It’s hard to keep my seasons in check.

Sometimes I’m sunny days,
singing birds and blooming flowers.
Which turns into windy nights,
withdrawing animals and dying leaves.

We’re never in sync,
When I’m bouncing spring,
you’re ice over winter.
When you’re hot summer in full force,
I’m drying out in fall.
I really can’t keep up with our bipolar weeks,
Either way I’m always caught up in some kind of rain.

hiya! my name is Briana F. Herr, I’m a coffee addicted night owl. I love Anime, comic books, video games -yeah, pretty much anything nerdy. I love musicals and cheesy Disney channel original movies. I hate slow walkers, waiting around, waking up early and adulting.