Sunday, May 9, 2021

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee (May 9, 2021)

Here is this Sunday's installment of Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee, a weekly meeting in which we all drink coffee while I read good poems by other people.




Today's poems:

  • The Fear of Darkness by Wendell Berry
  • Winter Again by m.l. smoker
  • Cecilia by Laura Read
  • After the Hysterectomy by Laura Read
  • Wasps by Laura Kasischke
  • Space, In Chains by Laura Kasischke
  • At the Public Pool by Laura Kasischke
  • Vigil by Susan Bright
  • Sister by Susan Bright
  • Rim by Susan Bright
  • A Silent Chat with Our Old Cat by Molly Saty
  • The Piano Tuner by Molly Saty
  • XIX. by Wendell Berry

Sunday, May 2, 2021

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee (May 2, 2021)

Every Sunday morning, I read good poems by other people while we all drink coffee. Here's today's installment:


Poems read:
  • The Contrariness of the Mad Farmer by Wendell Berry
  • Charlotte by H.R. Webster
  • Guards at the Taj by Casey Thayer
  • When's My Luck Going to Change? by Rob Carney
  • Neurosurgery Sonata by Brooke Matson
  • Meeting the Light Completely by Jane Hirshfield
  • The Farmer and the Sea by Wendell Berry

Sunday, April 25, 2021

Praiseworthy Prose: A Reading by Lois Melina, Annie Lampman, Erin Pringle, and Sonora Jha (Get Lit! 2021)

Spokane's annual book festival, Get Lit!, brings writers to our fair city to take part in discussions, readings, and workshops. It's a busy week full of words and books and thinking. Due to the pandemic, last year's was cancelled and this year's was virtual. The virtual version has had a number of benefits, from allowing people to participate from their homes--wherever their homes may be. An additional benefit is that now that the festival is over, you can view the readings, panels, and discussions at any time. 

So, without further ado, here is the reading that I took part in, An Afternoon of Praiseworthy Prose

To view more of the events from this year's Get Lit! festival, visit their website here:

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee (4/25/21)

This is the last Sunday of National Poetry Month here in the United States. Here's to a final week of celebrating poetry. I hope you find a poet or poem and share it with a friend in the real or virtual world.

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee (4/25/21)
Poems read:
  • IV. by Wendell Berry (Sabbath Poems 2014)
  • We May No Longer Consider the End by Ruth Ellen Kocher
  • Good Times by Lucille Clifton
  • Power by Audre Lorde
  • A More Delicate River by Ann Tweedy
  • V. by Wendell Berry (Sabbath Poems 2014)

Sunday, April 18, 2021

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee (April 18, 2021)

 Friends! Every Sunday, I read good poems by other people while we all drink coffee. Join us.

  • 7ish AM (Pacific Time)
  • Sundays
Here's today's installment:

Thursday, January 14, 2021

Pandemic Meditations: Walking and Dreams by Kate St. Ives

Dreaming is Believing by Humphrey King, used under CC license

Walking and Dreams

by Kate St. Ives

My first dream of the pandemic included a siren. It was the third week in March and I still lived in Indiana, in Bloomington. I had an apartment right up next to a one-way street that ran north-south, and I often heard sirens at night--ambulances rushing down the street so that they could turn right at the end and come north again up Walnut to turn left on Second, to go the hospital. Or, if it wasn’t an ambulance, then it was a police car whizzing by. I’d see the flashing blue and red through my white curtains. Sometimes people carried off bikes from front porches or got in a fight at Seminary Park. The police patrolled a lot. 

In my dream, I am inside a body, maybe my own body. I see veins, nerves. I am in the blood. Small objects move around me--meeting, touching, separating, and passing one another by. I’m at ease. Then my perspective shifts. 

A heart and lungs lie before me, each organ light against dark. It’s as though I am looking at a computed tomography scan of a body. The organs take on additional colors. Vivid red, brilliant gold, blue, purple, pink. The edges of the colored areas pulsate, merge, and form new colors. Gradually, I realize that what I’m seeing is a scan that shows not just the material structures of a body but passion itself. I feel confused and then elated. I hadn’t known that passion could be seen.

I had been sick for nine days when I had this dream. I had returned, on March fourth, from a trip to California with a friend, and I went to work the following day. 

“Welcome back,” my boss said, rising from her desk when she saw me. “You look great—I mean you’re not sick, so that’s good.” 

She had a large bottle of hand sanitizer next to her computer. More bottles stood on desks and counters throughout the building. Signs about how to wash your hands properly hung taped from the edges of these surfaces. Concern about the coronavirus had taken on urgency since I had left five days earlier. Still, there were fewer than one hundred confirmed cases of COVID-19 in Indiana. 

“No, I’m not sick,” I said. 

Four days later I ran up a flight of stairs at work, and when I reached the top felt so exhausted, I had to sit down on one of the sofas designated for visitors before taking the last fifteen steps to my office. By afternoon I had a sore throat, sinus congestion, and a light cough. I went home early. 

In California, in the small town we were visiting, my friend and I stayed in an old hotel with high-ceilinged rooms and big, beautiful, drafty windows. Above sturdy eight-foot-tall shutters I could see a block of drizzly grey sky.

After a walk through the empty lobby, sitting rooms, and hallway, my friend commented, “It seems this hotel is not fully booked. In fact, there are only a few rooms that are occupied." 

“Do you think it’s because people are afraid?” I asked as I unwrapped a bar of fragrant white soap. In my palm the soap looked inadequately small for those windows, that room, the edge of the Pacific.

“It’s the off season,” he said confidently.

We probably should have cancelled our trip, but we had planned it months in advance. For me it was an opportunity to visit with a friend who lived faraway whom I hardly ever got to see. Besides, we wanted to use the time to talk about how to make an important awake-life dream a reality. We did talk, in the town’s little streets, where we wandered into cafés and drank tea or stood at the water’s edge and watched harbor seals surface, shimmy onto partially submerged boulders, and lie there, like boulders themselves. Across an inlet of dark water stood the weathered remains of an old cannery, a place where working-class men had once labored in a once working-class town, until all the fish were dead.

The neighborhood where I lived in Bloomington also recalls an earlier, different kind of town and life. I didn’t notice it so much until the pandemic lockdown cleared the streets and allowed the squat little turn-of-the-last-century houses to become a focal point. Tract houses is what they are called a friend told me, probably originally built for workers in the limestone industry; some are also weathered now, while some have fresh coats of bright paint, their attached patches of ground filled, in summer, with flowers. Many are divided into tiny apartments for university students. 

In the early days of lockdown, the flower beds were still mostly bare. Crocuses found their way out first. Although they sought the warmth, I imagined instead that they brought it with them--purple flames overcoming winter and lighting up the world. When I felt well enough, I walked the streets of my neighborhood, weaving between garbage and recycling cans fallen over curbs, stopping here and there to gaze up at trees. Some of the trees were horribly marred, hacked off where the trunk forked in an attempt to keep branches out of electric lines, others had been allowed to grow wildly skyward, between and beyond the power lines, flirting with danger, as though the city had decided to allow the continuance of at least a few private, unspoken negotiations between nature and man. 

When I didn’t feel well, I lay on my bed and checked my pulse. I had read that COVID-19 can cause sudden dips in oxygen, and so I looked at my fingers tips to make sure they weren’t turning blue. I listened to the soft, wheezing sound of my breath coming in and going out and thought about the virus’ spiked proteins inside me, latching onto my cells. When it came time to collect my work computer, I felt sad that I didn’t have the energy to walk the mile and a half to the building, as I had often done in the past, and I felt sad that my coworker, our department’s managing editor, wore gloves and held a cloth over her face as she gingerly handed me my laptop in the parking lot. 

On our last full night in California, my friend and I decided to have a seafood meal on the wharf. We walked the mile or so to get there. Hardly a ray of light shone through the clouded sky over the western ocean. We passed four men on the sidewalk hunched around a fountain next to backpacks bulging with sleeping bags. One held out a plastic cup to me, “Could you?” he asked. I searched my pockets for change. On the cluttered wharf the booths selling candy, games, and stuffed animals had closed for the night. In front of one darkened booth, three blond children with strings of plastic beads hanging off their arms and toys in their hands, stood imploringly in front of a man and woman. I could see only the whiteness of their faces, hair, and bare arms and legs and imagine how cold they must feel by the water in the dark. 

“They are speaking Danish,” my friend said, “I recognize the language.” 

Though the booths were closed, all along the wharf restaurant doorways stood open, their warm light spilling outward and casting inviting orange squares across the walk. Signs propped up outside advertised the best fish or the greatest clam chowder or the most food on one plate. The light from the open doorways was inviting, but I was surprised I didn’t also hear a hum of voices or clattering of dishes promising the comforts of a meal among others. 

We reached the end of the wharf. 

“Well?” my friend asked. 

Next to my feet, in a circle of light, a small boy crouched by a wooden sign, mumbling to himself, sometimes laughing and pressing his forehead or one little index finger against the wood. 

“Hello,” I said, leaning down. “What’s that?” I could just make out the engraved pictures on the wooden sign, animals that lived there in the ocean.

“Whale,” the boy said. 

A man with grey hair, perhaps the child’s grandfather, emerged from the dark and stood next to my friend and me, his eyes looking kindly and appreciative under the glow of the light. The boy slid his finger down the sign to the picture of a different species of whale. “Whale,” he said.

“That’s right,” the man said.

“Yes, another kind of whale,” I added.

“Yes, very good,” said my friend.

The boy stood suddenly. He ran forward, to the very end of the walkway, to where only a metal barrier stood between him and water. “Whale,” he cried out to the ocean. He did it again and again, his silhouette fliting across a wall of black and his high, triumphant voice the only sound on the wharf.

Inside a restaurant, a waiter set plates, glasses, and silverware in front of my friend and me. “The appetizer is free,” he said as we opened our menus. 

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are lucky, tonight two appetizers are free,” the waiter said, striding back to our table with a basket of bread. “The wine is also free,” he added, setting two more glasses on the table and filling them from a bottle he had brought out with him.

“It’s nice that he’s giving us all this,” I said, “but don’t you find it a little disturbing?”

“Yes,” my friend said, gazing into his glass of wine, “I do.”

At the end of our meal the waiter lay a single long-stemmed rose on the table. “For the lady,” he said, smiling at my friend and then at me. It was nine o’clock, still, the large dining room was empty save for a young family at a center table, a single man on the far wall, and my friend and me, surprising for a place that’s supposed to have the best seafood on the wharf. 

In my dream, the heart and lungs are like fish. They move within the parameters of their private worlds inside the sea. If you looked at them from above with human eyes, you would see a cluster or jewels, fins and gills, scales, appearance and disappearance, bounded and without bounds. But then you would see them, the creatures themselves, and as your eyes locked onto their simple flesh amid the chaos of crowded beauty, you would believe that you were seeing something that required more of you than you had ever given before, and you would want to give it, whatever it is, but you wouldn’t be able to, because you wouldn’t understand the creatures, and then, before you could try, they would be gone. 

In my dream, I do understand the creatures. I understand the force of their contractions, the miraculous energy of their expansions. I understand their belonging in their small world and their riotous resistance when that world changes. I understand them because I am them, and I am screaming.

Kate St. Ives
Kate St. Ives writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry and works as an editor at a company that publishes books for K–12 educators. She lives in Kentucky. Walking and Dreams is part of a longer work about her experiences during the COVID-19 pandemic.


Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which creative people share responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic. Find more meditations at

Friday, January 8, 2021

Pandemic Meditations: A Scrabble Story by Robert Tombari

Coronavirus Scrabble from flickr, used under CC license

2020: A Scrabble Story

by Robert Tombari

I seriously love words. I’m a big fan of Scrabble. I try not to come up with the most clever ones. You have to be lucky in drawing letters. It’s not all skill. It’s about the letters you draw and where you place them that makes the game interesting. How the board comes together - you always have to be conscious of the bigger picture. You slowly realize that every word you place matters in a significant way. Dictating what can or cannot be done four turns from now. Maybe you got lucky, and hit a seven letter word (most of the time it's an eight-letter word) by adding your word to an existing one. You only get the bonus if you use all your letters and create, at minimum, a seven-letter word. 

Semantics abound. 

For me, placing a letter on a scrabble board is a type of meditation. It is easy and doesn’t take much effort. Finding the right words, however, that’s hard. While the goal of the game is to accumulate the most points, you are also working to make sure that you have places later. 

Words matter. How you use them matters. 

Words, words words . . .

As many Scrabble enthusiasts will tell you, the first word sets the tone for the game. It is the make or break moment. Words beget words that beget words . . . until one person runs out of tiles and the bank out of letters. What makes the game intriguing is that when you have run out of tiles, and you’re the first to lay them all down, you then get the points from the other players' letters. It’s inherently part of the game, and isn’t really vital to what I am telling you. But in a way it is. 

Words . . .words? 

Words . . .

I like to play defensively--always paying attention to what the person before has done, and what the next player could do. You choose your words carefully. 

In the end, you find that where you use the words you create, how you place them, how they fit onto the board, letter by letter, tile by tile racking up each point only brings you so far. If the game is a blowout is it really that much fun? I don’t mean that you should throw the game if someone isn’t doing well. It is luck after all that got you the better tiles and placements available to put them. But the question remains. 

WORDS! Words . . . words . . . ?

I like to block the triple word scores with mundane letters. Taking smaller chances to make sure that in the end I was given some points. After all, it's the points that you need that will help you win the game. 

Which words to create?  Which words to toss? 

Your mind must race so many miles minute when you haven’t been paying attention to what has been happening - not looking at the bigger picture. You’ve been solely focused on your own game play. You forgot to check in with the world around you. Realizing now that the word you were going to place is no longer useable. Someone has taken your spot and you cannot play there anymore. How do you make the word fit?

If words are the name of the game, then the action of placing them is like a chess board move of “checkmate”. I mean the stakes are always high, but in the end it’s just a word. Does it really matter? 

Finally the board is done. The letters are fully placed. The game has been set, the match is over. 

What to do? What to do . . .

Do you ever evaluate your plays? Like, just look at the game when it’s finished? Tried to see how it could have come out differently? 

I’ve always said you should be aware of the wordplay. Do you see it yet? 

Words are the name of the game. Actions are using them. Placement is vocalizing them.

When I think of how the pandemic has affected our theatrical community, both locally and globally, I think of the words 









Amazing things come out of this pandemic, but pain has come with it. 

Theatre has forever changed. We must embrace this change. We must look forward to the future. 

As we look at these words, we can imagine the hardship of finding a way to create them during the pandemic. How lucky it really would have been to make them happen. 

Vowels are important, in theatre, we emphasize and stress them when warming up--using them to ground ourselves and solidify our bodies for performance. We were trying our hardest to, simply, draw a vowel that could link the needed sounds.

There was a loss without these words.

Clear the board. 

Start again.

Here's to hoping our letters connect in 2021.


Robert Tombari
Robert Tombari is a classically trained actor, director, producer, educator, and an acting/vocal coach who currently resides in Spokane, Washington. He received his MFA, with an emphasis in Shakespeare, from The Royal Birmingham Conservatoire in Birmingham, England where he lived for two years. He holds a BA in Theatre Arts from Boise State University. While living in Boise he also worked as a stagehand on numerous productions at The Morrison Center for The Performing Arts. Robert has also toured parts of the Pacific Northwest with Idaho Theatre for Youth part of Idaho Shakespeare Festival. He has performed locally at Spokane Civic Theatre (Morris, Present Laughter) and at Stage Left Theater (Jody, Lonely Planet; Mack The Knife, Threepenny Opera). 

Robert currently produces the Masterpiece Monologues series for Stage Left Theater. He is also a member of Stage Left Theater’s Board of Directors. Robert was born and raised in Spokane. When he isn’t working, you can find him wandering around Manito Park with his dog Bentley, trying new restaurants, binging his favorite tv series, and spending time with his immediate family. He can be reached at his website.

At the end of January, Robert will be starring in Stage Left's virtual production of An Iliad (directed by Susan Hardie). Tickets here:

Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which creative people share responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic. Find more meditations at

Sunday, January 3, 2021

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee: Erin Pringle reads good poems by other people

On Thanksgiving morning of 2020, I read good poems by other people while we drank coffee (on my Facebook page). I have since continued doing this every Sunday morning 7-7:15 AM (Pacific Time).

And as I foresee doing this an innumerable number of Sundays, I figure it's time to have a standing invitation.

Therefore, no matter your time zone or level of wakefulness, you are cordially invited to join me every Sunday for coffee and good words.

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee:

Erin Pringle reads good poems by other people while we all drink coffee

Broadcasting live every Sunday at 7 AM for approximately 15 minutes worth of words


Sunday, December 27, 2020

20/20 in 2020: A Discussion with Melissa Stephenson, Emily Withnall, and Erin Pringle

On December 28th at 3 PM (PT), I'll be joining my writer friends Melissa Stephenson and Emily Withnall to discuss how our writing and reading went in this pandemic year. Of course, it's a virtual event, and of course, you're cordially invited.

Invitation here:

Event link here:


Friday, December 18, 2020

Pandemic Meditations: It's Wednesday, November 4th by Polly Buckingham

Trouble on my mind by Dana, used under CC license

It’s Wednesday, November 4th

by Polly Buckingham

Mercury is just out of retrograde, it’s the morning after a yet-undeclared election where deaths from climate change, inequity, and Covid are all at stake, and I’m cutting up the last two chanterelles from a disturbingly dry mushroom season. 

After the mushrooms, I’ll cut up two garden potatoes, one purple, one pink, and the rest of my cubanelle peppers and fry a couple eggs. I dried and stuffed the other hundred some peppers, and all that remains is a handful of fresh banana peppers and poblanos. As my breakfast is sautéing, I’ll bake one of the sixty some winter squash on racks in the back room; the temperature there is 55 degrees so the squash will last through the winter. I’ve named this variety “That Crazy Plant”; it comes from the seeds of a mystery squash that took over my garden the summer of 2019. It looks like a cross between a pumpkin and a turban squash and has a remarkably sweet bright orange flesh. I’ve moved the potatoes and carrots from the garage to the backroom, a room otherwise delegated to the dog and the squash, after a surprise snowstorm where temperatures dropped from the 60 to 12 degrees and some six inches of snow fell. I’ve spent the last few nights talking on the phone with friends while cutting the tops off hundreds of carrots. Over the next month, I’ll juice them, dry them, grill them, sauté them, ferment them, share them with friends and the foodbank, and eat them raw.

People say they have to find things to do during Covid, but I find I cannot get through all I need to do, though I often wonder about what I’m doing and why. I wonder about the notion of work, of a job. I don’t need a winter of food stored in freezers and dried in cabinets. And yet, answering this calling to grow food, to feed people, to understand what it means to grow most of what you eat, feels necessary. I feel compelled to do it, and it helps keep me steady—planting seeds, popping dried beans from their pods, saving carrot blossoms and sunflower heads.

Still, my job has always been to write, and it has always come first. I don’t have children: I dream and I write. I struggle with the simple tasks of daily living—paying bills, making doctor appointments, cleaning my house, calling for repairs, even opening mail. I was the child who couldn’t regularly brush her hair or teeth or clean out her locker or show up anywhere on time because she was dreaming and writing and writing and dreaming. I have never been suited for much else, and it has saved me throughout my life. Made me whole. Made my soul feel steady. Writing is that great creative force, that beautiful arc across the night sky, dusty and eons deep. It is the most important thing I have to offer. I have a duty first to vision. A sort of seeing that is transmutable and necessary to me and to the world.   

Let’s be honest: I haven’t written enough since Covid sent us into isolation, despite the very clear invitation—that is, long periods of time alone at home. A dream, really, an ideal field, like a spring garden covered with the compost of fall leaves. Every day I wake up forgiving myself for not writing enough. I try to be good to myself. But it hurts not to write.

The apricot smell of the chanterelles steadies the panic that tries to rise up in me. What I know about this day as Mercury moves out of retrograde is how deep the change this country has to make, how deep the change I have to make. My job in this moment, on this day, is to transform. I don’t know how long it will take, or even what it looks like, but it must happen. And only a lifetime—fifty-three years—of dreaming and writing and writing and dreaming could have prepared me for this most necessary job. I have to trust my own role in the movement from seed to fruit to fallow earth.

Later today, I will clean with a dry cloth several of the winter squash in my backroom. The dog bed is still covered with carrot tops and unfinished carrots the dog got into a few nights ago—purple and orange and yellow and scarlet carrots, crooked and straight, enormous and tiny. The squash are weighty in my hands, and they glow as I wipe the cloth over their imperfections.

Polly Buckingham’s collection of poetry, The River People, was just released by Lost Horse Press. Her story collection The Expense of a View won the Katherine Anne Porter Prize in Short Fiction. Her chapbook A Year of Silence won the Jeanne Leiby Memorial Chapbook Award for Fiction (2014), and she was the recipient of a 2014 Washington State Artists Trust fellowship. Her work appears in The Gettysburg Review, The Threepenny Review, Hanging Loose, Witness, North American Review, The Moth, New Orleans Review, Poetry Daily and elsewhere. She was a finalist for the Flannery O’Connor Award in 2011, 2012, and 2013. Polly is founding editor of StringTown Press and teaches creative writing at Eastern Washington University where she is editor of Willow Springs Magazine. Learn more at


Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which creative people share responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic. Find more meditations at