31 days of poetry for 31 years ๐Ÿ‘ฉ๐Ÿ’•

August has always been one of my favorite months. Why? Because it’s my BIRTHDAY month.

But this year, I just wasn’t that excited about turning another year older. I made sort of a big deal about turning 30 (went to Europe for two months on a solo adventure), so when 31 started looming at the beginning of this summer, it just felt sort of…anticlimactic. Especially after a year that’s felt more challenging than usual.

So, I decided to do something special: 31 days of poetry for 31 years.

For the next 31 days, Iโ€™m publishing 1 poem a day on my blog โ€“ written by me, for the most part. Even though it scares me a little bit, and the last time I got any recognition for a poem I wrote was in the fourth grade (It was about fairies, if you’re wondering), I love poetry. And I love a good challenge.

Full disclaimer that on some of these days, Iโ€™ll be sharing poems I love that were written by other people. Also, I am still too shy to publish about half the poems I write โ€“ so just know that youโ€™re getting the โ€œtamerโ€ half ๐Ÿ˜‰



Day #1

written on July 14th, 2019 in my grandma’s backyard

I wrote this when I was wanting things to change โ€“ and I knew that they would.

Blessedly wrong

When today feels like forever โ€” itโ€™s not.

When you think the rest of your months and years and decades will unfold like this lonely afternoon โ€” they wonโ€™t.

When you feel like the sunshine which reminds you of all that youโ€™re missing will persist into an irritating, yellow eternity โ€” it wonโ€™t.

When you believe your tired soul will always be just that – tired โ€” youโ€™re wrong.

Itโ€™s not, they wonโ€™t, it wonโ€™t, you are blessedly and beautifully wrong.




Day #2

Written on an airplane on the fourth of July, 2017 (after coming back from Paris)

I am constantly trying to give up coffee, but haven’t been successful yet.



Beckoning to her in a variety of forms:

tall and icey, the color of caramel. syrupy fuel, funneled into her brain cool, sweet and easy.


a French noisette, ceramic cup and plate with a tiny round of express and steamed milk. a hot and strong shot, just for her.


the pour-over. she watched her mother make it twice a day, uninterrupted ritual. dipping the silver spoon into her stash, careful measuring of the soil-colored grounds, placement of the filter, steaming water, and finally the drip, drip, drip until it was ready to inhale. blood vessels loose, eyes wide.

ready for the day.



Day #3

“Guest” Louise Erdrich, one of my favorite poets

The Strange People

I first read this poem in college, during a poetry class. It changed my opinion on what poetry could be. That’s because when I started to read it out loud in front of the class, I had the sudden, strange urge to cry. Still trying to figure that one out โ€“ and still moved every time I read this.

Read The Strange People, by Louise Erdrich


Day #4

I wrote this poem after an unexpected loss. It’s about grace.

Written March 13, 2019


This, was unexpected now.

Early spring shine, pooling into late afternoon, light lasting when you wanted something else

You wanted certainty and security and a seatbelt nod of approval. His cupped hands offered something quite different

This was unexpected now

she found she had wings & muscle to withstand the storm, or whatever this was



Day #5

Written on September 7, 2018 on some rooftop in Tangiers, Morocco, where I lived for a few years in my twenties.


White city


She rises to greet me

Ascends bride-like to the altar

Veiled, poised for change




Day #6

“Guest” Rachel Jamison Websterย  โ€“ Found her on my “POETRY” app (which I highly recommend)

Dolphins at Seven Weeks

I find myself reading this poem again and again โ€“ it’s the last part, about dolphins [“glinting fins wheeling the sheen”] that I love the most. I read somewhere that the poet wrote this about the island of Kauai.

Read Dolphins at Seven Weeks by Rachel Jamison Webster.


Day #7

Written sometime in 2019. I wrote this poem in my personal journal (as shown below).

Born Again

Unprepared, I found myself

Anchorless, against the rising tide of your goodness

Sweeping over me like a grace

….leaving me bloody and exposed, hair a mess and skin puckered

Born again


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