April Lindner

On the Pulaski Skyway Thanks to Sharon Foley whose podcast, Journey Daily with a Compelling Poem , currently features a poem of mine, "The Trip to Brooklyn Misremembered as a Roller Coaster Ride."   

  Thanks to Bearings Online , for publishing my poem about trying--and sometimes failing--to be kind to the mammals who only want to share our homes and our crumbs.

Miles  It's been a while since I've blogged here.  A looooong while.   While I wasn't here, I've been moving, writing, and teaching.  I've also been fostering dogs.  One was Moka, a labby girl who went on to find a perfect forever home.  Moka The second, Miles, a foxy little chihuahua corgi mix (we think) quickly squiggled his way into our hearts.  AKA Worm We wound up adopting him...so now he's a part of our pack.  He's what they call a foster failure--or maybe we're the failures.  At any rate, now that we've got three, our fostering days are over for the forseeable future Miles came from Little Dog Lifeboat .  And Moka came up north from Southern Comfort Animal Rescue , which has adoption events every three weeks.  In fact, there's still time to catch the wagging tail end of this weekend's rescue , at Rosedale Mills in Pennington, New Jersey .  Both rescues do amazing work finding homes for deserving dogs.  

Thanks to Bearings Online for publishing this poem.   March of the Ladybugs One at a time, they’re good luck charms, quaint as a cartoon greeting-card                    neat dome like a candy button.  At daybreak one circumnavigates the waterglass, His glossy shell cracks to sprout waxpaper wings. As the window brightens, more collect in its skim of condensation. They cluster on the ceiling, red and random as measles. Every so often one is moved to buzz in sudden spirals, and land with a clatter on a lampshade. or bungle into my hair.  Their ranks swell, an army of redcoats. Once doctors mashed them to cure toothaches; farmers entreated Our Lady to send in scarlet swarms-- rosary beads spilling from the sky.  Harvest in, they’d clear the fields and burn the vines. By afternoon The multitude has flown. One straggler still scouts for water, wandering the wasteland of my desk.