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Collective Works


Welcome to the OPP world of Collective poetry!
Most collections were created from prompts issued to poets, near & far.
(Visit the page, 'Collaboratives,' which presents Contest & Special collections, here)

Origami Micro-chapbook

Poem Titles & Poets

An Origami Poems Winter Celebration
•  Prompted by a request from editor, Doug Norris, the poems by Bill Sullivan & Mary Ann Mayer
appeared in a South County, RI publication. •

{mooblock=Snow by Mary Mueller}

    "an elegance of snow…"
               from Waxwings by Robert Francis

Who can think of snow
while summer’s humid air
lingers, thick with lassitude?

Who can rise from beach chair
nursing a muddled drink,
breathing half-breaths
while addled squirrels
watch for falling acorns?

Like the moon, it will arrive –
a lucid flake will melt on a nose
gather with friends on a slushy pool
practice swirls with icy wind
revel late ‘til  morning sun.

Silence, then.
Still, pure.
The landscape turned
a painting in white.
You walk in -
it wakes you up.
At last you breathe
sculpted air.     

Mary Mueller © 2011


{mooblock=Winter by Marguerite Kiel Flanders}

January poaches my warmth.     
Ice: nice, but not for walking.
The white dog's bones move
easily over the crusts of snow,
noting where deer have been.
I stay inside wishing to weep.       
Chill has no limit. I gather
kindling, carry logs.
The splendid insufficiencies
of winter crack and rattle
my sleep. In the morning
the old dog paces, scrapes
his toenails across the planks,
heading for the door.
I shudder at dawn's glimmer,
its cruel syncopated breath.

Marguerite Kiel Flanders © 2011


{mooblock=Snow by Bill Sullivan}

  ...snow was general all over Ireland.  It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen, and further westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves... upon all the living and dead.  -  James Joyce, "The Dead"                                                

Yes, there is the sense that the end of something is here
when the wind is not whistling and the snow flake's fall
is as silent as a monk meditating on a moonless night.
Perhaps it's the death of daring, courage and ceaseless
caring, as Joyce intimates-a time when the snow's descent
numbs our memories, buries our tales of heroic deeds-
when caution and comfort prescribe boots and slickers-
when no lover stands in the rain beneath a window, dying.

But as the quietude of falling snow mutes, flake
by flake, the harsh clamor of years and yesterdays,
we hear the wheel groan then move- sense a beginning
as well as an end-even imagine that before the snow ceased
and the sky turned turquoise blue and the world's whiteness
glistened in the morning sun, a hatless man stood knee deep
in snow beneath his lover's window, calling, in the darkness
of night, "Come with me, come with me."

Bill Sullivan ©  2011


{mooblock=The roofs are alive and reassuring by Mary Ann Mayer}

(For Pete)

You say,
        The snow on the roof
Looks like a swan sleeping in its wing.

I say,
        The avalanche is coming, can’t you see
That iron rooster poke its head out of its clutch of white?

You say, don’t worry,
        The rooster is just a chimney cap
Can we play the snowdrift game some more?

But the avalanche, I say,
        Makes puckering sounds
In the night and I’m afraid.

You say,
I see a whale
Taking a steam bath.

I say, I love you.

Mary Ann Mayer © 2011


{mooblock=Christmas in Florida by Jan Keough}

Here in Florida, miles from RI,
The pelicans and palm fronds,
Skeins of clouds with or without rainfall
Rehearse their routines on a sky worn inside-out
With moist blueness.

Snowmen lawn balloons, puffed by electronics ,
Sway at their lawn anchors
And melt flat once the juice times out.

Snowflake glitterati hang on trees,
Gossiping about their imaginary perfection
Of plastic-poured prisms bought at Walmart.

Coconut palms wear twinkly girdles,
The night is festooned with neon greetings
And Santa rides jet skis.

It’s not the same,
This make-believe Florida winter
Far from mittens pulled-off before a wood stove
And that silent hushing snowfall
Playing in the twilight.
Jan Keough © 2012


A Room
Two musings on Virginia Woolf and her talk “A Room of One’s Own”
“A Room of One's Own is an extended essay by Virginia Woolf… based on a series of lectures
delivered at two women's colleges October 1928.  The title comes from Woolf's conception that,
'a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction'. – Wikipedia         

{mooblock=My Own Room by Jan Keough}

I would like to think
that a room of one’s own  
is something to be found
like a jar or basket
ready to be filled,
but it is not.
It is a quality hidden inside,
stored,  waiting -
combed from choices
to be untangled,
and pulled away
from distractions
that own the mind.
A room that is nothing
but expansion,
it’s beauty
a reflection of hope.

A safety, a welcoming,
a presence that turns
each key, each insight,
into wave  after wave
of discovery.

It is a splendor
where time becomes lost
like an echo.
Discourtesy fades from disuse.
trolls shores not your own.
by Jan Keough © 2009



{mooblock=The Weight of Stones in Pocket by Lynnie Gobeille}

(Remembering Virginia Woolf)
Back lit by skies winter light
 oceans ebb and flow,
gulls cry, circling us in flight.
I watch the stranger on the beach
as she bends
picking up sea-glass with her hands.
Dusting off the webs of salt and sand
bringing the treasure to her lips
as if to devour it.
Working her fingers
 over the smooth surface,
by the glimmer of lavender dye.

“A rare find,” she tells me
when I inquire.
“more rare than eclipse
of sun and moon.”
Beloved sea-flower
in her outstretched hand,
 ‘Reason enough,” she states
 “to empty my pockets
of their weight.”

by Lynnie Gobeille © 2009


A Cup of Origami
Eight Poems to help you enjoy your cup of whatever...
To commemorate the first Origami Poems Project reading
held at Java Madness on July 12, 2009

{mooblock=Cappucino by Mary C. Mueller}

Steamed peaks
float like meringue
in the swimming pool cup
that warms my hands.
Ready to dive
nose first
into roasted mist,
I pause and sip.
Alchemy of capuchin –
elixir of bliss.

Mary Mueller © 2009



{mooblock=12-Step Verse by Kim M. Baker}

She sat next to me, stoked
on caffeine and cinquains,
compressing her life philosophies
into jazzed up lines of five.
She passed me a pen and said, “Hit?”
“Me?  No. I’m off the ink.
It ruined my life. My muse left me.
Now? AA. Alliterations Anonymous.”
But as she spoke, I craved a toke
off that stoked poetry,
a cuppa that coffeehouse java sonnet.  
I don’t need fourteen lines! Just one
clever couplet and I’m outta here.
Hi, my name is Will and I’m a po-slut!

by Kim M. Baker © 2009



{mooblock=Joltin' Joe by Lauri Burke}

Coffee's the bad boy of beverages
hanging around every urban corner
shouting out with aromatic fervor
bewitching promises of hot leverage.
Joe will prop a girl up when she's low
set blood soaring to race in sluggish veins
excite florid thoughts of unleashing reins
to burrow in arms of chemical flow.
Who cares if Java's a fickle lover
driving a gal to town he won't take home,
yes, you'll limp in spent and round-heeled later no,
Joe won't call or pick up the phone
but when you were with him, didn't thoughts
in same blind ecstasy that births a poem?

Lauri Burke © 2009


{mooblock=Mass Pike Coffee: May 19, 2008 1:30 pm by James B. Rosenberg}

Italy’s favorite
Breath of espresso
Breath of Rome
City of stones
Stepping from past into future
From future into past
Through languid sips
Of Eternity Now.
Dark brown brew
Nurturing moist loam
Explosion of taste
To remember tomorrow.
James B. Rosenberg © 2009



{mooblock=COOL BEANS by Louise Giguere}

Etched, fetching
seafaring vessel
Perked up tizzy
Razz ma tazz dizzy
An old tin lizzy,
Let it fizz, so hip,
Jazzed up java, fresh brew,
Liquid lava, cappuccino syrup
Espresso, latte, decaf blends   
In a clay-fired mug, demitasse cup,
for the java, lava coffee crew
Together we sip, my friends.    

Louise Giguere © 2009



{mooblock=HAIKU #36 by Bob Muir}

In my sitting place
cares will fall like autumn leaves
when I sip my tea
Bob Muir © 2009



{mooblock=Sweet Words by Jan Keough}

It is the sweet words
stirred like sugar in the cup
that brews a friendship.

Jan Keough © 2009



{mooblock=Sips by O.R. Gami}

My tea amigos
sip their delicacies
without haste.
Their pace laced
with caffeine or not.
They linger, they twirl,
they flavor their world
with honey.

Coffee conspirators
want mugs that handle
every degree of need -
am or pm,
Starbucks bold or Dunkin mild;
they steep themselves
in brewed wisdom -
with hopes to unwind.

O.R. Gami © 2009



Fall Realities
An Autumn Celebration
Volume 1 of 2 - Seven Poets muse on the season known as Fall

{mooblock=Autumn Morning by Doug Norris}

Fog in the harbor,
Steam on the mirror,
Frost on the window.

Outside, discovering
The neighbor’s oak
Growing in my garden

And one crazy squirrel
Risking everything
To save a single nut.

Doug Norris © 2009



{mooblock=Elvis by Tom Chandler}

A hundred of you
parachute into a football stadium,
a hundred gilt and spangled jumpsuits
with proud bellies tumble in a tangle
of ripcords and billowed silk,
then square away with weird precision
and give it all you’ve got; who cares
if you’re alive or not?    

Tom Chandler © 2009



{mooblock=Autumn Jazz by Mary C. Mueller}


This mountain night
full moon creeps
at turtle pace
through shadowed
branches   tree tops
then aglow below
the violin plays
African, accordion
his bass companion
kora, drums
command that
wine infused
with rosemary
be sipped
like honeydew  
Mary C. Mueller © 2009



{mooblock=A Little Latitude by James Penha}

The equator circumvents
autumn with forests as green
in October as ever April
is green although leaves here ever
umber to leave their branches
in a fall to feed the jungle’s
perpetual spring to life. Around
this earth it is every day
every season.

James Penha © 2009



{mooblock=Fall Decides by Marguerite Keil Flanders}

Oaks are the last to cast
their burdens. Air is full
of the athleticism of change.
Chickadees greet the end
of the road of night
with their tally: seeds and chill.

The science of what must turn leaves
us bereft. We wait for all to be
revealed, as if choosing  will shift
the relentless  trajectory of stars,
restore what has been felled.
Hawk, oak, brook, co-trustees
of winter’s approach, know better.    

Marguerite Keil Flanders © 2009



{mooblock=Leaf Peepers by Kim M. Baker}

Winter has sent ahead its scouts. 
Those leafy aviators so vibrant
that you wince with their wicked beauty.
They cackle their raucous colors
down highways, along bogs,
or anywhere you might be languishing
in the sun one last time this season.
You forget the brisk wind behind them,
forget this time last year when they jumped,
kamikazes in kaleidoscopic glory. 
The next thing you know, they are gone,
riding the sky just ahead of Captain Snow.
Kim M. Baker © 2009



{mooblock=Falling Towards The Questions That Remain by Lynnie Gobeille}

If this is where I am now…
how will I survive the winter?

God,  how I would like a friend
to just drop in… unexpectedly,

the darkness and cold will continue,
the nights will get longer…

Note to myself:
Develop a God damn hobby.
Lynnie Gobeille © 2009



As Fall Sets In
An Autumn Celebration
 Volume 2 - 7 poems, 6 poets •

{mooblock=I Want To Say Something About Goldenrods by Barbara Schweitzer}

how prolific they are, waiting to be sickled
along the town roads with the touch-me-nots;
how little notice, how little difference
they make in the world, invisible, void,
being the fruit fly weed of New England,
so heartily hardy they stand ignored
like life itself – which just keeps up its end –
creating replicating fornicating,
all the while ignorant of and in its needs,
the thrust necessarily pause-hating,
so that those of us who parse and name, cede
most roadways to ignorant lustful life
that ingratiates itself like the actor rife
with talent to imitate, then move on.

Barbara Schweitzer © 2009



{mooblock=Summer Solstice by Nancy E. Brown}

A raft of mallards
dozes on the dock
as the full moon’s light
dims into dawn.
This short night’s
hot hazy air shimmers
above the lake until
sunshine splinters
onto the gentle ripples.
A garnet-colored dragonfly
drifts onto my sleeve.

Nancy E. Brown © 2009



{mooblock=Ingnish Beach by Louise Giguere}

An August day this summer, it was as if I were
Standing on Ingnish Beach, thirty years ago the
salty air, dampening, tangling sandy strands in my
long hair, in all directions, like thistledown, wild
and windblown, lingering, from dunes, on the
breach of my breath, catches a memory, a glimpse
of a lighthouse in the distance, floating sounds, or
warning calls of buoys on whale watch; a quick
jaunt off Cabot Trail, a stone’s throw from the
opposing Bay of Fundy, is the cliff- cleave haven, a
cloistered valley hide–away, raw, resolute elements
Ingnish Beach – Nova Scotia’s North Atlantic air

Louise Giguere © 2009



{mooblock=September by Marjorie Gaunt}

high tides have almost obliterated
the path by bending beach grasses
hiding the lavender now delicate ashen wraiths
above these gray ghosts
grow great swaths of yellow goldenrod
glowing along the dunes
staunch spartina stands tall at water's edge
wearing russet tassels

Marjorie Gaunt © 2009



{mooblock=Autumn Haiku by Noël Patoine}

Dying thrives in fall,
harvesting nature’s bounty,
caring hands restore.
Noël Patoine © 2009


{mooblock=Autumn Adornments by Noël Patoine}

Autumn Adornments

Breaking my spirit s
oul’s pleasure dies amidst fall,
leaves the only stain
brightening gray October
with gnarly trees adorned.

Noël Patoine © 2009



{mooblock=The Nuisance of Weather by O.R. Gami}

You have to live with weather.
Let it lick your face
elbow your plans
tumble you into the jet stream.

You change and rearrange
the coat, the shoes, the attitude.

Sunshine when you need shade,
Rainfall to muddy every note,
Cartons of slush in the mailbox.
Long, dim days that track
the floor with uncaring -
Tell them to wipe their feet.

O.R. Gami © 2009




Cathleen Calbert

Cathleen Calbert is Professor of English at Rhode Island College, poet, and author.  She has been awarded The Nation Discovery Prize, the Gordon Barber Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America, the MacLeod-Grobe and the Bullis-Kizer Award, both from Poetry Northwest, the Sheila Motton Book Prize from the New England Poetry Club, and a Pushcart Prize.

Visit her website: www.cathleencalbert.com to learn more about her books, Sleeping with a Famous Poet, Bad Judgment, and Lessons in Space.  (Order her books at CW Press.)



Cathleen's Origami micro-chapbooks & selected poems are below.


Origami Micro-chapbook

Selected Poem(s)

Fox-Wife *


{mooblock=First Tail}

One look at me,
he leaves his bride,
he leaves his wedding.
He only wants to play
run fox run
in the meadow,
roll over my belly,
and gaze into my silver eyes.
I smell of wildflowers
and something else.
He brings me buttercups.
He brings me bars of gold.
He even tries his hand
at poetry. When I leave,
the scent of fox stays.
It shatters the man’s heart.
Cathleen Calbert © 2010
From Sleeping with a Famous Poet


Left Coast Haiku *



His dragonfly lamp
looked like an upside-down bowl
of caught fireflies.
Chrysanthemums and
lilies in raw silk fell down
my back—which pleased him.
Outside his hilltop
home, the bamboo sighed. Inside,
he made me coffee.
Cathleen Calbert © 2009
From “Pillow Book, Berkeley”
Sleeping with a Famous Poet


 * from “Pillow Book, Berkeley,” Sleeping with a Famous Poet



Doug Norris

Doug Norris teaches adult ESL for the R.I. Family Literacy Initiative. He also serves as vice-president of the Rhode Island Teachers of English Language Learners (RITELL) Coordinating Council and is on the Library Board of Rhode Island.

His poems have been published in Frogpond, American Tanka, Haibun Today, Contemporary Haibun Online and elsewhere, as well as in The Origami Poems Project.

December 2013: "Dublin Scribe" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize by the Origami Poems Project.

Doug's Origami microchaps are available to download. Click on the titles below.

Origami Microchap

Selected Poem(s)

Third Life Poems


Cover: Kloof St photo
from Lauri Burke
Poet’s Comments

I call these "Third Life Poems" because
they all began as travel blog posts,
where they still exist in cyberspace.

Then they received a second life as
Wordle images, push-pinned
to a bulletin board.  From the Wordles,
I found origami poems.


Nobody platforms
Consciousness necessitated
Whatever maneuverings
People without sky
Without tracks
Slow-moving sun erasing morning
Seatmate strangers touching opposites
No words
Just sunglasses
Blank as bees
Locomotive nose blasting darkness
Subway womb erupting galaxies
Random Mamaroneck universe
Awkward pause
Stop train

Doug Norris 2014





Cover: View of Horseneck Beach
from the web


Thirty years later
The surf and the sand,
The sun, the sea breeze, the scenes:
Tanned, sinewy bodies of lifeguards and teens,
Kids crabbing and sandcastle-building,
Swells of surfers and body surfers and boogie boarders,
Miles of swimmers and sailors and sun worshippers
And the three of us,
Who once spent entire summers planted here,
Alternating hours between waves and beach towels,
Now shooing away the herring gulls,
Their irritated squawks
Mimicking our own frantic talk
Lamenting lost times in sacred places –
Terminisi’s, Iggy’s, The Sunnyside,
The meatballs and jukebox of Giro’s Spaghetti House,
Where strangers recognizing anyone at the bar
Would order a round for everyone,
Free drinks piling up like rocks on a cairn,
In empty shot glasses turned upside down
Languid beach days lapsing into blurry pub nights
Pints of salty seawater ale sloshing in frozen mugs
The clink of four quarters dropping into the slot
Voices rising in the starless, moonless dark
Singing “The Ballad of New Orleans.”
Doug Norris 2014


Toward Wisdom


{mooblock=The Eleven O'Clock News}

Tonight’s top story:
A little gray moth
Strumming the screen door,
Moving wings in Monk rhythms,
Tuned to the light of the lamp inside.

The moth finds a hole,
Makes it bigger,
Squeezes through,
Discovers the lamp.

Zap! Sizzle, smoke...
One last loud note.
The moth explodes
In surprise or ecstasy.

Maybe this news
Doesn’t mean much
Except to me and the moth.
Ash heap and smoke ghost,
Lamp light hums its karmic melody.
Doug Norris © 2013




{mooblock=Dublin Scribe}

Here and now
Moving my ink
Across an empty manuscript
White as the New England snow
I wander
Through mist and moss
Up cold stone steps
Into the land of lost memories
To glimpse a ghost
A daydreaming Irish youth
Glancing out his little window
To the wild green world beyond
Doug Norris © 2013


{mooblock=Death of a Poet}

(To Li Po)
Such ancient light,
Seen so clearly
Dancing silver,
Between the lily pads,
You considered
A lifetime
Looking for the right word,
When wordlessly
The moon compelled
And you found Zen:
The awestruck poet
Losing himself
Smooching the moon.
Doug Norris © 2013


Rhymes & Enchantments


Cover photo: Monkey Dreams
By Robert Schlenker

{mooblock=Napkin Poem}

I love the Earth
But cannot stay.
It's not my choice.
It's just the way.
And so I ask,
And this I pray:
To learn
To love
To live
Doug Norris © 2013




20 poems inspired by
tracks on the album,
'Elvis Costello and The Attractions'

{mooblock=Love for Tender and others}

Can be a love for money
Or a love for kindness. Choose wisely.
They are very different sorrows.


Knocking, knocking, knocking at the door.
Avon? Death? Jehovah’s Witnesses?
We need less doorbell.

The Imposter

Seven company pens
Clattered on the counter,
Falling out of the pocket,
Under the noose of the tie
That had squeezed my soul dry.

Secondary Modern

The post-post modernist has come and gone.
Back to the caves, people. Back to the caves.
Doug Norris © 2011


Minnows (Summer Haiku)



{mooblock=Haiku #5}

Fading lavender
Absent the purple flowers
No white butterflies
Doug Norris © 2010


Omitted Tales



{mooblock=Death and the Goose Boy}

A boy approached a pond when he noticed
Something streaking up the hill toward him.
“Who are you,” the boy asked.
“Where do you come from?”
The shadow faced the boy and spoke.
“I am Death. I came from the water.”
“I am Johannes,” the boy responded.
“The village goose boy.”
“Where are your geese,” Death asked.
“Drinking,” the boy replied.
“Uh-oh,” said Death.
“What’s wrong,” asked the boy.
Death hesitated, awkwardly
Searching for a way to explain it.
“Never mind,” Death shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Doug Norris © 2009



Amanda Surkont

Amanda Surkont  began her writing career at the age of 11. Her first book of poetry, Pondicherry Square, is a memoir of sorts that captures the voices and nuances of a small community of real people who have passed through Amanda’s life growing up in Bridgton, Maine.   

Her work has appeared in Nedge Magazine, Impulse, Art Life, Potpourri, Wolf Moon Press, and Puckerbrush Review and other journals. Living in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont along the shores of the Connecticut River, Amanda is passionate about literacy. When she is not writing she is actively promoting literacy among underserved rural communities.

December 26, 2012
We were saddened to learn of the passing of Amanda Surkont and extend our sympathies to her family,
her friends, and the poetry community.  We will miss her voice.

    ► Amanda's Origami micro-chapbook & selected poem are available below.


Origami Micro-chapbook

Selected Poem(s)

About Honey

The following poem appeared in a
chapbook, Nothing Happens Here,
published by the Premier Poets Series,
(some in an earlier version):
“Bridgton, Maine”
The author gratefully acknowledges the
following journals and presses where
some of these poems appeared (some in
an earlier version):
Regrets Only, Little Pear Press:
“She Sees”
The following poems appear in
Pondicherry Square:
My Mother s Mothers
About Honey


{mooblock=She Sees}

an old man with nothing.
He tends to things
in the garden, things
nobody wants to eat.
She thinks his pants
are too old and too soft,
as soft as his mind
these days. She recalls
she loved him once
when she was ten
and the other girls
in the building were
without fathers.
Amanda Surkont © 2009


Lori Desrosiers

Lori Desrosiers lives in Westfield, MA and publishes the Naugatuck River Review, a journal of narrative poetry.  Her full-length poetry book, The Philosopher’s Daughter is available from Salmon Poetry Press.

She has a chapbook, Three Vanities, a chronicle of three generations of women in her family, which was published by Pudding House Press in 2009. In 2010, her poem “That Pomegranate Shine” won the Greater Brockton Society for Poetry and the Arts Award for New England Poets. 

Her poems have appeared in numerous publications including Pirene’s Fountain, BigCityLit, The Smoking Poet, Concise Delights, Blue Fifth Review, Common Ground Review, two of Gold Wake Press’ five-poem mini-chapbooks, the Origami Poems Project, and several anthologies.

Lori earned her M.F.A. in Poetry from New England College and teaches English at Westfield State College.

Lori's micro-chapbooks & selected poems are available below.


Origami Micro-chapbooks

Selected Poem(s)




Everything that is
is already past.
We live a minute—
childhood to old age.
So think on this,
ponder what will last,
heroic deeds
or words upon the page?

Lori Desrosiers © 2012


Water Lust


Poems previously published by

Gold Wake Press' mini-chapbook series

{mooblock=Flower Bells at Bedhead}

(Monet – Flower beds at Betheuil)
somnolent blossoms
die every winter rebirth
in spring to fill our yard
and the neighbor’s with
the ringing of leaf & petal
the smell of dirt & essence
each year smells
more pungent than the last
Lori Desrosiers © 2009





O.R. Gami

O.R. Gami  can be seen wandering wooded paths and fields in search of the perfect Origami.  She claims to be friends with Jan Keough but this cannot be confirmed.





  O.R. Gami's micro-chapbooks and selected poems are available below.

Lauri Burke

Lauri Burke grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan. She worked the better part of 40 years at the Barrington Public Library in Barrington, RI, where she had the great pleasure of continuing her education in the arts and humanities through her work designing and implementing cultural programming.

Recently retired, Lauri looks forward to diving into the manifold joys of creativity with time to spare. Lauri is happily married to Jeff Burke, and is the proud mother of Flannery Burke.

She has published poetry in a variety of little magazines, as well as three origami booklets ('Talking Back to Tales', 'Moving On: 5 Sonnets in Time' and 'Oh My Heads...') in the Origami Poems Project of RI.

And visit Lauri Burke's Artist's page here.

2014 Update: Wednesday evening, April 23, 2014, Lauri read at the Bryant University Poetry Month celebration held Bello Hall.  She was joined by OPP Poets, David Dragone, Eileen McCluskey, Ira Schaeffer and Kim Baker. 

► Lauri's Origami micro-chapbooks and selected poems (including audio versions - thanks to Lauri's daughter, Flan, for her technical assistance) are available below.

   Origami Micro-chapbook

Selected Poem(s)

Oh My Heads...


Audio Version
read by Lauri Burke

Listen to the audio poem

{mooblock=N’er a Pair to Wear}

Like cards, reading glasses need to shuffle,
craving to migrate toward brethren and shoal,
lone ones sometimes surface, rare as atolls,
rising in change bowls, bent and kerfluffled.
Deadly cheap, each is easily sundered
losing lenses so you're blind as a mole.
De rigueur to buy dozens, filling that hole,
then pile more still--plastic heaps of plunder.
With such riches, why is there never a hunch
where intact pair can be found with two bows?
And when one wants to read a bit at lunch,
their hide and seek makes agita wax bold.
Worst is when you hear soft insectile crunch,
and find you've crushed your favorites with one blow.
Lauri Burke © 2013


Talking Back To Tales


Sonnets Inspired by Fairy Tales:
Jack and the Beanstalk
Audio Version
read by Lauri Burke

Listen to the audio poem

{mooblock=Ruffled Feathers}

As a hen who lays eggs of purest gold,
my high value is indisputable,
yet the cur who now holds me, truth be told,
is a dim young bird brain unsuitable.
Prattlers paint him hero of the tale,
bold and adventuresome beanstalk climber;
I know the snatcher is beyond the pale,
light-fingered thief and sneaking two-timer!
Cad slid into my master's house one day,
to do some peeping, skulking and robbing,
then stole that great man's livelihood away,
leaving he and my good mistress sobbing.
Yes, I'm bitter, of honor I've been bled,
think I'll skip gold, start laying eggs of lead.
Lauri Burke © 2009


Moving On: 5 Sonnets In Time


Audio Version
read by Lauri Burke

Listen to the audio poem

{mooblock=  Moving On }

Everything is mutable each thing
has its time, milkweed forming pods that strew
seeds parachuting on silken strings
old log built fence kneels down to fall in two
vines close embrace splintered wood as they do
foliage turns yellow as lowered sun
like bittersweet before orange bursts through
bees visit beach roses while blooms still yawn
shoals of fish jump to break water's calm
visiting air to slice gnats in their flight
while swan ducks head down into their realm
urgent in motion as season sheds light.
Each day fans its way to dissolution,
knows nothing can hold back evolution.
Lauri Burke © 2009


Audrey Friedman

Audrey Friedman's work appears in numerous journals including the California Quarterly, The Newport Review, The Black Buzzard Review, The Comstock Review, Diner, and Heartbeats III: Jewish Writers at Their Best from Targum Press.

Audrey's chapbook, "Gallery of the Surreal," is available from Premier Poets Press, Middletown, RI.



► Audrey's micro-chapbook and selected poem are available below.

Origami Book

Poem Titles

At The Mime And Mask Theater  

, and At the Mime and Mask Theater
have appeared in Contemporary Haibun Online.  
It’s Dark in Here
has appeared in the print anthology,
Contemporary Haibun, Volume 10 by Red Moon Press.

{mooblock=Feng Shui}

The cobalt Limoges vase is gaudy with gold
roses. I am trying to de-clutter,
but for every thing I toss, I put three others
aside "to consider." The silk
scarf still holds her Estee Lauder fragrance.
The Persian lamb coat with
black mink collar is dated, way too big for
me, and so heavy it’s a burden.
Silver serving platters are scratched and tarnished;
the plating is barely there.

defy banishment
I weep each Spring
Audrey Friedman © 2009