Sample poetry from Laura's chapbook and more:

Yahtzee

The dice rattle around in the cup
like a collection of old teeth,
the black letters like deep cavities
etched into the yellowed enamel.

Inside the dice box letters tumble,
smack into each other, turn over
like wayward stars, new constellations
forming and reforming.

The dice box is tipped
and from its astonished mouth
odd bits spew out, bits of lettered
enamel, ivory, old bones and

the sudden shock of language.

On Choosing the Right Pen

I like a pen with a bit of weight to it,
a pen that pulls your hand gently
but surely down to the page,
guiding you to that point of contact
where literature begins, where story
forms, flows, leans into the margin,
where it dangles dangerourlsy at the edge,
a pen that feels solid, that stands in bold
juxtaposition to the diaphanous voice
that recites to you the yet unwritten
line, a pen with enough heft
to feel significant as you hold it
mid-air, waiting for the next breath
of language, for the story to unfold
in that inexplicable chemical mix
of memory and ink, plausiblity
and expection.

Bakery Fresh

I like my metaphors with jelly inside,
my plot twists rolled in sugar.

My characters must never
be artificially sweetened.

I like the horror of tearing away
the golden skin and finding

the glistening jam inside.
It oozes out. I lick it in.

I have whole libraries filled
with bakery goods,

with salty syntax
and multi-syllabic sprinkles.

I have books where the pages
stick, and books where the

pages are the color of
clarified butter.

I have whole shelves
of long johns stacked end to end.

I like my reading to come
straight from the oven.

Memory Making

A poem is a memoir in miniature,
one second, two hours, three days, framed in a page,
a minute's detail takes twenty-four lines
to describe, the second hand slides by,
the pen scratches across the page,
will the children of the digital
understand the hand passing,
will they hear the clock ticking,
in my memoir nothing glows green,
illumination is not LED but moon,
and the willow branches squeak
in the wind, dry brushing a faint screen
of antique gold against the royal blue sky,
will they understand all these old things
and ancient ideas, the second hand moving,
the clock ticking, the need
for a poem.

Some Dogs (for Jackson)

Some dogs smell like dogs,
wet dog, outdoor dog, pampered dog,
dog-rolling-in-the-grass-trying-not-
to-smell-like-dog dog, there are dogs
that reek of flea poweder and tick collars,
and strange fishy-smelling swamp-loving dogs.

Most dogs get that doggy smell now and again,
especially on humid days, but my dog's smell
is the smell of all the people he meets in a day,
here on his shoulder is Marge's flowery perfume,
behind his ear the smell of second-hand smoke
from Bruce's gentle coddling hands.

Yesterday it ws Kim's White Diamond's.
People greet him all day long, his brown eyes
(we always say he has people eyes) burning into them
until they concede to a rub, a rub that can last a second,
a minute, all day would be fine -- and always at the end
of the day, after an houor on the couch laid back

against Kenny's chest like a little boy in his
daddy's lap, I smell on his neck, under his collar,
(as I scooch him over closer to me), a remnant
of Kenny's hands, the singular smell of salt
and muddled earth and engine oil,
of distant woodsmoke and fresh cut pine.

The Leaf

This fragile reddish stem
Connects us, this leaf
Sprinkled with cayenne red,
The edges aged and yellowing.

This act of stooping down
And picking up and clutching
Beauty to our chest
Connects us, this need

To clutch and carry, hold
And save, a single maple leaf
Connects us, you lifting hope
From the grass,

And returning secretively
To your nursing home bed,
Me, stopped on the sidewalk,
Leaf in hand, remembering you


All The Best

All the best memories are lies, I suppose,
Lies that taunt us with their shimmering iridescences,

Lies that echo around the canyon of our mind so often
That the voices have become indistinct,

Become part of someone else’s life, a life
That we long for as if it we our own,

All the while knowing that it is our own.
Our own life flickers like the last bit of wick

Burning down, burning through the last
Vaporous songs heard in the night, the last

Clatter of feet below the window, the last
Flare of cigarettes in the hotel alley,

And then there is nothing but the scrape
Of boots on the flagstones, and distant laughter.

At Night In Secret

At night, in secret,
The mushrooms rise,
Lift pale moon faces
To the dappled sky.

At night, in secret,
The mushrooms rise.
They lift their skirts,

They stretch and twirl,
And let their lace-edged
Slips unfurl.

All through the night,
They dance
On stile and stalk and stem,

Then toss their spores
Like bridal flowers
To waiting maiden earth.

By morning, when we rise,
The ghostly mushroom dance
Has passed.

Their caps are smudged
With black and crushed into
The mussed and tangled grass.

So rich the life,
So short the dance
From first moon shine
To fruit to spore to ash.

Cedar Waxwings

They come only once or twice a year,
Swarming like bees, one always

In the air while another feeds,
So many of them that

The air shivers. We feel the pulse
Of their wings from ten feet away,

Feel it just inside the door
Where we have suspended our

Sawing, our typing, our reading,
Suspended all but the gift of belief.

They swarm the smallish tree, greedy
In the cold spring air, for the bruised

Berries that have gone unnoticed
All winter, gobbling them as if

A little drunk, a little giddy
With pleasure, nonetheless

Moving in and out and ‘round
With absolute precision, the little

Leafless tree grown huge
With their whirring and darting and

Hovering presence, and us grown small
In the face of their insatiable appetite.


Storm Season

Circling like wild dogs,
Dark and churlish,
Thunderclouds growl in warning,
Press their heavily padded feet
Down through the bruised
Sky, scratch restlessly at the horizon
With their big dog claws,
Their large wet noses press
Against glass,
Lightening cracks
And sizzles from their
Wolfish eyes, and we wait
Burrowed inside our homes
Like small wild prey, hunched
And shivering, waiting
For the danger to pass, for the
Hungry snarling pack
To move on
With the long
Loping strides
Of the wind.

Reviewers’ Comments:
“You ended up writing beautiful poems, strong poems.”
-Tom McKeown, poet and instructor

“You have some brilliant imagery.”
-Skylar H. Burris, Editor, Ancient Paths

“You’re good!”
-Esther M. Leiper, Poetry Editor, Writer’s Journal

“Strong stuff, a good read.”
-Suzi Winson, Editor, Fish Drum Magazine

“There are phrases in your poetry that are so lyrical I find myself repeating them in my head.” “Soulful.”
-Heidi Holtan, Contributing Editor, realgoodwords

“The sample from Dispatches from the River is magnificent. Your talent as a poet is in every lyrical, evocative, pitch-perfect line. Your characters…are fresh and full-bodied.”
-Annie Kriel, EdgeWork Books

“I love The Chairs. It’s a ‘tour-de-force’ poem!”
-Joyce Sutphen, poet, Coming Back to the Body, Straight Out of View

“…wonderful imagery and depth.”
-Polly Opsahl, LOMP Annual Poetry Contest Judge

Glove Lake Morning II…” moved me with its precise and beautiful LANGUAGE, and also with the poignant suggestion that foolhardiness does not have to lead to disappointment.”
-Rita Bowles, LOMP Annual Poetry Contest Judge

“There's always so much inside your poems -- true feeling certainly, and a hint of toughness that I truly love.”
-Erin Hart, author of Haunted Ground and Lake of Sorrows

“I love your poetry!!! Such beautiful, precise images. So easy to grasp the emotion of the poem. And the subject matter, so ordinary and yet, with your language, rendered extraordinary.”
-William Kent Krueger, author of the Cork O’Connor mystery series

“Nice fierce poem! You keep the extended metaphor going well. Let's hope you write more in this month of poetry!” (Storm Season)
-Michael Dennis Browne, Minnesota Book Award Winning Poet and author of the Children’s Picture Book, Give Her the River

“Your work has wonderfully improved, strengthened and deepened and is seamlessly imbued with a radiant spirituality. Your poems really breathe life and truth…what more can one ask for?”
- Tom McKeown, author of Three Hundred Tigers and The Luminous Revolver


Publishing Summary:
Poem Title Publication __Page
Autumn Trespass North Coast Review (Winter 1998) 24
Lake Country Journal Magazine (Sep/Oct 2000) 47
In A Mood North Coast Review (Fall/Winter 1997) 12
VFW Centennial Parade North Coast Review (94 Winter/Spring 95) 40
River Swimmer North Coast Review (Issue #6) 26
Drinking by Daylight North Coast Review (Issue #6) 27
Sunday Smorgasbord Sidewalks (No. 5 Fall/Winter 1993-94) 30
Sunday Sacrament Sidewalks No. 5 Falls/Winter 1993-94) 30
Buried Treasure ArtWord Quarterly (Summer 1996/Number 5) 31
River Swimmer Northwoods Journal (Vol. 1, #2, Winter 1994) 18
Passing Thoughts The Talking Stick (Vol. 10, Summer 2001) 56
Upon Reflection River Images (Vol. 3, No. IV, Summer 2001) 10
Realgoodwords (Vol. One, Number One, 1999) 16
The Reprieve Realgoodwords (Vol. One, Number One, 1999) 1
Writing From Inside The Pocket Realgoodwords (Vol. One, Number One, 1999) 2
The Return Realgoodwords (Vol.One, Number One, 1999) 8
Autumn Ritual Realgoodwords (Vol. Two, No. Two, 2000) 10
Glove Lake Morning Realgoodwords (Vol. Two, Number Two, 2000) 11
Dispatches From the RiverRealgoodwords (Vol. Two, No. 1, 2000) 1
Riverside Realgoodwords (Vol. Two, No. 1, 2000) 5
Larger Than Life Lake Country Journal Magazine (July/August 2003)
Sleeping With Eyes Wide Open Talking Stick (Vol. 12, Winter 2004) 42
An Argument for Drowning Talking Stick (Vol. 12, Winter 2004) 55
Just Now a Fish Talking Stick 13 (Winter 2005) 26
Destroying Angel Talking Stick 13 (Winter 2005) 23
Adieu Talking Stick 13 (Winter 2005) 24
Grandmother’s Legacy The Women’s Legacy Workbook for the Busy Woman 13
The Dock Lake Country Journal Magazine 91
Cedar Waxwings The Talking Stick 14 134
Obsession The Talking Stick 14 162
The Deer Hunter The Talking Stick 15 38
A Few Simple Rules Apply The Talking Stick 15 (Prose/Fiction)
In My Garden Writer's Journal Vol 27, No 3 May/June 2006 53
To the Frozen River Lake Country Journal Magazine Jan/Feb 2007
Rain Lazy Day the Talking Stick 16 37
The Picture; A Flash Fiction the Talking Stick 16 159 (Prose/Fiction)
At Night In Secret The Talking Stick 16 185
At the Museum Lake Country Journal Magazine May/June 2008
Last Train Song, County Lines, August 2008

Awards: (to be updated soon)
League of Minnesota Poets Poetry Contest 2004
My Mother’s Heart Mabel Nyrop Short Poem Award, First Place
Glove Lake Morning II Magnificent Minnesota Award, First Place
Grace Notes Root River Poets Award, Third Place
League of Minnesota Poets Poetry Contest 2003
The Chairs Root River Poets Award, Second Place
Getting Beneath the Surface of Things Prose Poetry Award, Third Place
Indelible Writ In Water Award, Certificate of Merit
Glove Lake Morning II Family Award, Honorable Mention
Darkness Savored Edith Hall Memorial Award
League of Minnesota Poets Poetry Contest 2002
Animations Woodtick Poets Award, Merit Award
Poem for Pablo Maybel Nyrop Short Poem Award, Merit Award
Talking Stick 14 Fiction Contest Honorable Mention The Lift 110

Magazine Articles:
Those Places I Remember: West Side Café, Lake Country Journal Magazine, May/June 2003
The Big Gallon and a Cuppa (Crowder’s Station), Lake Country Journal Magazine, Jan/Feb2001
Sassyfras Butterfly Ranch, Lake Country Journal Magazine, July/August 2000
House Calls (Memories of Dr. Milo Hansen),,Minnesota Moments, Jan/Feb 2005
Small Town Bookstore With BIG Ideas, Bookselling This Week, September 3, 2003
The Good Living Cookbook Club at Bookin’ It, Bookselling This Week, July 29, 2003
Does It Really Matter?, Chamber of Commerce Pacesetter, Feb 2002
Delaney Churchwell, Profile of Fairy Ella author in Lake Country Journal Magazine, Mar/Apr 2005
Fairy Tale, Fairy Ella Book Review in Lake Country Journal Magazine, Mar/Apr 2005
Deceptively Simple, Broken Lines Book Review in Lake Country Journal Magazine, Mar/Apr 2005
Lists, memories, tell story of a specific time, place Minnesota Moments July/August 2008 p. 22