Bio for 2024
Rifka Goldwyn was born of a coconut, or so her mother confessed at her brother's funeral. Legend has it that her mother's mother, Mary, had been stolen from Hazard, KY in '48, in the wake of her parents' untimely deaths (her father succumbed to a mining incident, her mother dismissed from life by a juggernaut grief no more than a harrowing fortnight later), abducted by distant relatives—the Feathers, in from Florida; they snatched her and her twin baby sister, leaving their three older brothers with who knows just how big a sack of fresh-plucked coconuts.
Rifka can be found come inclement Tuesdays in a farrow of ravenous hagfish sleaved from cigarette tinder, awash in a hog trough riddled with coffee and clotted cream. Her one lone tome, Sweet Briar and Firebrands of the Indigo Village (admonished in birdsong), can be found in paperback via (all apologies, really, she's sorry) amazon.com. She resides in Lexington, albeit years ago buried something deep in Arroyo Seco—makes ends meet cobbling pizzas together, and, in her down time, gayly parades downtown with a duck umbrella the color of chipperly chilblained gingkos.
Rifka can be found come inclement Tuesdays in a farrow of ravenous hagfish sleaved from cigarette tinder, awash in a hog trough riddled with coffee and clotted cream. Her one lone tome, Sweet Briar and Firebrands of the Indigo Village (admonished in birdsong), can be found in paperback via (all apologies, really, she's sorry) amazon.com. She resides in Lexington, albeit years ago buried something deep in Arroyo Seco—makes ends meet cobbling pizzas together, and, in her down time, gayly parades downtown with a duck umbrella the color of chipperly chilblained gingkos.
Reason for signing up:
Because it seemed important, like protecting the bees or watching the sunrise shudder and blush and twist into tack-pale, lachrymose morning.
Poems Submitted This Year:
- June 01, 2024 der Treppenwitz
- June 02, 2024 Julia's Child
- June 03, 2024 Quarters
- June 04, 2024 everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, greenware
- June 05, 2024 Why a duck
- June 06, 2024 On my first and last day being paid pennies to pencil in cookie fortunes
- June 07, 2024 Don't feed the animals painted behind a no smoking sign on Broadway and Vine St.
- June 08, 2024 Escape from Eden, soaked in smoke
- June 09, 2024 That condensed milk wisdom that gods rubbed the label from
- June 10, 2024 Sunday brunch of mushrooms down at the Farmer’s Market, our church among puggles and bear cubs—My!
- June 11, 2024 I keep trying—
- June 12, 2024 Is it time to smoke inside yet
- June 13, 2024 The reason I won't wear shorts anymore
- June 14, 2024 Juggling slugs as broad as our sovereign star
- June 15, 2024 The sun shines bright on something
- June 16, 2024 Mechanically separated chicken
- June 17, 2024 a transposition of some shrill song I’ve yet to suspend on tobacco staves, ashes already
- June 18, 2024 What I might easily write off as boilerplate cynicism takes the bewildering shape of a half-cracked carnival cudding its niche in a corn field, ears piqued over encroaching escarpments
- June 19, 2024 Obsessed with the measures of Jupiter
- June 20, 2024 For Robert, who dropped the -o, born half-Cubano though buried as white as the lungs of a snowglobe, draped in a tabard and pendant, white as the nose of a splintering bat, or a house cat slathered in duty-free diatoms, scratching at fleas or dandruff
- June 21, 2024 -
- June 22, 2024 Perhaps the capitol of something a gruff touch bigger than any old gelding foal could afford
- June 23, 2024 No more demanding a griddle-cheeked maxim than Let's
- June 24, 2024 I spy the Moirai, playing cat's cradle or crossing their fingers
- June 25, 2024 Should an octopus, blue or black at will, just slip through a chink in the rubble
- June 26, 2024 Just cats at play—that’s what we’d say about any unsavory tension
- June 27, 2024 Joke of the day
- June 28, 2024 It’s what tickles an orange to an orange, you see—
- June 29, 2024 Please pull this wagging finger loose, like a new year's fortune teller upturned into chewing gum, gun smoke, mulligan stew, and the rueful rewrites raddling over your backbone, brusque as a wheat grass enema courting the bore of a swollen eclair
- June 30, 2024 Would you look at that.
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