Grooves on Vinyl

Rarely have I ever read a poet who constantly ventures into uncharted territory with their poems. I applaud you and am ever your devoted fan. Thank you. ~A "If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is wound up in mine, then let us work together." Aboriginal Activist Group, Queensland, 1970's

Everything that Anna said, I second! " reporting live via satellite directly from the womb, here's our corespondent Diatom Shell" you go girl!! thanks always, Eddie

Chloe the rebel poet rocker would jump and kick at the start of my tales of the day The Pokey dogs clamboured too and Miss Kitty the stripped cat Tim Hortons for Carolee I had forgotten so much but shards come back like a fist shattered mirror hued with bright red guilt

music is indeed woven into your very matter, I can feel your words vibrating. Where have you been hiding for so long? Glad that you eventually turned up here to share your words! Yours, ~Nina

my mother played the radio quite a bit when she was expecting me. I wonder if that is why music is such a big part of my soul. A brilliant write. Always, Cat

I am in awe of this poem its beauty ... is brilliant ... Love Jayne x x "We did not change as we grew older; we just became more clearly ourselves. Lynn Hall" ...

Lovely to see such a wonderful poem in the spotlight. I love the the title and idea and your style of writing.. (and also when I was expecting my son I played the same music everyday at a certain time and was sure he could hear it.. when he was born I continued to play the same music every day at the same time. and now when he has got 19 he is studying music and it is a great part of his life..) I love your lines: *It must have been its deep rhythms against her stomach that made me imagine that I felt the world kick beneath the hand I held to the wall of her womb.* just wonderful. Love. odd Molly

So glad elders are important in your works youth is theory mid age is finding out all my theories were somewhat off a few lightyears only music is everything my mother whom adopted me sang always and had records would do housework with them singing along while vacuming Love that line in your poem and the reference to the grooves Im always writing about the "whorls" of the galaxies like smudged fingerprints of god