 Poetry and I have a love hate relationship; when we get along, it’s fantastic, but when we disagree, we really don’t like each other. For example, Poe and I are great friends, but Bukowski and I are not on speaking terms. It’s hit and miss, is what I’m trying to say. Poetry is distinctly different than reading a novel. A book may leave you with ideas and messages to think about, but poetry to me always seems to keep its secrets close. It’s up to the reader to interpret whatever message we may or may not glean, and the interpretation sometimes takes much longer. Poetry is an introspective process, and I often find that the messages interpreted from it are specific to the reader. But perhaps I’m just a lazy reader. I do like a story that buttons itself up. But this little collection of poems is definitely a hit for me. It’s also, I might add, published by Backwaters Press. I appreciate the name, and the contents within. There are so many poems, and I would like to go through them one by one, unfortunately I can’t, but I have chosen four poems that really struck a chord with me. Instead of just a cursory glance, and a recommendation, I would like to really get into a few of these.
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 Mrs. Greenthumbs: How I Turned a Boring Yard into a Glorious Garden and How You Can, Too Written by Cassandra Danz Review and ruminations by Julie Carpenter I am not a fan of winter. Granted, now that I’m older and my internal thermostat is broken, I’m far more likely to be able to deal with cold weather, if taking off and putting on layers of clothes every thirty seconds and opening and closing windows can be considered “dealing with it”. It’s no longer the temperatures that get me. At this point my main objection to winter is that I feel lonely while all the plants are sleeping. I miss the leaves, the flowers, the buzz of nectar drunk bees. All I get in winter is cold gray sky and blank expressions from naked trees. There’s certainly no use talking to them while they’re napping – and trust me, I’ve tried. (But why not have a long conversation with an evergreen you might ask, say, a pine or a cedar? The cedars are serious and somewhat taciturn, and just between you and me, the average Georgia pine has very little depth so to speak. It’s why they topple over on houses during storms. Don’t get me wrong, they’re very sweet…but no sparkling conversation there. Anyway, evergreens never want to discuss my favorite topic: spring.) After Christmas, I wish I could go dormant with the oaks, fall asleep among the roots, covered with a blanket of withered leaves and wake with the buds in the spring. But alas…that is not to be. So, I do the next best thing. I read and dream about gardens.  Sometimes, I buy books for the title. That’s probably not the right way to do it, and I’m sorry…(not really, but some of you were clutching your pearls, and I wanted to give you a little comfort. This parenthetical observation probably counterbalanced that; in which case I am kind of sorry). However, in rare instances, I find that the title is so compelling, reading the dust jacket is not necessary for purchase. I will admit that buying a book based on the title is risky; sometimes if I had read the blurbs or synopsis, I would have been prevented from giving my monies to an author who poured all the originality into the title instead of the contents within. But sometimes, it’s worth the chance. It’s a reading adventure! And that is exactly how this little book by Sarah Allen grabbed my attention.
 When I visited Poetic Justice Books and Arts in Port St. Lucie over the holidays, I had the pleasure of meeting Dominic Albanese. (If you haven’t read it yet, check out this interview with him that Jeff Weddle wrote for Sacred Chickens.) Dominic is a poet, an animated conversationalist, and a force of nature. Dear Miss B is his first book of prose, an homage to his junior high school English teacher, who nurtured his love of reading and writing and helped him open up new areas of thought about himself and the world around him. The book takes the form of memories from his childhood through early adulthood, interspersed with the letters he wrote Miss B. from Vietnam, where he ended up as a troubled sixteen-year-old when he joined the army (after a little subterfuge about his age).
 The genre of folk punk is still evolving and can be many things, some of which often contradict one another. Sometimes the artist's personal choice in their state of sobriety or instrument tuning can be questionable, sometimes not. Some of these bands are strictly acoustic while others employ a range of instruments including electric guitars, synths, and drum machines. The one thing they all have in common is passionate songs about the changing times we all find ourselves in. Songs about politics, climate change, being in debt, and how hopeless the future seems are all typical of modern folk punk material.
 This book comes from a long lineage of dark and disturbing poetry mixed with equally dark, yet fun artwork. From Tim Burton's The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy, to the work of Gahan Wilson, and Charles Addams, to pretty much anything by Edward Gorey (especially The Gashlycrumb Tinies) this book is in good company.
 Ok, right off the bat, we have to establish something: I like reading about witches. In fact, if there are any themes in my literary tastes, this is one. I had a fascination with witches as a child (my theory is that I liked them because I was raised by powerful women) and that interest has merged with my academic career. It’s an interesting crossroads of books, horticulture and witchcraft (I never said I was going to do this the conventional way). Any book about witches is one that I’m probably going to read. I’ve reviewed several for the blog and read many more than that. We recently published a paper that I wrote about witches and the plants that they use (here’s my shameless plug for that because it’s actually very good). So, we have that out of the way. Point being that I’ve read a lot of books about the same topic, and they can become somewhat formulaic. After you can start to feel like you’re reading the same book- cauldrons, magic, broomsticks, burnings- all that can kind of blur together after a while.
 Coyote Songs is that rare beast of a book. Powerful and moving, scary and horrific in the truest and most honest sense of the words. This "barrio noir" by Gabino Iglesias transcends the horror genre and makes all too real the pain of death, revenge, escape, self-recognition, and triumph. Iglesias gives voice to women and children, the marginalized and the lost, killers and ghosts alike in these linked tales from the Mexican-American border during the dark time of the Trump administration.
 Fall seems to have come somewhat unexpectedly. One day, I’m wearing sandals and the next I’m bundled up to my eyeballs in a coat and scarf. My immune system loves that. Sigh. But what I really love is a creepy book, and with the onset of fall, that’s what I’ve been reading. The Whisper Man is a book that I’ve heard about for a month or so now, and now is the perfect time to read it. The plot features a famous writer whose wife has just died, and the book deals with how he and his son try to cope with that loss. There’s also serial killers and ghosts, because why wouldn’t there be? No creepy book worth its salt is going to not have at least one of those things and why not double your fun? This is a book that I would call a “guilty pleasure.” It’s fun reading, and a good story, and a very nice break from all the assigned reading I’ve been given
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