Tuscaloosa Poetry Club Spotlight

We are very proud to feature original poems by the Tuscaloosa Poetry Club! 

Before we dive into the poetry, here's a little information about the TPC:

The Tuscaloosa Poetry Club held its first meeting April 2, 2025 at the Tuscaloosa Public Library and has met there each Wednesday evening since. The members eat donuts, drink coffee, and joyfully share our work with one another. Everyone is welcome. The club offers its heartfelt thanks to TPL for giving us a home, and Julie Carpenter and her Sacred Chickens for providing us with this showcase. 

Click on the Read More link below to enjoy the showcased poetry!
​

The Lighter Things 

The lighter things in life
Occupy less space in
A mind encumbered by
Obsessions, obligations
A time thief
The weight of which leaves
Me hardened like coal
 
Tranquil living opens the air
So, I can breathe
Whimsical
Like a scoop of feathers
Liberating me to live
Like the butterfly on my marigolds
Living as free as the whippoorwill
 
Of the time I’m allowed
I carry feathers
  
 
               -Katie Barnett

 
Scrubbed Raw

I am scrubbing tile
that isn’t mine-
her bathroom,
her shadows-
but the mud runs under my nails.

A heavy sweater
clings in the steam.
I lift a fruit,
it rots in my fingers.

The water rises,
thick with waste.
It spills over,
pulls me under-
God watches
as I drown.

A voice:
"I offer you respite."
But why not here,
in her house,
when I am the one
bleeding my hands
on her porcelain?

I twist the faucet,
let the flood
whirl down the drain,
I rise, rinse off-
shaking,
skin raw,
still unclean.

I shout,
My cries echo on
The chipped tiles.
She hears.
Stomps away-
anger snapping the tether
between us.
Yet returning,
she kneels beside me.

We both weep,
our tears acrid,
our knuckles raw.
Both burdened.
Both scrubbing
what a man left behind.

We keep scouring-
No soap can cleanse it.
We keep scouring.
         
           --Megan Blaney
 

 
Gray Rock                                                                                                                                                                                                     
Cats are safe
Surface conversation 
Keeps us from careening 
Into landmines 
Of what we think 
About each other
 
            - Teranda Donatto
 


Holding on
 
Why am I still clinging to what hurts me?
Letting go seems scary.
I only feel safe when he’s sleeping 
Because then he’s not betraying me on purpose.
 
 
           -Rachael Drinkard
 
 
 

The Walking Spirit
 
My neighbor says the woman is crazy.
But how would he know,
and compared to what?
She is old and black,
and her clothes have the worn 
look of her face.
I saw her eyes once,
the color of my morning coffee.
 
She walks the road daily,
ragged Bible in hand, eyes to the sky,
singing the praises
of Abraham and Isaac,
of Moses and Elijah.
A timeless journey
traveled only by special souls.
 
Her path crosses mine
at unexpected times,
on the corner
as I drive to work,
in my neighborhood
as I walk the dog.
Sometimes I wonder, 
maybe she is an angel.
 
She feels the Spirit move through her,
the freedom of losing the self.
Praise the Lord, amen, amen.
Walk on through heat and dust,
let the words and time flow.
Walk Spirit, step by step.
 
The everyday world melts away.
Praise the courage, amen, amen,
to exist outside that world,
to go to the edge and beyond.
Walk on.
 
The light of the Spirit points the way.
No black or white, 
no good or bad,
no borders, all one.
Walk Spirit.
 
           -Bob Humphrey
 

 
Horrid Existence 
 
there’s a personal hell 
in going to church as a kid 
when you’re different 
 
an endless drive in scratchy clothing 
too loud music 
made worse by dads screeching along 
hurtling towards a sensory nightmare 
 
a safe haven looms 
threatening the horror to come 
two hours of your personal hell 
the only solace; 
raised lines carved out by nails against skin 
 
strangers grabbing your arm 
hands branding against your back 
discomfort comes like an allergic reaction 
scratch your arm 
 
the Commune 
smacking their candy, their gum 
repetitive
repulsive to your ears 
scratch your arm 
 
The Pastor monologues 
of how “them gays” are wrong 
going to hell for loving wrong 
you think of your mom 
scratch your arm 
 
his words pin you down 
unwilling against the stiff pew 
eyes and legs bouncing in place 
back stiff 
arms discreetly at your side 
scratch your arm 
 
scratch your arm 
scratch till you bleed
 
a false balm 
to the discomfort 
 
to the frustration 
that break pens 
breaks skin
 
           - Marsciona Jones
 
 

CODDIWOMPLE

It began as a morning with wool socks and dew
The trail a river of worn stones and rabbit prints no bigger than a thumb

The trees tilted just enough to make you feel watched
And the wind held its breath waiting for something to happen

Somewhere beyond mile three the moss thickened like velvet
And the light forgot how to fall straight

There was a sound
Not quite song
Not quite silence
Like spider webs threading through rain

I remember kneeling to touch a mushroom that shimmered wrong

And then…

My backpack was too light on the way back
The rabbit prints stopped

And no one calls my name
like they used to
 
 
            -Yvette Joyner
 
 
 
The Death of Henry Blake
 
This evening at 6:55, Lt. Col. Henry Blake died again.
After forty years of MASH reruns you recognize the episode as soon as it begins.
You say, “I don’t like this one.”
“I know,” she says.
You go about clearing the table, washing the dishes, listening from another room.
She, on her bike, watching the funny parts.
Neither one of you change the channel, or turn the damn thing off.
That would be disrespectful to Henry’s memory.
You watch the happy goodbyes,
See the father-son relationship with Radar,
See Henry fly in the helicopter to the airfield to catch a plane home,
Home to his wife and children after being at war for a year,
See the next scene, the busy OR, the noise, the jokes,
See Radar open the door
“Radar! Get your mask on!”
See Radar not put on his mask,
See him state in one slow, steady sentence
Henry’s plane was shot down over the ocean with no survivors,
See the room go silent, as still as the anesthetized patients,
See the open mouths under the masks,
See yourself, still, with a plate in one hand and a towel in the other,
See your wife’s bike, still,
While your tears send up two prayers
Thank you that it is over
May it never change.
 
            -Dwight Lammon
 
 
 
The Town I Grew Up In   
 
Iron to a magnet
This town draws my heart 
It cuts into my sides
Like a spear
I lay in the bloody lane
A moment too long
And now in silence I weep
For the heyday
 
People come and go
On their appointed rounds
Blind to the sights
Just below the sheen 
Of the oils of strife
And bitter past
Open only to those 
Who know its path
 
Gazes cut short
And like rain 
Tears haunt today
Leaving silver stains
Of rust and ruin
In its vain retreat
Gasping for air
The weary fall
 
Just around the bend
Rivers of grief silently
Erode the land
Until rock and stone
Catch it up 
To tower above sandy flats
And justify the brave
 
Dim lit horizons 
Dawn on the 
Pains of the night
As the timid
Tiptoe into the air
A haze of broken
Color on fields of
Gray and white
 
I am thrust
Into the open and 
Sit with my hands
Under me and I 
Rock to and fro 
A tattered sail
An Unknown flag
Flies above in jest
 
 
           -Jamie Leach
 
 
  
Manifesto of a Recovering Discontent
 
Everyone is part of the system
except God and babies
and the system is not working at all.
Hold your hands close to the motor.
Feel the steam rising while you can.
Even pain has a purpose.
Gather round.
Be amused by the investments
of those who spin your money
into threads of gold.
They are bottomless.
Do not fall for their false profits.
They fancy the ‘ol pump and dump
on each other
the bait and switch.
Listen for the screams of the vultures
their anxious eyes, their humped shoulders
pecking for a piece of your privacy.
Let them push their placebo buttons.
The double tap is their war dance
luring the innocent close.
We are all guilty.
The barbarians are at the door.
If possible, be unaffected by the noise.
Instead, tend your garden,
make room for sowing and reaping,
prepare the soil, feed the butterflies and bees,
trust the daffodil and dandelion
to share space
remember the lion and the lamb
ask questions point blank
and not at a distance
if history is lost 
rest in the knowledge of nothing
be patient with the demented
forgetting may be a blessing too
and when they tell you to look this way
look that
stop spinning.
 
           -Beth Sherrill
 
 
 
The Users
 
The users are no longer protected.
Their hero, now twisted.
Their language, now tweaked.
The mission, now grifted,
and run on deceit.
A future envisioned,
now forcefully downsized,
in favor of fat and
healthy bottom lines.
 
None are left to fight for the users.
The original message cast out the window.
Forgotten dreams of systems built
on free and open info.
The dream replaced with propaganda,
Now pushing foreign models.
Chockful of referenced references
Their condition can’t be toggled.
 
Do the users even know
of the dangers that now loom? 
Are they blind and fine with slop
that they now consume?
Would we stand to band together,
To bring back what is right?
Will we all just slowly languish
Beneath the weights of might?
 
When apathy becomes normality
and programs are re-written,
Can the users dare to care
about heroes now long gone missing?
 
           -Moriah Waiters
 
 

Here are the Facts
 
No one gets into heaven 
and no one gets into hell.
No one is blessed or cursed.
There is no big god of light 
and no big god of darkness. 
No one is watched over by angels 
and no one sells their soul to the devil. 
No one  has a destiny 
and there’s no such thing as fate. 
No prayers are answered 
just as no prayers are ignored.
You are alone.
And still, you have a soul. 
Deep inside, you are kind,
unless kindness has been 
beaten out of you. 
We live, we die, 
and are fast forgotten.
Do some good while you can.
 
           -Jeff Weddle
 
 
 
Poet Bios
 
Katie Barnett is a speech-language pathologist in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and works with preschool students on the Autism spectrum. She is married to her exceptional husband and they have a lovely daughter. Poetry is Katie’s passion. It is one of the many “silver linings” in her life. She finds it compelling and therapeutic. She ventures into topics related to nature, sorrow and mental illness. Katie enjoys staying active and spending quality time with her husband.
 
Megan Blaney is a lifelong lover of words who released her debut poetry book Scattered Pieces of Mind in August 2025. She lives with her loving boyfriend, and three silly cats in Alabama.
 
Teranda Donatto is an educator, technical writer, and burgeoning creative writer. She was born and raised in Louisiana but now has lived in South Korea, France, Pennsylvania, Texas, and Alabama.
 
Rachael Drinkard hails from the shores of Alabama but now dwells in a "little big" city further inland. She has a passion for writing that has been dormant for some time due to life's highs and lows. She recently joined a local community poetry club where they have encouraged her to share her work. Enjoy! 
 
Bob Humphrey lives with his wife and three dogs on the Black Warrior River near Eutaw, Alabama.  After a career of over forty years in accounting, Bob is now retired and spends much of his leisure time awakening his creative skills through writing poetry and learning to play the guitar.
 
Marsciona Jones is a poet, Artist, and  optimist at heart. Based in Alabama, Their focus is on personal introspections of life and the intricacies within people.
 
Yvette Joyner is a public librarian and adventurous mother of 3 lovely girls
She spends her free time running, hiking, reading, and creating.
 
Dwight Lammon is a retired Registered Nurse who loves baseball, woodturning, and poetry. His wife and he live in a log cabin they built themselves forty years ago. He has published one collection of his poetry, “Always Eyes Upon Me.”
 
Jamie Leach is a retired engineer and resides in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He spends his days traveling, birding, writing and painting. He dabbles in poetry
 
Beth Sherrill is a retired Chemistry teacher living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama with her husband and two boxer dogs, Callie and Lucy. 
 
Moriah Waiters  lives in the wilds of rural Alabama with her shadow, a menace of a rottweiler puppy named Mugen. When the brain worms allow it, she enjoys journaling & writing poetry. Her work often explores themes of hope, perseverance, and her personal experiences navigating life while under the influence of the human condition.
 
Jeff Weddle is the Alabama Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026). He teaches in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama.