Author Archives: Risa Denenberg

It’s raining on the peninsula. There is a difference between rain and showers out here; with showers we get a little wet but usually luck out with a glint of sun here and there. You don’t cancel your usual walk … Continue reading →

I’m a bit late with everything this week, so it’s another Sunday Morning Muse on a Monday Morning. Wanted to share that after 7 years on the Olympic Peninsula, I now have an real-life poetry workshop group, and what a … Continue reading →

Did you know that Laura Madeline Wiseman hosts a wonderful website called “The Chapbook Interview: Talking all things chapbook” ? I recently did an interview with Wiseman which is published on her site, here. If you are a chapbook aficionado … Continue reading →

On Climate Change Now we have thousands of displaced refugees from Paradise, California. Noticing how climate change, perhaps even more than war, is a global crisis which we are so fucking unprepared for. On Memory My memory has become so … Continue reading →

Ten Reasons for (not) writing: California is burning. Our white nationalist president is blaming California for the fires. There is a civil war going on in this country, and the right is better armed. Mass shootings r/t #3. Refugees walking … Continue reading →

It’s been hard to keep up with blogging the past few weeks because of computer troubles, and a new kitty who got dehydrated and had to go back to the vet on Wednesday after her spay on Monday. And Bo, … Continue reading →

The morning sears its way into my day. There is the sparkling glint of sun on water and across Discovery Bay I can see the snowy top of Mount Baker and the backside of Port Townsend off to the East. … Continue reading →

It’s not that I didn’t write a blog yesterday, it’s that I didn’t post it. I felt, more than usual, at a loss for putting my thoughts down in any way that might make sense. My Sunday morning was blemished … Continue reading →

This is heartbreak I’ve squandered this vow mindlessly scratching a sterile sore. The portents were plain, nothing would come of it. Still I dream. Last night, seven dead mice strewn across my coverlet, harking back to an arresting image—Bodily Harm— … Continue reading →

In past decades, let’s say my pre-teen years through my forties, I often read more than 50 novels in a year. Then, in my fifties I started reading poetry in earnest.  A poetry lover since childhood, I was less likely … Continue reading →