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Fundamental Pillars of Life
A Poetic Wandering is a reflective collection spanning four decades in which you explore memory, family, Kansas history, travel, nature, faith, humor, and the experiences that shape a life. What role has poetry played in helping you process emotions, develop self-awareness, and make sense of your experiences?
Growing up as an only child, I wasn’t able to compare life experiences or receive guidance from a sibling. There were times I felt lonely, times I felt life was unfair, times when anger reared its ugly head. Writing became a means to document and work through some of life’s instabilities. The process eventually created opportunities for stronger self-confidence and self-esteem.
How has becoming a parent—and later reflecting on family across generations—influenced your poetry?
As one ages, we realize more and more the true importance of faith, family, and friends. I was truly blessed to grow up with parents who believed in these tenets. As parents, my wife and I tried to instill these beliefs in our own children. Sharing these fundamental pillars of life through family generations only makes sense.
Your collection moves comfortably between serious subjects and humorous poems about aging, grilling, toilet paper, and everyday life. Why is humor important to the overall balance of the book?
Poetry should be reflective at times, entertaining at times. I want readers to understand what I am sharing without having to dissect obscure, remote, or hidden meanings. Regarding humor…didn’t Ficino say “Humor Is the Spice of Life.”
What do you hope readers—especially parents, grandparents, travelers, and people reflecting on their own lives—take away from A Poetic Wandering?
I hope that by sharing my thoughts and experiences, it may help others to BE POETIC themselves.
Author Links: Website
A Poetic Wandering
Kevin R. Peterson’s A Poetic Wandering feels much like its title suggests: a long, personal walk through memory, family, Kansas history, travel, nature, faith, humor, and the ordinary experiences that accumulate into a life. The collection reaches back to poems from Peterson’s 1980s chapbooks and then moves into work written across the following four decades, so the reader gets something close to a poetic autobiography. Peterson explains that poetry became a way for him to work through emotions, develop self-awareness, reflect on experience, and share what he’d learned, and that purpose remains visible throughout the book. The result is a collection that’s interested less in maintaining a single mood than in recording the things a person notices and carries with him over many years.
The most affecting section is the group of poems drawn from Kendra: A Father’s Feelings. Here Peterson writes about his young daughter’s grave illness, survival, deafness, and the family’s adjustment to a frightening new reality. The poems are plainspoken and emotionally immediate. In “Hospital Paradox,” the birth of one child and the medical crisis of another exist almost side by side, while “Can It Be” captures the complicated mixture of gratitude and sorrow after his daughter survives but loses her hearing. “Roller Skates” then turns a Christmas gift into something far larger, because having their daughter home and alive has changed what the family values. These poems are strong because Peterson trusts the events themselves to carry the emotion. That directness gives the family material an intimacy that stays with you.
Elsewhere, the book widens considerably. Kansas appears again and again through prairie landscapes, pioneers, bison, Dust Bowl memories, sunflowers, local history, and Peterson’s sense of generational connection to the land. Travel adds another dimension, with poems about Yellowstone, Florida, wilderness hiking, canoe country, sunsets, campsites, and the decades-long project of visiting all fifty states with his wife. Nature often becomes a doorway into something spiritual. Peterson says explicitly that it’s where he feels most comfortable and where he most strongly connects with God. There’s also a welcome streak of playfulness, including poems about toilet paper, aging, grilling, and other subjects that keep the collection from becoming uniformly meditative. Near the end, Peterson brings poetry and photography together in what he calls a “poetograph,” combining his own images with brief poetic responses. That makes the closing pages feel like a natural culmination of two lifelong interests.
I’d recommend A Poetic Wandering to readers who enjoy accessible, personal poetry rooted in recognizable experiences rather than poetry that needs to be decoded before it can be felt. It should have particular appeal for Midwestern readers, nature lovers, travelers, parents and grandparents, people interested in family or regional history, and readers who’ve reached an age when looking backward and looking forward begin to happen at the same time. Peterson writes with the perspective of someone interested in preserving memories while he still has the chance to name them, whether those memories involve a hospital room, a Kansas field, a campsite, a marriage, a family tragedy, or a ridiculous question about which way the toilet-paper roll should face. That range is the book’s real character. It reads like one man opening several decades of notebooks and photographs and inviting you to wander through them with him.
Ceylon Moon
Ceylon Moon is a poetry collection built around memory, dreams, aging, identity, nature, and the uneasy business of trying to make meaning from a finite life. Aaron Gedaliah organizes the book into five sections that gradually move from childhood and personal recollection into dream life, questions of sanity, imagined voices from the natural world, and finally the experience of growing older. That structure gives the collection a real sense of progression. Early poems such as “I Am Becoming” capture the almost overwhelming vitality of childhood, while later poems look back on youth from a much greater distance. Gedaliah explains in the preface that childhood, dreams, sanity, nature, aging, and the absurdity of life are the central concerns of the book, and those themes keep returning in different forms.
The collection is especially strong when Gedaliah lets an ordinary experience open into something much larger. A toddler running downhill, a morning beside the Mekong, an old temple, a text message from a former lover, a pair of glasses, or a sleepless night can all become occasions for thinking about memory and identity. The poems frequently move between the physical world and an interior one, so landscapes, music, paintings, dreams, and personal recollections seem to talk to one another. That quality is especially vivid in “Ceylon Moon,” where a neglected piece of art becomes almost sentient, carrying with it distant places, submerged memories, and an atmosphere of longing. The language throughout the collection tends toward the sensory and dreamlike, with recurring images of moonlight, water, twilight, trees, music, silence, and shifting shades of blue and violet.
Gedaliah also has a playful philosophical streak, particularly in the “With [in] Sanity” and “The Voices” sections. Poems such as “Being Insane” and “Being in Between” treat sanity and madness less as fixed opposites than as forces people continually negotiate, with conformity on one side and freedom, impulse, and creativity on the other. In “The Voices,” stone, trees, clouds, mountains, and the sea are given their own perspectives, and the effect is surprisingly intimate. Nature becomes a way of talking about stability, memory, surrender, and the human desire to find significance outside ourselves. “A Song of the Sea,” for example, imagines the sea as an ancient rhythm binding us to existence, while “A Song of Letting Go” turns the seasonal loss of leaves into a meditation on accepting time and change.
Toward the end, the collection becomes increasingly concerned with aging, physical decline, estrangement from a more automated world, remembered intimacy, and the approach of death, but it keeps returning to gratitude and connection. “Because My Time Is Limited” places the speaker’s brief life against an immense and indifferent universe, yet arrives at astonishment. The closing poem, “What Is Life?,” reduces the book’s many questions to a simple chain connecting truth, memory, love, and the fragile experiences that give a life its meaning. I’d recommend Ceylon Moon most to readers who enjoy reflective, philosophical poetry and who are drawn to writers such as Rilke, Pessoa, Camus, or poets who use dreams, art, music, and nature as ways of thinking about consciousness. It should especially resonate with readers who’ve reached an age where memory feels less like a record of the past and more like something living alongside the present.
Pages: 84 | ASIN : B0HFQPBLZN
Excavating the Cruelty of Memories
Theodore McDowell’s Excavating the Cruelty of Memories: Exploring the Depths of Adult Trauma is a book of poetry that reads like an intensely personal memoir broken into lyric fragments. Its four sections move through traumatic brain injury, homelessness and street life, psychiatric hospitalization, and addiction, but the deeper subject running through all of them is identity: what happens to a person when memory, family, faith, work, and even a familiar sense of self become unstable. McDowell gives the collection a clear emotional architecture, so even as individual poems shift in time, perspective, and setting, they feel connected by one continuing struggle to understand the man who existed before the injuries and the man who survived them.
What gives the book its force is McDowell’s physical, restless imagery. Music is everywhere too, especially jazz and blues, giving the poems a pulse when the speaker’s life feels most disordered. Biblical language enters just as naturally, with God appearing as comforter, adversary, absence, mystery, and sometimes the only presence large enough to argue with. The result is poetry that feels lived. One of the collection’s most revealing moments comes when McDowell describes his injured brain as having been “rewired to speak in poetry,” turning words into the means by which a damaged identity can begin assembling itself again.
The book is also deeply concerned with the people standing near the center of the speaker’s suffering. His wife and children aren’t scenery in a story about illness. They carry wounds of their own, and several poems move into their emotional territory, allowing fear, resentment, exhaustion, tenderness, and loyalty to complicate the narrator’s understanding of himself. His parents and sister become equally powerful presences as therapy begins uncovering the violence and grief beneath idealized childhood memories. In the title poem, recollections that begin with fishing, a mother waving from a kitchen window, and a sister inventing heroic stories eventually open into alcoholism, domestic violence, abuse, and suicide. That excavation gives the collection its emotional depth. Trauma here isn’t one catastrophic event. It accumulates, resurfaces, changes shape, and travels through families.
By the end, recovery has become less a clean destination than a difficult practice of recognition. Sobriety, forgiveness, marriage, aging, grief, faith, and self-knowledge all remain unsettled, which makes the closing poems feel earned. Even the last poem leaves McDowell kneeling at a literal crossroads, still wrestling with God, death, memory, and the question of what comes next. That choice suits a book whose greatest strength is its willingness to remain inside contradiction: beauty beside degradation, love beside damage, belief beside fury, and survival beside the persistent pull of self-destruction. Excavating the Cruelty of Memories is a fierce, intimate testament to the way a shattered life can find its voice without pretending the cracks have disappeared.
Pages: 252 | ASIN : B0D98YQ6JZ
Held in the Vanishing
Ti Mougne’s Held in the Vanishing is an intimate memoir about caring for two parents whose lives are being altered by different forms of dementia. Her father has Alzheimer’s disease, while her mother has Primary Progressive Aphasia, which gradually takes away her ability to understand and use language. Mougne writes from the complicated middle of this experience, where caregiving, marriage, parenting, work, and grief all occupy the same crowded space. Early in the book, she explains its purpose with striking simplicity: “Stories don’t offer maps. They offer companionship.” That idea shapes everything that follows.
The memoir begins with the lively multigenerational home Mougne created with her husband, son, and parents. Holiday dinners, elaborate parties, piano lessons, bad jokes, pets, and familiar household sounds give the reader a clear sense of what the family shared before dementia began changing its rhythms. This attention to ordinary life matters because it gives every later loss a history. Her parents aren’t presented only through their diagnoses. They’re a devoted couple who dance at their fiftieth-anniversary celebration, a mother who loves Halloween, and a father whose trusting nature becomes dangerous when Alzheimer’s damages his judgment. The warmth of these memories keeps the story grounded in people rather than conditions.
Mougne is especially perceptive about the work of caregiving that happens beyond public view. She describes the constant calculations involving medications, finances, safety, housing, dignity, and medical care, along with the guilt that seems to attach itself to every decision. She also examines how that responsibility affects her husband and son, and she’s candid about the anger, numbness, resentment, and exhaustion she carries. One of the book’s most honest insights is that “Sometimes love is nothing more than showing up again tomorrow.” Here, love often takes the form of gluten-free toast, a corrected television setting, a difficult phone call, or another visit after an emotionally bruising day.
The book’s short chapters and spacious, line-broken prose give it the feel of a memoir written partly through poetry. That style suits Mougne’s subject because dementia rarely unfolds as a smooth narrative. It arrives through fragments, repetitions, silences, brief recoveries, and sudden recognitions. Concrete images, including vanished ducklings, clouds admired from a car window, weekly margaritas, lightning bugs in a jar, and an empty road across the prairie, carry much of the emotional meaning. The later chapters turn inward as Mougne considers the identity she built around being a “good daughter” and begins finding a version of care that allows her to remain present without erasing herself.
Held in the Vanishing is a memoir about how love changes when memory, language, independence, and familiar family roles begin slipping away. It holds tenderness and frustration together without forcing either into a comforting conclusion. Mougne’s parents continue to decline, difficult choices continue to surface, and her understanding of herself continues to evolve. What gives the book its power is its close attention to what remains: humor, ritual, touch, shared meals, flashes of recognition, and the decision to stay connected even when connection has to take a new form. It’s a deeply personal account, but its emotional clarity makes the experience feel shared.
Pages: 151 | ASIN : B0H6N8CGHC
The Small Hours
The Small Hours, by Edward Averett, follows Michael Virtue, a Spokane psychologist whose life cracks open after his best friend Mason dies and his marriage begins to collapse. Drawn back toward an old family wound, Michael travels to Andalusia to uncover what happened to his uncle Robert, an American who vanished during the Spanish Civil War. What begins as a search for a grave becomes something stranger and more haunted: Robert is alive, hidden for decades by Carmen, while the village, Delia’s dangerous past, and Eugenio Robles’s inherited hunger for revenge all converge around one buried truth.
I found the novel most powerful when it sat with the emotional residue of history rather than rushing toward answers. Robert’s letters home have a trembling innocence at first, especially when he writes as if Spain will be an adventure, something noble and bracing. Watching that innocence darken after Max’s death and Robert’s own violence gives the book a real ache. I also admired Carmen, who could have been written simply as a keeper of secrets, but instead becomes the moral center of the story, fierce, wounded, funny, and almost mythic in her endurance. Her question to young Michael about whether America is where one can find the heart’s desire stayed with me because it’s both naïve and devastating. The book understands that war doesn’t end when guns fall silent; it goes on living in kitchens, in rumors, in bodies, in the way neighbors know everything and say almost nothing.
The writing has a pleasingly weathered texture. Averett can be blunt, even bawdy, especially in Michael and Mason’s scenes, but he also has a gift for sudden tenderness. The opening motorcycle wreck, with the goats chewing at Michael’s ruined Oso, is almost comic, yet it leads directly into one of the book’s deepest currents: the absurdity of survival. I didn’t love every tonal swerve equally. Delia’s fugitive backstory brings heat and momentum, but at times it crowds the quieter, more elegiac novel hiding underneath. Still, I appreciated the messiness. The book is interested in people as contradictory creatures, not tidy symbols. Michael can be perceptive and emotionally evasive. Robert can be both victim and killer. Eugenio is frightening precisely because his cruelty grows from a story he has been taught to worship.
By the end, The Small Hours left me with a sad, steady feeling, the kind that comes from a story about people trying to live after history has already made its claim on them. Its final movement, with Robert stepping into daylight and the village closing ranks around him, feels earned and quietly shattering. I’d recommend this to readers who enjoy historical fiction with layered timelines, morally complicated characters, and a reflective rather than purely plot-driven approach to war, memory, grief, and redemption.
Pages: 463 | ASIN : B0FH7CLCDH
JAD: A Poem
JAD: A Poem, by James Richard Hansen, is a slim, intensely devotional book-length poem arranged around seven relational roles: Father, Mother, Brother, Child, Teacher, Lover, and Friend. The collection reads like one long act of gratitude toward a beloved figure, moving through scenes of protection, memory, spiritual rescue, childhood wonder, romantic recognition, and friendship. Its emotional center is love as shelter: the father tucking a child beneath a “canopy of lavender lace,” the mother pulling her from the path of a reckless car, the friend guiding the speaker out of self-made shadows, and the recurring rose imagery that turns vulnerability into something luminous and defended.
Hansen’s best moments have a clear, almost prayerlike stillness, especially when he writes about the daughter as “living poetry” or imagines connection as “liquid light.” Those images could feel sentimental in another context, but here they feel sincere because the speaker returns to them with such emotional consistency. The book isn’t interested in irony or restraint. It’s open-hearted, sometimes almost startlingly so, and I respected that. There’s a rare earnestness in the way it treats love as a sacred obligation rather than a mood.
At times, the spiritual language leans on familiar phrases about God, light, dreams, and the Self. Still, the repetition begins to create its own atmosphere. The poems keep circling the same questions: How do we protect someone without possessing them? How do we survive pain without letting it harden us? How does love become both refuge and instruction? I was especially drawn to the later “Friend” section, where the walk through the forest deepens into a confrontation with fatigue, escape, and renewal. The speaker’s movement toward the farewell-to-spring flower feels quiet and earned.
I felt that JAD is less a conventional poetry collection than a sustained private offering, intimate, reverent, and emotionally unguarded. Its strength lies in its faith in tenderness, in the belief that human bonds can become a kind of spiritual architecture strong enough to shelter a damaged life. I’d recommend it to readers who appreciate devotional poetry, reflective love poems, and work that values sincerity over polish, especially those drawn to writing about family, healing, faith, and the redemptive force of deep companionship.
Pages: 64 | ISBN : 978-1418493332
Maintaining My Personal Voice
Moondust is a collection of poems whose themes range from reflections on nature and childhood memory to grief, love, and mental anguish. Why was this an important collection for you to share with readers?
Moondust is a journey through emotions and experiences that are often hard to put into words. It’s a way for me to explore and process my own feelings while hopefully offering comfort and insight to others. In my nature poems, I often find beauty in the simplest moments—like witnessing the dawn sky or observing the birds in my garden—and I want to preserve those vivid snapshots.
Why did Moondust feel like the right title for this body of work?
“Moondust” symbolizes the beauty and inherent fragility of life’s transient moments. It reflects a sense of wonder at the natural world and how its sights and sounds, and the people within it, can stir profound emotions within us.
Childhood and family memory appear with both warmth and ache throughout the book. Was revisiting those spaces emotionally difficult during the writing process?
No. I look back on my childhood fondly. Each space holds a story that shaped who I am today, and while there were challenges, the overall experience was filled with love. It was more of a celebration than a struggle, and I was grateful for the opportunity to honor that part of my life through my writing.
Are there themes or forms you’re eager to explore in future collections?
I continually grow as a writer, exploring new styles while maintaining my personal voice. Free verse gives me the freedom to express myself without the constraints of rhyme. I also enjoy writing haiku because I love capturing a single beautiful moment in a brief, impactful snapshot.
Author Links: GoodReads | X (Twitter) | Website | Amazon
Her deep appreciation for the natural world shines through, revealing its unique quirks and challenges through lyrical expression.
With her distinctive voice, Steele explores emotions, relationships, and personal truths.
Each poem is a powerful piece of artful storytelling, appealing to anyone seeking connection and insight.
