Mar.
31
2026
My courageous and loving patients continue to inspire my writing even all these years later. My poem “Pegasus” about two people who continue to help me understand all the facets of love. I wrote it during my classes at Heron Hills Horse farm last year. “Pegasus” is included in the online ‘myths and legends’ issue of The Gentian literary journal. Such a powerful theme. You can read all the beautiful work at https://thegentian.wordpress.com/issue-23-myths-and-legends/
My poem is below:
Pegasus
for Dawn
Your limbs no longer move
but your tongue and lips are free
as you tell me, while I bandage
your wounds, flush the line
that delivers morphine,
how you used to ride bareback.
The man beside you, beside me,
offers his empty hands
as if to hold back the shadow
of a stalking horse. You named
your first ride Pegasus.
You remember him now
as the story of your life
when it was ordinary magic
before disease ate the sheaths
covering your muscles. Pegasus
is in the sky’s stable now created
from a square of starlight, ridden
by the asterism of a hero who
was meant to save a cursed girl,
but could not rescue even himself.
On clear autumn nights, your husband
carries you outside. Together
you lay on a blanket in a field
domed by hope with no cure.
You count satellites and meteors
until you feel wings rowing
from strong shoulders, feathers
brushing your bent knees.
Mar.
22
2026
I wrote this poem after a ferry ride where I watched gulls at sea appear to drink salt water. When we got home I researched whether seabirds could indeed quench their thirst with water straight from the ocean. I found that they could! Their beaks and bodies are adapted for this.
The work in this journal made me fall in love with aspects of nature all over again! And many of the pieces, including mine, have sound recordings to accompany the print poems. You can read the issue at:
https://www.splitrockreview.org/issue-22. My poem is below:
I watch from the ferry, a gull
at sea scoop, tip her head,
swallow water poison to my human
throat. Such luxury to have
the whole ocean to quench
one need. In seabirds
excess salt pulses through the
bloodstream to a pair of glands
set just above the eyes,
beyond both taste and scent,
where I have two sinuses
of open space said to balance
the skull of my expression
as if the gull, the tern, the cormorant
evolved beyond mere human
emptiness. From the birds’ brow
a tear forms, runs down the grooved
bill, within troughs so narrow
they go unnoticed by the casual eye,
until a single crystal glint appears,
clings to the unkissable lip waiting
to become its own rain and return
what waves demand: mineral
responsible, somehow, for the heart,
its regular, irregular emotions,
like envy for how naturally
the bird floats, endures cold, simply
drinks in the world around her.
Jan.
12
2026
My poem “Daring the Re-Discovered Life” is in the new issue of Spillway, the journal from Moon Tide Press. The over-all theme is rebirth and the book is divided into various sections on this topic. Mine is ‘Utterance.’
The poem reflects an actual experience I had and my response. I am so honored to have my work in this beautiful publication!
Daring the Re-Discovered Life
My friend, the newly minted hypnotist,
offers to give me a day of my life
over. To charm my mind into memory
and re-awaken a younger self. I can choose
any day. At first this sounds
wonderful – to re-capture a tango
of joy, the exaltation of achievement,
conversations or the tremor of reciprocal
touch. Then, as if pricked by a thorn,
I recall the disbelief within all
happiness. The unworthiness shadowing
honors. And how could I risk caress
when I know it will be taken away?
He is surprised when I tell him
No thank you. A little hurt, so proud
is he of his mastery of timelessness.
Over the next few days, my memory
does seem ignited. At unlikely times
I get a flash of Paris or a crimson sky.
I taste the shiver of an unripe seaside
berry. Feel the seductive fingers
offering it. Open my mouth this time.
Jan.
04
2026
My poem, “For Horses No Longer Ridden,” that I wrote as part of my writing with horses classes at Heron Hills Equine is in the online literary journal “Quartet” January 2026! This journal is really cool because besides featuring the poem, each is accompanied by an poet’s statement about how poetry inspires them and what particularly prompted this work. You can read my poem and all the other wonderful ones by going to: http://quartetjournal.com.
This poem, for me, is an example of how something we really love creates art through us.
For Horses No Longer Ridden
Horses by nature were never meant
to be saddled, the slight swale
between withers and rump
not constructed for armor
or even summers of the young.
With age comes ease, never again
to be mastered by leather,
no longer made to carry
the weight of worry and journey.
I do not demand they create a gait for me.
Today three twenty-year-old horses
salvage the landscape. They graze
with muscles light as wings: sparrow,
blue bottle fly, afternoon’s angled light.
I bring a palm of apple slices.
I know they do not love me
the way I might wish for intimate
love, even as the supple lips
caress my open hand. And I do not
plot to harness them to furrow
the hard, unyielding fields
for the sake of my hunger.
Horses are their own loose army
of peace. I want to feel how stalks
grow soft within them. How their slow
feasting sets the whole Earth free.
Nov.
10
2025
My poem “Lepidopterist” is in the digital and print issues of the lovely journal Plainsongs, Fall 2025. We were driving through Eastern Washington recently and passed a farmhouse that evoked a memory. I doubt that it was the same house, but it reminded me of one two dear friends lived in during the 1970s. I wrote this poem about them – and everyone who truly honors the one they love. When we do this, miracles happen!
Linda lived with Wendy in the oldest
house in the county about a mile
out of town. Its attic
was perfect, with its peaked ceiling
rafters, for where Linda
needed to place cocoons: warmth
always at a slant, giant incubator
full of dust mites and pollen.
Lepidopterist, Linda’s passion was
emerging wings and she and Wendy
rented the place for their nursery.
Wendy helped tuck the finger-tip-sized
swaddles into the crooks of beams
smelling of old forests and honey.
Wendy’s calling was horticulture
and she hoed a full acre for root settings,
food for every pattern
of fragile transformation.
I remember thinking, back then,
about collaborative love. Wondering
how many swallowtails and luna moths
slept inside of me and who would
find the house where we could raise them?
Who would plant fields of hungry
beauty? And how many
would even survive into spring
when Linda and Wendy walked hand-
in-hand up the rickety steps
to witness a steeple of wings?
Sep.
24
2025
My poem, “Ache of Crimson in the Key of C,” received an honorable mention in Passager journal’s 2025 contest. The poem appears in the Fall 2025 print issue.
This poem is about my mother – or rather my feelings about my mother when, as a child, I witnessed her transportive passion for playing the piano. She was always so full of emotion, especially as it relates to the beautiful things of this world. She passed in 1999 and I feel her presence often through music certainly and also when I take the time to step outside myself into the wonders of the world around me.
Ache of Crimson in the Key of C
My mother used to cry
when she looked at the sunset.
The same far-away expression
she wore playing her piano
for hours. Whichever music
came to mind, to heart. Beauty
a vector toward purest
harmony. I remember
feeling afraid, as a child,
knowing she forgot me
in those moments, orphaned
outside her vision of heaven.
I loved the sky and melodies
but not in a way that made me
tremble the way she did.
My tears were about loss,
mourning a gift I couldn’t share.
Have I ever loved anything
that much? Words perhaps?
The shadow where a woman
should be?
Sep.
22
2025
My poem, “The Irony of Play,” is included in the Winter 2024 print edition of The Schooner (formerly Prairie Schooner). The editors got backed up so the issue just arrived September 2025. This is a beautiful journal, full of brilliant writing. I feel honored to have my work here.
I wrote this poem several years ago to submit to Concrete Wolf’s Cephalopod Anthology. They accepted a different poem, but I always had faith in this one. Jim and I have always been fascinated by this intelligent animal that looks alien! But we formed an even deeper connection when we had an Octopus Encounter for his birthday at the Newport Aquarium. We got to interact one-on-one with Mystery who delighted us by winding her arms gently up our forearms. She accepted shrimp from our fingers and even played with the toys we held out to her. We saw her change color once, bright orange to gray sand pebbles very quickly, then back again. We have never forgotten this profound involvement with a wild creature!
This poem links my first hand knowledge of an octopus with a memory I have of riding on a bus with my grandmother. She never learned to drive so we often took the bus when I stayed with her. Usually the rides were short, but once we were on for along time on a rainy day and maybe into the night. Grandma could make dolls out of anything and I loved them. She was very creative. She even turned a hanky into a toy for me. I was a child with a good imagination and very motherly intentions so I loved even this very simple baby. I comforted it through what was an unsettling journey, although I don’t remember the cause of my worry or where we were going or why.
Aug.
01
2025
My poem about my mother’s final days, “Transformative,” is the featured poem for August in the beautiful online journal Thirteen Bridges. I am so thrilled with the presentation and honored to be included in this impressive literary magazine.
This is the link to see it live: Joanne Clarkson | August 25 Poem | Thirteen Bridges
I also wanted to include the poem itself:
Transformative
From the kitchen where I am
washing a week’s worth
of dishes, I watch my mother
watch television. Become herself
through someone else’s
script. She squints, lips parting.
Once at a séance, I saw a Medium
take on another being. She changed
her features to become a woman’s
dead sister. With messages. As if
those who have passed know us better
than we know ourselves. Where
we put the misplaced thing.
I watch my mother take back
the animation that so often leaves
her face now. She resurrects in artificial
light. Calls me by my name,
not her mother’s or her sister’s.
For about ten minutes we have
a conversation about real Christmases.
All human faces look basically
the same, until they don’t. Slope
of cheek bone, arch of lip
utterly individual. Today for an
instant, my mother transformed
into someone thirty years younger.
I stood behind her at the mirror
combing her thinning hair. Her brows
arcing into mine. The blue-hazel
of her eyes becoming the recognition
of two women sharing a life.