Dandelion Symphony Release Date: September 2, 2025

Hello, dear readers! Long time no see. I have some exciting news. For my book's fifth anniversary, the hardcover special edition for Dandelion Symphony comes out in September! *throws confetti*

 

What's Dandelion Symphony?

This book is my collection of travel poems, experiences and reflections from England, Germany, Italy, and Spain. The poems are arranged by seasons and accompanied by sketches based off of places I've been. For a sample of what you can expect, check out an excerpt, "At my Own Pace."

 

Why a new edition?

Honestly, I wasn't satisfied with the paperback edition. It's cute and portable, but I wanted something a little sturdier, and let's be honest, hardcovers are more fun to photograph! Also, I wanted to move away from Amazon. While you can still purchase the paperback, the hardcover will be the primary copy I will be signing from here on out.

 

How much is the hardcover?

$24.99. With current print prices, this was the best option for the poetry market.

 

When does the hardcover release?

The hardcover will release Tuesday, September 2, 2025.

 

Where can I find a copy?

You can pre-order your copy on Ingram Spark.

 

That's all for now. Happy reading!

Poem: Snow Day

My current home lies where the robins migrate for winter, so we don’t get a lot of snow. For a while, I was afraid that I wouldn’t get to see any in person before the season ended.

Then it came.

Of course, I was delighted, and enjoyed several walks throughout the day between reading and feeding my new bearded dragon, Xephyr “Peaches.” He can’t replace Thorin, but Xeph is adorable in his own way. He’s a little acrobat who wants to climb up everything.

I also got a chance to reflect in solitude on my first walk. Which was quite the contrast from my time living in England, when my family was a channel and half a continent away. During my one snow day in Nottingham, I went outside and watched with longing as families walked together. Now, five years later, with family closer by not always present, I don’t mind walking by myself. In fact, I quite enjoy it.

 

Snow Day

hollow
the way sound reverberates
in canyon

falling
between patches
of blue and gray

glass
covering a thousand
stretching branches

drifting
crystals beneath
a dozen robins

crunch
past the deer prints
on the road

biting
wind until I pull
my scarf back up

slip
back into the
numbing warmth inside

aching
back from hunching
over a book

drip
icicles hang
and shatter on the ground

 

***

 

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? Did you get snow this winter? Do you prefer walking with people or by yourself?

 

Similar poems: Ode to Winter, The First Snow, and Weird Winter Weather

Poem: Do Not Dissect This Poem

The other day my sister told me she didn’t like poetry. *gasp* When she explained that she had to analyze a bunch of poems for school, and she said she’d make an exception for sonnets, I started to understand. Poems aren’t meant to be torn apart. When I look at a poem, I don’t think, “My, what consonance!” Whatever that means. Rather, I may think, “Wow, that was pretty.” Or even, “Huh, I never thought about it that way before.”

Poems are meant to be experienced, felt. The following poem is my response to schools sucking the joy out of words in what I hope is the spirit of The Dead Poet Society.

Here’s to the students struggling with senioritis.

Here’s for you, sis’.

Do Not Dissect This Poem

if you would, simply set aside the rhyme—
feel the rhythm, this ever-beating pulse.
Close your eyes and imagine the springtime
fresh with morning rain…

Can you hear it?
Listen closely.
closer
ba-dum
                    ba-dum
                                        ba-dum

the ever-thrumming heart
of a runner as his feet pound this earth,
the ever-expanding-depressing
chest of the bull that croons,
the ever-silent pad
of her toes
on the floor

ba-Dum ba-Dum ba-DUM
Shout! it out
Stomp your rhythm
Clap your song

ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum
remember the days you laughed,
the mornings you cried
the places you came from,
look to where you will go and see

hear me ask
Don’t dissect this poem, if you would
simply let it squeal
let it sing
let it be


***

Let’s chat! Without disassembling my lines, what did you think of the poem? What’s your take on poetry as a whole? Do you prefer form poetry or free verse?

Similar poems: Writing a Poem, Pronunciation, and The To-Be-Read List

Poem: Open Water

Last year, my dad gave me the Christmas gift of a SCUBA certification. That’s right! I am officially Open Water certified, meaning I can go diving down to 60 feet deep and am familiar with many of the different ways the water and diving can kill you. Honestly, though, it’s about as dangerous as driving a car (not real statistics) but with fewer people, beautiful and strange fish, and stunning seascapes.

Yes, I’m a little disappointed that I don’t live in Hawai’i anymore, but now, if I ever find myself in the vicinity of Australia, I am qualified to dive the Great Barrier Reef. That and diving is the closest humans can get to experience weightlessness on planet Earth.

My next goal is to get my Advanced Open Water certificate. I’d also love to get involved with Project AWARE, a nonprofit organization that helps remove debris from the ocean.

The following poem is based on my last check out dive for my certification.

 

Open Water

I’m descending toward the sandy floor
like a leaf gradually twirling without wind
or a dust particle drifting past my window,
and I ask myself why I didn’t do this before.

When I first plunged my face beneath the surface in the pool,
I felt my breath catch—
people aren’t meant to breathe underwater.
But still, I remind myself to take a deep breath—
in and out—
like the way I prevent a panic attack.
All I have to do now is breathe, always breathe.

Now I reach the end of the line,
the minute anchor bobbing up and down with the waves—
I’m not even holding on, not this time,
which is good because I already have a rash
from where I tried to steady myself with my legs.

Another pound of pressure reminds me to exhale
through my nose,¹ and a plethora of bubbles roars in my ears,
I’d almost forgotten what they sounded like—
if I stay here long enough, I’ve already begun to tune them out.

Before I quite reach the sand, I add air to my BCD²
and hang
                        suspended
like a satellite that doesn’t quite belong.
Yet I am here for a time, as an observer
to swim like the barracuda, glide like the ray,
relax like the puffer fish, and when I’m done,
I’ll hide between the pages of my book,
like the octopus and their shell-shaped door.³

 

***

 

¹ Equalization. Removing air pressure on one’s ears to prevent their eardrums from bursting. Fun fact: it’s easier for women to equalize than it is for men.

² BCD: Buoyancy Compensator Device. Basically, a really fancy name for an inflatable vest that divers strap their air cylinder to. When fully inflated, it also helps you float on the surface and can be partially inflated underwater to achieve a sense of weightlessness (neutral buoyancy).

³ I almost didn’t see the octopus until my dive instructor pointed it out because it was hiding in a cave-like structure and using a large shell as a sort of door. My theory is that the octopus was using it as a form of protection. See the Netflix documentary: My Teacher the Octopus.

 

Let’s chat! What is one of the most amazing things you’ve done? Do you prefer freshwater or saltwater? Any other SCUBA divers?

 

Similar poems: Sandcastles, Waking Up, and Riptide

Self Publishing Poetry: A Glimpse into the Making of Dandelion Symphony

Hello, dear readers!

It’s been almost two months since Dandelion Symphony came out, and I’m here today to tell you more about my actual publishing journey. I talked a bit about it in my interview with Alicia Canet on her blog, Midgard’s Writers, but today I’m going to go more into the finer details.

A Poetry Collection vs. Novelettes

As you may know, I’ve self-published two books by this point. I started off with a mini fantasy series, Last of the Memory Keepers, and my latest book is my poetry collection, Dandelion Symphony.

What is the difference between the two? Target audience for one. I wrote the LMK series to be a fast-paced adventure for readers who don’t have a lot of reading time on their hands. DS, on the other hand, is nonfiction and isn’t meant to be read in one sitting, though it’s short enough that it could be.

Another difference: format. You can buy both books in e-book and print form. Only, the LMK series comes in individual e-books and a print collection, whereas DS is an individual book in print and digital.

Last but not least is experience. This time around, I know what to expect from sales and how to market better. I incorporated a lot more feedback than before (thanks again to my beta readers, editor, and proofreaders!), and I had a ton of fun with my blog tour. Now, I’ve even set it up so purchasing signed copies is super easy. All you have to do is use Square. When shipping, I’ve even learned to use media mail (which is cheaper!) and to add insurance.

 

Audio and Visuals

Did you know poetry was originally meant to be read aloud? Sometimes, it still is. When it came to reviewing my poems, I read them aloud to some of my beta readers, which helped me figure out what sounded right and what didn’t. Though you can enjoy the book while reading silently, each poem has been sound good too. At some point, I think it would be fun to put together an audiobook, but I’d have to do more research first.

When it comes to the visuals for DS, I had a lot of fun! First, I changed the format of some of my poems, which is always fun to play with. Then, I commissioned an artist to do some sketches based on some of my favorite places in Europe. I seriously wish I could have commissioned each and every one of my favorite places, but then I’d be broke. The ones I did select correlate with the seasons and themes of their sections.

Commissions

Speaking of commissions, this time around, I had an easier time of figuring out how to find the right people. First, I asked on Twitter if anybody knew where to find some great artists for interior sketches. While I received a ton of offers from artists directly, I also got recommended to check out Fiverr, which I ultimately utilized for both my interior artist and cover designer.

I really like the way the site made it easy to search for artists and the plethora of options. I actually had a hard time choosing between two interior artists, but I ultimately went with the one who’s style I liked the best. Though the site had some minor glitches, posting details for my commission was relatively easy to work with.

Fiverr itself takes a small portion of the commission fee to keep up the website, but creating a profile and browsing is free. At the end, after I approved the final submission, I had the option to tip the artist, which I did and highly recommend. If you like the work you receive, leave a tip! Then, both the buyer (myself) and the seller leave reviews of each other, which is awesome. Though I’ve never sold anything on it, from what I gather, the site is both buyer and seller friendly.

 

Formatting and Publishing

Last but not least came the dreaded formatting. Dreaded for me anyway. I don’t know why I hate it so much. Maybe because it seems like I’d spend five minutes fixing one problem, upload the manuscript to double-check it, wait for it to load, get up, grab some tea, maybe a snack, come back. It’s still loading. Open Pinterest. It’s finally loaded. Check to see if the mistake is fixed. It is! Then I find five more.

So I repeat the process all over again. Or maybe the problem isn’t fixed, and I spend the next half hour tweaking the same thing over and over until I get it right. Most of the tweaking was adding a space or a tab to get the poems’ shapes right. Writing poetry is fun. Formatting poetry for publication? Not so much.

Yeah, it’s a little painful, especially since I don’t have an actual formatting software. Microsoft Word isn’t exactly known for its e-book capabilities. I actually had to call up one of my friends who worked in graphic design to try to figure out how to get some of my pictures to show up in the actual e-book.

In the end, I got it all worked out before my self-imposed deadline, and the final book looks great, if I may say so myself. I had a lot of help along the way, and I couldn’t be more grateful. The best part of self-publishing? Holding the final copy in your hands and smelling it.

To wrap up, if you’re ever considering self-publishing your own book, here are just a few roles I’d recommend looking into. Some of the roles you can fill yourself, but some require a second pair of eyes:

• critique partners (mandatory)
• beta readers (mandatory)
• sensitivity readers (depends on the topic)
• interior artist (optional)
• interior designer (optional)
• cover designer (optional)
• editor (mandatory)
• proofreader (mandatory)
• marketer (optional)
• book bloggers (optional)

There you have it! I hope you enjoyed reading about my self-publishing journey. If you haven’t already grabbed your copy of Dandelion Symphony, you can do so now!

 

Barnes & Noble (e-book)

Amazon (e-book and print)

Signed copy (US only)

 

***

 

Let’s chat! Any other indie authors out there? What’s your favorite part of the publishing process? Have you read Dandelion Symphony yet? If so, what did you think?

Similar posts: Dandelion Symphony Release Day!, Dandelion Symphony Blog Tour, and 3 Types of Writers You Should Know

Poem: The Smell of Earth

When you think of the word “Earth,” what do you think of? If you’re a sci-fi fan or into astronomy like me, you might think of the planet, with its big blue oceans and smattering of continents buried under white clouds. Or if you’re into gardening, you might think of the green plants that go into the brown soil—or sometimes reddish-brown depending on where you live.

For this poem, I decided to flip my own expectations, and focus on a color I don’t necessarily associate with Earth—the color white. That’s the fun thing about poetry, I suppose, turning expectations on their heads.

 

The Smell of Earth

white, the way the worm 

writhes beneath my fingertips 

submersing young roots

 

***

 

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? Any fellow gardeners out there? What’s the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of the Earth?

Similar poems: Cathedral Caverns, Copper Coated Autumn Leaves, and Down South 

Poem: Pterolycus

Pterolycus: mythological creature, a winged wolf

 

After people ask me where I’m from and get a plethora of answers—Germany, Italy, Texas, Washington State—they often ask me which place I like the most. Another impossible question. I usually tell them that I don’t have a favorite. I like wherever I’m living at the time while I’m there. It’s not fair to compare places by ranking. Germany has some gorgeous forests and mountains, but nothing compares to the climate and beaches of Hawaii. Even the Chihuahuan Desert of Texas is beautiful with its striking blue skies and endless sea of poppies that covers the mountain foothills in the spring.

Sometimes though, I’ll miss an aspect of one place while I’m living somewhere else. I missed the beach in Germany. I missed the sunshine in England. Yet there are still places I miss less than others. I have less sentimental attachment, in other words. I like to jokingly call Missouri “misery” because of the pronunciation similarities, even though I was never really miserable living there. It’s just that the state has little attraction for me, aside from the people who live there.

I have a similar detachment regarding England. Hold on, you might be thinking. Didn’t you love England! Sure, I write about it a lot. I love English Literature. I love the rain. Living there was an adventure! But it’s like Bilbo said before he set out: sometimes adventures are “Nasty, disturbing, and uncomfortable things.” Yes, I had plenty of good times in England, and I did earn my MA in Literature there after all, but it was a hard time for me as well. Though a lot of it is fictionalized, this poem is about such a time.

 

 

Pterolycus 

All my life, I’d been told,
“My how fast you can run—
don’t you want to join the pack
in a hunt or maybe
scout the paths ahead?”
Why ever would I want
to lope up the slope
only to stare and howl
at the Moon?

Now that I’ve found
the green where they leap and soar,
I realize
I’m not ready.
I know these wings of mine
are meant to fly,
but I can barely get off the ground.

They say one in every two wolves
that roam these plains
turns out to be a loner—
I didn’t ask for the way
my legs get scratched when I falter
in the air and crash into the rocks,
nor the way my feathers are ruffled and bent
from yet another fight,
bared fangs,
snapping jaws.
This is nothing like my song
to the Moon.

Now I limp onward,
blood crusts over my wounds, 
and I spread my wings.
Only when I am able
to lope again
can I finally
                        finally
                                        get off the ground.
I may not be able to fly as high
or as long as you—
not yet—
but maybe someday I will.

When I return to the forest,
my scabs have turned to scars,
hidden under tufts of fur and feathers,
and I’m asked,
“Don’t you miss the freedom of the green?”
If freedom is a fight
encrusted with snapping teeth
and empty days,
I don’t miss it
at all.

Yet I wouldn’t change
the way I now
take to the sky,
surpassing the limbs of trees
and climb higher
until I reach the cliffs,
rest on my haunches
and howl at the Moon.

 

***

 

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? For those who have moved, is there any place in particular you miss? That you don’t miss? If a mythological creature represented a part of your life, which creature would it be?

Similar poems: Homesick, Origins, and Silent Words

Poem: [Like fireflies in the night]

At work a couple weeks ago, I heard about the comet NEOWISE. Discovered back in March, this beauty will not pass within visible range for the next 6,800 years. While I could just use my time machine to jump ahead to the next sighting, I thought I’d try to spot it before it went away this time.

Unfortunately, the cloud cover made it almost impossible. For days on end, it we had thunderstorms and cloud cover that rolled in at night. It wasn’t until the last day, July 23, that I saw a break in the clouds around the Northwest where Ursa Major and its more well-known asterism, the Big Dipper, were supposed to show up. I used a compass and a star app. Thank God for modern technology!

I set up my telescope, and I waited. The sun set trailing brilliant colors on the remaining clouds, and I waited some more. I waited for the stars to come out, getting distracted by the occasional blink of fireflies. Then I had to reposition the telescope on the slope of the yard and hope I didn’t accidentally fall off the cliff.

When I couldn’t figure out which point of light was the comet—I couldn’t see a star with a tail—I started pointing the telescope at different stars to the left of the Big Dipper, hoping one was actually the comet. That’s when I found it. Now, the light pollution and humidity didn’t give me a great view. It looked more like a yellow star that was moving often enough that I had to adjust the telescope.

In the end, I got to see the comet, and the night inspired me to write a poem, even if the poem has little to do with comets.

[Like fireflies in the night]

Like fireflies in the night,

I watch the sparks burn

and blink out,

dying,

     drifting

down

beneath the boughs.

I wish I could feel

again

but my fingertips are numb

from this

            water

and all I hear

are the screams

of cicadas.

Set the pyre ablaze

until all I hear

is the roar

of the flames licking

                                    up

                                                silver stars

until the ashes dance away

like fireflies in the night.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What are you passionate about?

Similar poems: Passing Shadows; Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows; and Fireflies

Poem: Sandcastles

I probably over explain my poetry. So today, I’m going to let this one speak for itself. Enjoy!

 

 

Sandcastles

I carve a castle in this sand,
the wet clumps damp and soft
between my fingertips
until the water drains
and lets my walls stand solid
and proud.

As the waves lap at the shore,
I dig a trench out for the water
to fill and drain,
using the excess sand to stack
trickles of towers
atop this architecture.

Yet even with my best effort,
the water comes again
and again
and again,
finally streaking away my reinforcements
and eroding the outer walls
now crumbling.

I had a dream of arches
and pinnacles and grandeur—
I had a plan,
but now, the final wave
washes away my last wall,
now little more than a lump
on the sand,
barely a reminder
of what was.

I know I can build again,
but my arms are sore,
and I’m just
so tired
of fighting
this tide.

 

***

 

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What are some things you are tired of doing that your progress seems to be eroded too quickly? Have you read about my up-and-coming poetry collection yet? Be sure to check it out!

 

Similar poems: Fog; Fireflies; and Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows

Poem: Passing Shadows

My family and I were reading the Bible the other day, and a particular verse stood out to me: “Man is like a mere breath; His days are like a passing shadow.” (Psalms 144:4) What a beautiful simile. While the following poem isn’t religious, per se, I did picture the Camino as I wrote it.

Passing Shadows

Our days are but a passing shadow,

and yet I find myself

living this moment like never before—

I like to taste each sunrise

as though I’d never seen light,

I climb this new path

as though my heart has never pounded

to the rhythm of my footsteps.

When my shadow shrinks,

and I come to alight on a bunk

like a bird in its nest,

stretching my legs,

ready to hunt down my next meal,

as though I’ve never tasted

the savory drops of soup before—

and maybe I haven’t

had this variety, but I’d like it again.

The final hours stretch out

the darkness yet again,

the light I stopped from reaching

the ground

simply by standing here

amid the humid air,

chasing butterflies with my camera

as though I’ll never see one again,

listening as the stars come out one by one

as though they all still shine.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What are some activities you enjoy? What’s your take on mortality?

Similar poems: At My Own Pace, Shadows, and Bury Me

Poem: Fog

We’ve had some particularly sunny days lately. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of rain—a thunderstorm even hit. We got tornado warnings, and the river flooded. But overall, the weather has been nice. Still, I was inspired to write this poem by two things: one foggy afternoon where I found myself transplanting my pansies as soon as I could and all the craziness in the world right now.

I don’t think I mentioned it here, but the COVID-19 has shut down my workplace for at least a month. I’m fortunate enough to be financially stable and have family at home, but I have plenty of friends who are struggling financially or socially. I think we’re all struggling mentally. I’m going stir crazy. I read. I write. I try to get out of the house and work in the garden, but some days, it just isn’t enough.

The world is an uncertain place these days, even more so than usual. So, as writers do, I wrote about it.

Fog

It’s hard to think

that yesterday

I stepped out in a world

bathed in sunshine

and today

the white expanse

bares all my work

like words sketched

in a thought bubble.

remember how I

uncovered the dead wood

and exposed the black salamander,

how the rain washed

away the topsoil

I carefully laid

to prevent floods

that came anyway.

I hang the ferns

and walk from the porch

to the mailbox,

unable to see one

from the other,

my hand near translucent

in front of my face,

yet I take another step

and wonder

what I’ll find

around the hundred trees.

I stare into the white abyss

and listen

for the birdsong

but none comes.

maybe tomorrow—

but not today.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What are some activities you do to cope with being cooped up at home?

Similar poems: Waking Up, Lost as a Leaf, and Silent Words

Poem: Seeking the Song of Time

I don’t talk about them enough, but I really enjoy writing prompts!

These past couple of months, I have been learning how to make new friends. And it’s coming along quite nicely I should say, a lot faster than it has in previous years, which is a good change. One friend in particular has expressed her desire to write children’s stories and poems, so we’ve been meeting up lately and writing.

A couple weeks ago, we did a prompt where we each chose a picture for each other and had to write a poem based on that picture. Now I haven’t necessarily posted the exact same photo on here because of copyright laws, but I found a close approximation.

Also, I know I said I was taking a step back from blogging to focus on my novel. While I have made a lot of progress—I’m almost done with my rough draft!—I also started a new project to sidetrack me. I know, I know. But it’s exciting! I’m thinking of self-publishing a poetry collection, and I need your feedback. I already have many of the poems selected, including a few I haven’t shared yet, but I’d like to hear your thoughts. When you finish reading the following poem, if you would take three minutes to answer my survey, I would be very appreciative!

Seeking the Song of Time

Close your eyes and listen

to the constant drip

                        drip

                        drip

of the forest pewter

melting on the bows.

Stand still—

            and discern

the whispered hush

of the metallic

stream cutting through

the moss.

—until you hear it

            —can you hear it?—

hiding beneath

            the scent of pine

and the cool

dust of liquid moonlight.

listen

            slow your breath

                        don’t run,

take a step

            atop the moss

            that sighs a squish

beneath your feet

listen

            —it’s louder now—

 the triumphant,

            melodious call.

open your eyes and

see

            the mist swirl

the iron-steady trunks

like pillars in a hall

as the call rings

            unseen

like a bell tower in this natural noon—

cue       –          kcoo

            cue      –          kcoo

                        cue      –          ckoo

***

Let’s chat! Did you enjoy the poem? How often do you use writing prompts as inspiration? When’s the last time you had a writing sprint with a writing buddy?

Similar poems: Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows; At My Own Pace; and Ode to Winter

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Poem: Copper Coated Autumn Leaves

As I’ve mentioned before, we’ve recently moved into our new house. Recent as in November, but that’s still pretty close to now. Before all the leaves blew off the trees and buried our yard, I sat down before work one day, contemplating my surroundings, and came up with another poem.

Copper Coated Autumn Leaves

The deer come around here,

up where the trees shed

their copper coated autumn leaves

waiting for the oxidation of spring.

Here on the mountainside,

I can hear the wind whisper

to me

while the sirens below

struggle to break

the silence.

Listen.

Can you hear it?

The twit of the red-breasted

Eastern Bluebird as it perches on a post

—the maw of the doe as it calls to the herd

—the tock-tocking of the chipmunk

that I once mistook for a dripping gutter

—the indecipherable hum of the stars.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What’s your favorite element about where you live?

Similar poems: At Night, Autumn, and Lost as a Leaf