Great Circles

Hey! I have a poem up in the Winter 2017 issue of A Courtship of Winds.


Check out the full issue here:


Poetry & Honey – upcoming event!


On Friday Aug 19th at 7pm I’ll be reading poems at Follow The Honey (1132 Mass Ave) in Cambridge, MA. Stick around after for a wine tasting with Proud Pour!

Here’s the Facebook event link:

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The event is free. I’m making a whole bunch of handmade poetry chapbooks that will be for sale in exchange for any donation — all funds will help me attend the UN climate talks in Morocco this November as a youth delegate with SustainUS.

More updates to come! Don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions.

Here’s the full event description:


Poetry and honey together (and perhaps a spot of wine)?!?! OH YES.

Kick off National Honey Day events with a poetry reading by Devi Lockwood at Follow the Honey in Cambridge, MA. Stick around after for a wine tasting with Proud Pour.

Devi Lockwood is a poet / touring cyclist / storyteller from Boston. For the last two years she has been traveling the world by bicycle and by boat to collect 1,001 stories from people she meets about water and climate change.

Her journey began with the September 21, 2014 People’s Climate March in NYC. To date she has collected over 500 stories (audio recordings) in the USA, Fiji, Tuvalu, New Zealand, Australia, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and Qatar. She is working to create a map on a website where you can click on a point and listen to a story someone has told her from that place.

Devi’s writing has been published in The New York Times, The Guardian, Bicycling Magazine, Storyscape, BOAAT, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere — for a full publication list, see:

Devi is currently based in New Hampshire and will attend the November 2016 COP22 UN climate talks in Morocco as a youth delegate for SustainUS.

The reading is free. Handmade poetry chapbooks will be for sale at the event, with some old poems and some recent poems from the journey. Price is a sliding scale — whatever you can afford! Bring cash / spare change.

All funds raised will help Devi attend COP22, the UN climate talks in Morocco.

At the end of the event, Brian Thurber, the founder of Proud Pour, will be sampling his wine.


Proud Pour pairs high-quality wines with local environmental restoration. Proud Pour’s Sauvignon Blanc restores 100 wild oysters per bottle. Delicious + sustainable.

Looking forward to seeing you there!


What’s the Point of Shaving Legs Anyway?

Hey beautiful people! I’m so happy to have this totally quirky and somewhat spring-like poem up today at BOAAT PRESS.

Enjoy, & check out the other poems, too! Stunning stuff. x

What’s the Point of Shaving Legs Anyway?

Forsythia comes to Massachusetts
like it always does:

in between the sugar maple
and the neighbor’s parked truck.

Never could I stomach
the yellow.

Children of invention:
you’ll be jittery from the adrenaline.

A diver at the platform, arms stretched––
ready to plunge

into my outstretched lungs. This breath
is made of roots

sighing and singing and sleeping.
A footprint from the treetops.

In first grade I learned
the water in my kitchen tap

was what the dinosaurs drank.
How peculiar.

I am most comfortable
when in constant motion––

on the highway
over water, stomping grounds.

Tendrils. Locks. The harbor opens
to a tiled tunnel

that uncovers wounds as they wash through:
the elbow, the knee, the transition places.

Bends I love.

Earth Day Guest Post on Carolyn Studer’s Blog: 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion

“Defeatism is a product of linear thinking and I am not a linear thinker. I meander. I am a river and I am alive and that, at least, is cause for celebration.”

“I believe that listening is the best gift I have to give to this world.” — yours truly.

Happy belated Earth Day! I loved answering questions for Carolyn Studer’s blog. There’s a poem, three audio stories (!), a shout out to Centauri Summer Arts Camp, the People’s Climate March, Cilla McQueen, and spare thoughts on optimism mix, too.

Here’s the interview:




Taking Ownership of Who I Am

On my 2013 bike trip down the Mississippi River Trail I met a poet at a blues club in Clarksdale who wore a leather jacket with “POET” embroidered on the back in all caps.

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This is my ‪#‎solofemaletouringcyclist‬ take on that theme.


An Excerpt from this Poem Beast I Have Been Working On

Hi ya’ll.

This is my entry into the yeah write #201 fiction|poetry challenge.


Who am I? Oh, right.


Being a peripatetic poet is fun.


Bill Watterson gets it.

I get to write in a variety of places:

in possum-infested bedrooms,

on picnic tables at the intersection of metal roads,

on a yoga mat at the Whanganui Women’s Network.


Lunch break: I’m eating words

Sometimes I feel like an octopus, arms flailing. One tentacle in old poems. One arm following the road. Past, future, present, zooming. It’s dizzying but also a joy.


I love funky playgrounds. My bicycle does, too.

I spent this afternoon in Fleur Wickes’ studio, green pen all over printed-out versions of 52 pages of poems, many of which formed the spine of my senior thesis in Folklore & Mythology.

I haven’t seen the poems printed out since I handed in that thesis, There Are No Straight Lines, back in March 2014. The beast has taken a variety of forms since.

Holy guacamole, was that almost a year ago?

Anywho, here are two poems from the bunch.


May, 2012

A fire drill summons us out of sleep.
Naked on your bed, we throw off

the sheets, wrap your brown blanket
around our hips and breasts and I take

your hand with my hand down the stairwell.
There are others, some drunk. Most laughing

or swearing. The Friday fire alarm bleats on
off on. 43 seconds to exit your room: stairs

to courtyard to vestibule then sidewalk. This
mandatory procedure. On the gravel we pass

the drag queen we met at the pub. We tug ourselves
away from the crowd, find a dry patch of grass

not too dewy to sit and watch the more feathering-out
tangles and knots and drops of stairwell after stairwell

emptying its human contents. The fire truck speeds in, flashing
reds and blues. Men in yellow fire-retardant suits.

Then barefoot we begin to speak Spanish. You write
your fingertips on my ribs as costillitas and then chamorro,

the secret space behind the leg. Even two languages isn’t enough
for the body and all its parts, its whole.





But the birds? On that day
rain rose not fell. Every-
one stood with their heads to
the ground, doctor’s orders,
to increase circulation


touch the divine, or maybe
to levitate). But those birds
trapped in puddles, caught
in a mid-day bath (as fear of
a fire when showering)

just disappeared, up:
Did they know? Did they bother
to say goodbye? And on the ground,
what held up the trunks of trees,
if not flow of water upside down?

In the evening news reel, Niagara Falls
was a torrent, a vertical column of water
and some poor soul in a barrel
was just going up and up and up,
a drip a speck a drop in the ozone layer.

Then we were all on a quest
to ask the sky for our water, please
we are thirsty and dizzy from pressing
our ears to the ground. And she said:
it was never yours to take.


Two Rain Poems (one by me and one by Mary Oliver)

It’s raining in Suva. I ate a Mary Oliver poem for dinner, along with mushroom stew and rice. On my walk home, I had a conversation with a yellow-beaked bird, bought a Fijian pumpkin (it is green with orangeish spots, awaiting carving later tonight), and let my mind fill with words.



Rain Poem

I love
every inch
of it––
and grey,
the slosh
of toes
how every
the quietest,
comes alive.
I walk
with my
play “You Are My Sunshine”
“Amazing Grace”
and hum “The Star
Spangled Banner”
(bursts of patriotism,
from where and why?). I
roll with rivulets made by road’s edge.
Raw rugby players slosh and sprint
in a field that is half-puddle. Barefoot kids laugh
and find the biggest new pool––brown like milky tea––
to jump and plow through up to the ankle.
Everything smells green. I can take a deep breath of it
and huff and puff some of these clouds to California, yes?
Brush that landscape wet and clean (with breath)––
isn’t that how it works?

I’m winding my way through Mary Oliver’s Blue Horses, just released last week. What a delicious book. Here’s a taste:

Drifting, by Mary Oliver

I was enjoying everything: the rain, the path
wherever it was taking me, the earth roots
beginning to stir.
I didn’t intend to start thinking about God,
it just happened.
How God, or the gods, are invisible,
quite understandable
But holiness is visible, entirely.
It’s wonderful to walk along like that,
thought not the usual intention to reach an
but merely drifting.
Like clouds that only seem weightless.
but of course are not.
Are really important.
I mean, terribly important.
Not decoration by any means.
By next week the violets will be blooming.

Anyway, this was my delicious walk in the rain.
What was it actually about?

Think about what it is that music is trying to say.
It was something like that.