Marika Stone

Found Poems

August 11, 2025August 11, 2025 by Marika Stone, posted in women and climate

One of my favorite poetry assignments the summer I spent at Breadloaf School of English was found poetry. As it happened, someone had left a copy of Archeology on the porch and I rescued it from the elements. Chat GPT tells me “Treasures of Tutankhamum” was probably still on its U.S. Tour at the time, so I think the article that caught my eye probably had something to do with that. I read the article and lifted existing lines to create a new 12-line poem. I’m still looking for it among my archives. My teacher, Lawrence Raab liked it. He encouraged me to continue and gave me an A for the course. I left there, finished up course work for an MA in English, with a feeling that I could do this, moreover, that I had to.

These days, a found poem could be one of my own, written in Notes on my smart phone.

For example:

Walking to the Horses, Shapleigh, Maine

Facing traffic – trucks, boat trailers,
give-a-damn motorcycles — I give
thanks for my two legs, their four,
the possibility that at least one of them
would lift its handsome head to look my way.
This is all I wanted in the moment,
possibly all I ever want. Or need.
I make my slow climb to the ranch house
with the huge American flag, catch a breath,
turn back for another long glimpse
of the horses, their glossy backs
reflecting only light.

At Grassy Waters

Our steps along this section
of boardwalk lead us here
again.
We call it a chapel for the way
the Cypress trees make an arch
over a collection of their roots resembling
a nativity scene. A stretch, I know
but sometimes, I see Buddha
here too, I swear. It depends on the light.

Two rocking chairs are motionless
until they hold our bodies
or catch a strong breeze.

The thatch above us is fragrant,
Reeds bend to the wind.
We have added nothing
but our presence for a brief time.
When we are done rocking
it will be as if we’d never been
here. So too the earth before
and after humans.

I’d love to know what you think of these. Use the comment section. Please share.

How Rupi Kaur Does It

July 29, 2025July 30, 2025 by Marika Stone, posted in Elders, poetry

Now that I have about 20 poems on a single theme — water — I’m considering self-publishing a chapbook. This is often an early career choice, especially for poets, whether or not they go the traditional route of submitting to a publisher or DIY.

In my case, it’s a late in life choice. My writing career does include a published self-help book, but I have little to show for the submissions of poetry, except that I did, and continue to, enjoy writing poetry whether it ever sees a bigger audience than the occasional open mic or family events. I love to create a personal chapbook/card for a special anniversary or birthdays. In a sense, this bears out the theory that no one reads poetry other than other poets, except when a poem is need for an inauguration, celebration of life, or milestone birthday. Is this true? Popular poets like Mary Oliver and Billy Collins would beg to differ. But even then, they had to teach and give readings to eat.

I discovered Rupi Kaur’s the sun and its flowers inadvertently. Someone had left it open on a bus. What a way to get one’s work around! I’d love to know the story behind this, but …well I have better things to do. I enjoyed the book, her plain-spoken poems got me. Come to learn that Rupi Kaur is the queen of self-published poetry, with millions in sales, book tours, and lately live show produced by Amazon. Beside her a series of self-published books, she has a clothing line, tattoos, music, fashion covers. A one-woman business with world-wide following. She began the way a lot of young people do these days, open mics, poetry festivals, social media, to build a loyal following. Then, and only then, did she decide to publish herself. Hers is a version of the author who sold all his unpublished books to women’s groups and book clubs, from his van. Eventually, he didn’t have to do that.

That self-help book I mentioned? My co-author (and spouse) knew a thing or two about publicity, marketing and sales. We had a website, we created a contest, we worked the press. And eventually, Penguin Plume (now PenguinRandomHouse) picked us up and we negotiated a very respectable contract. Today, a lot of books like ours are print-on-demand, so no, we didn’t have to load up our Honda with unsold books and hit the road. You can still get a copy of Too Young to Retire: 101 Ways to Start the Rest of Your Life. And we are happy that it did help some folks rethink their later years. But for a blockbuster success, here’s Rupi Kaur’s story.

I have some of my poems on this blog, if you’re curious. I am feeling excited and a bit apprehensive about taking on this project. For one thing, at 83, I’m unlikely to get out and do the legwork I once found fun. There is something satisfying about being an author, holding a book with your name on it, maybe even signing it for a fan. When this materializes, you’ll be the first — well, maybe second — to know.

Normal

May 27, 2025May 27, 2025 by Marika Stone, posted in activism, poetry

Moving for Dummies

January 23, 2024August 2, 2025 by Marika Stone, posted in moving, Simple life, Walkability

First, unless you absolutely, positively have to move, don’t! Even if you get help and/or hire people to do the packing, you’re still the person who can’t find the corkscrew or screw driver until you’ve unpacked a few boxes bleary-eyed on your first night.

Unless you are moving for a better job or fleeing a bad situation, where you already are could be improved with far less stress, even if you have to put up with a few minor inconveniences. You know your home, even its adorable quirks like the shower dial that says hot but delivers cold, or exactly how many coffee cups or folded tees a cabinet holds.

I wrote the opening paragraphs two plus years ago when we moved to what I consider my forever home. It’s a rental community with resort-level amenities like an almost Olympic- size pool, heated, well-equipped gym, and lakes that attract more birds than the nearest bird trail. All this within walking distance from groceries, hardware, restaurants both modest and up-market, as well as a walk clinic. I love few things more than combining a brisk walk for exercise with a stop for a few groceries I can carry home in a mesh bag.Surprising how few items need to be replaced often — egg, fresh produce, bread – with enough room in the bag for something frivolous on sale, e.g. chocolate chips. It reminds me of a brief visit with friends in Rome, when I accompanied my host to the farmers market daily to purchase fresh ingredients for our midday meal.

I travel now only in memories like this one. And we gave up the snow-bird life last year. Recently I read an article about the surge of enthusiasm for renting vs buying. Never thought of myself as a trend-setter before, but freedom is never having to fix what’s broken or change another lightbulb for that matter. So far, so good.

About Time …

November 7, 2022 by Marika Stone, posted in Elders, Election Reform

On the eve of an election pundits are calling make or break for democracy, here are a few thoughts from last Saturday’s Free Write group. I submitted (and wrote to) the prompt, Two Cheers for … inspired by the book-length essay, Two Cheers for Democracy by E.M. Forster, better known for his novels (Howard’s End, Room With a View, Passage to India) that take a scalpel to class relations while spinning riveting narratives. If you’re unfamiliar with Two Cheers, it’s worthy of your time. In fact, it’s more timely than ever. Here’s my blurb: A meditation about what happens when you attempt to govern with a document based on cherished ideals espoused by the people, for the people (woman and slaves not included), and end up with what we got: mediocrity soup. And it’s not half bad, considering the alternatives.

I joined this group of poets, writers of short fiction and memoir, coming on two years ago, the weekend after the January 6th attempted coup. Free Write participants get prompts by email around 10 am, write to one or more, about twenty minutes each, and gather about 90 minutes later on Zoom to share our writing if we wish. It was one of the silver linings of pandemic lockdown that I could join this group that used to meet at the Montclair (NJ) Library. So, in January ’20 I used one of the prompts to debut with a rant, not realizing that politics are more or less taboo. Not exactly my usual modus operandi. It was the second time that week, I’d let my rage overtake my reason. And I had a lot of bridge rebuilding to do in my family in the following months. What was I thinking? Was I thinking? Rage lives in the limbic system where perceived threats to survival are on the daily menu. I could lay this state of hyper-alert at the feet of the media, many have. But I’m a grownup, a yogi and meditator, and know how to manage my attention better than that. Sheesh!

Earlier that same week, we had an incident that, though mild compared to more recent examples of violence, continues to worry us about the state of the union. Returning from an errand one lovely morning, as we waited to make a left turn near a railroad crossing, a guy driving a truck pulled up too close to our bumper. If that wasn’t enough, he then leapt out, ran up to our car, red-faced, and proceeded to pound on the side window with his fist because my spouse was too slow, to make the turn. Or something. It was a sharp reminder that we live in a gun-loving (and probably carrying) state and you could lose more than your dignity and peace of mind in an encounter like the one with an irate driver.

We are both in our 80s now, and our children advise us to stay off the road after dark. Our doctor says simply: drive less. We are paying attention. We have nothing but time for everything we need to do, mornings at our favorite nature center, doctor appointments, visiting friends, grocery shopping, during the daylight hours. Our living room makes a fine disco for two.

Speaking of staying in the light: we voted early (very congenial and smooth) and gave heart-felt namastes to all the election workers — the real heroes. I’d volunteer if the workday was shorter that 12 hours. Also, we don’t plan to tune in to the election coverage tomorrow. There will be plenty of time to catch up with the results and move on from there.

Censored Books and Pot Luck

May 2, 2022 by Marika Stone, posted in activism, arts activism

My friend, Henry, calls from his car to give me my assignment for this Friday’s movie night pot luck: a vegetarian entree for 10-12. Wow, I haven’t cooked anything on that scale since before the pandemic. In fact, my entertaining skills have become so rusty, I don’t dare wing this without consulting one of my well-thumbed cook books. I’m thinking a big pot of vegetarian chili with all the trimmings — who would vote against that?

We are lucky that, so far, no politician with an eye on higher office has targeted cookbooks, through some collections contain recipes that could, like a bubble bath, qualify as foreplay. Hello chocolate fondue. Crème brûlée. Soul food. Barbecue. But, though censorship is as old as Lady Chatterley’s Lover, who would have thought math books could bring out parents, red-faced, to school board meetings? Of course, where I live the politics have become increasing authoritarian and right-leaning in the last 20 years, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

About a month ago, I began protesting the banning of books in small ways that anyone can easily adopt — some acupuncture to improve the body politic, you might say. I got a list of the top 20 most banned books and put all of them on hold at my library. I’d read some of them: classics like To Kill a Mockingbird and Diary of Anne Frank — yeah, crazy that they are anyone’s idea of dangerous for kids — and the more recent Caste: The Origin of Our Discontents by Isabel Wilkerson (highly recommended). But it was my first time with Art Spiegelman’s Pulitzer-winner, graphic novel, Maus, (obscenity and nudity, mind you, of mice) and some much-beloved children’s books that show a family that isn’t comprised of a traditional Dad, Mom and kids, is still a family. Of course, purchase is also an option, and in some instances have made a newly-censored book a best-seller overnight. Poetic justice.

In a week, I’ll be hosting a Zoom performance in which a group of volunteers read from their choice of a banned book, along with a comment of why they chose it or why it appears to have offended some group. As one of the readers, my friend, Nickie, puts it: “to bring light to the issue and encourage people to buy and read books that government agencies, school boards and libraries have deemed too ‘dangerous’ to keep on their shelves.” The selection of books by these reader/performers covers the spectrum of issues remarkably well, despite my providing no guidance in this. Racism, militarism, religious freedom, revisionist history, LGBTQ rights, as well as so-called obscenity. I cannot wait to hear Allen Ginsberg’s Howl out loud, once again in the presence of Allen Ginsberg, all in white, warming us up with Hindu chants at my alma mater, Montclair State U. If I do my job of moderator right, the Zoom performance will feel more like an old-time neighborly pot luck than a protest (now that marching risks arrest). Possibly it will inspire other performances, another way to take back the commons for the people.

Urban Greens

March 29, 2022March 29, 2022 by Marika Stone, posted in Carbon Footprint, environment, activism

You often hear people dismiss the option of individual action when it comes to impacting climate crisis now being previewed in the less developed part of the world. But you won’t hear that from me, the tree hugger of the family, though I can’t claim anything approaching a perfect record. I did, after all, spend at least a decade helping a client put those PET bottles and packaging into our shopping carts and refrigerators, not to mention virtually every jogger’s hand. That was after I helped another client promote a technology that most certainly contributed to over-fishing.

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t making any big decisions. Just one of the little people on the team who wrote and placed stories, came up with new ideas for a trade show, in other words, contributed to business as usual. As a grandson recently remarked about a past event: there’s no changing that. Indeed. It’s only in the present that we make choices that affect the future.

Which brings me back to the title of this post. Some months ago, we stumbled upon Urban Greens Co-op Market in Providence, RI, where we escape from Florida’s summers (and hurricanes). As a former food co-op member, my inner hippie finds the Birkenstock-and-beards vibe familiar (and like family). So does the beautiful produce from local farmers, the free trade coffee, the pasture-raised meats, free-range eggs, nutraceuticals — you get the picture. Yes, Whole Foods (Providence has two) offers many of these items, and even occasionally someone helpful enough to check stock for an item missing from the shelf. But Urban Greens is an oasis in what is commonly known as a food desert of mom-and-pop convenience outfits offering sodas, bagged snacks, candy bars as food. Walking in that neighborhood at a hour when the high school opens, it’s obvious what many teens take for breakfast. Fingers crossed the cafeterias offer a hot meal, salad, fresh fruit.

As problems go, nutrition of children isn’t in the top ten these days, but guess what? It matters. A whole lot. To our future. On this, I’m with British chef, Jamie Oliver, who briefly imported his successful Feed Me Better school campaign to U.S. schools. I’m also a huge fan of Chef Jose Andres whose World Central Kitchen provides free meals during disasters, weather- and pandemic-related.

Membership in Urban Greens is (to us reasonable) $160/year or $40/year over 4 years and it also offers a Food-For-All Membership of $80/year for households that meet federal low-income guidelines. You don’t have to be a member to shop there, just pay more. And, it supports women- and minority-owned businesses.

Yes, this individual choice may seem a very small step in the wicked problem of how we adapt — mitigate isn’t even an option, according to most climate scientists — to our future on a hotter, dryer, less hospitable, planet. Perhaps not the equivalent of choosing to fly less, or not at all. Hold that aviation analogy in your mind for a moment: where we buy our food could be one of those choices that makes the difference between slowing down to a glide and softer landing vs. a nose-dive.

Touch Me

January 19, 2022 by Marika Stone, posted in poetry

This, the last poem in Stanley Kunitz’s Collected Poems (2000), touches me every time I read it. I thought of it often during the months of isolating and social distancing, though my hugging-averse friends have a point that we do entirely too much indiscriminate touching here. Handshakes could go, especially in ‘flu season, even with diligent hand-washing.

Covid Haiku

I want a hug as much as the next person,

But I’m not dying for one.

Posted to my social media page, this got the biggest response ever.

Touch is necessary to human thriving, but the pandemic has taught us to be more selective about who we touch and how. Maybe we could do better than hokey-jokey elbow bumps of politicians. Eye contact, a nod. Hand on heart. Palms pressed into namaste, say, or Japanese-style bows.

As I learned in Japan, one quickly adopts and adapts, even if a few rules of etiquette are mangled in the process. For example, who initiates the bow? Gender differences? How low to go? Can you bow and exit gracefully? Do you bow to an elevator attendant? Maître d’ but not server? This is probably all covered in a handbook for business travelers.

In Tokyo, particularly on public transportation or in crowds – impossible to avoid – it was common to see people wearing masks. At the time of my visit, I found it noteworthy. But isn’t it just common courtesy, common sense, to avoid spreading a cold, the ‘flu, or worse? No big deal in a nation that puts community good ahead of personal convenience.

This afternoon, I’ll be meeting my book group on Zoom, once again. Omicron transmission is still a factor in South Florida where I live, though many of my fellow citizens are resisting vaccination and refusing to wear masks. (Neil Gorsuch, for shame!) When we began talking about books just before Covid, we took turns entertaining and we all miss that face to face intimacy, and yes, hugging. However, like most people I know, I’ve adjusted to Zoom (even if I haven’t mastered how to make myself look less cadaverous).

Thanks to Zoom, I am part also of the Montclair Writers Group that used to meet in the local library. I live and raised my children in Montclair, New Jersey, earned two degrees from Montclair State U, so I feel I’m home, in some sense. These weekly meetings where we write poetry or prose to prompts for about 20 minutes each, then ‘gather’ to read and share some writerly tips and ideas, was the inspiration for my 80^th birthday poetry reading on Zoom last October. About 50 friends and family members from around the U.S., plus England and Germany, joined in. High tech; high touch! Intimate as one could get in, in our little lighted Hollywood squares. Brought to us by Covid-19. Who would have thought?!

Forgotten Origin

July 29, 2021 by Marika Stone, posted in women and climate

At the Shapleigh Maine Baptist Church

the youth choir tunes up a fiddle

tap-taps the mike

woman in red hoodie presses

a Jesus Saves booklet

into your reluctant palm

Gotta love these kind strangers raising

funds for their free food locker

they woke up early to bake cloverleaf rolls

banana bread blueberry muffins mystery pie

for the bake sale

cleaned out dusty attics a forgotten jumble

of odd cups plates pots missing their lids

wicker baskets candle holders linens

clothes tools toys books

Take what you want — pay what you wish

On our way here roadside Trump sign fresh

as if for a new — or relentless — campaign

Forget the origin of this quiet desperation

at your peril

Delray Laundromat

June 25, 2021 by Marika Stone, posted in poetry

Saturday night on Atlantic Avenue:

flashy cars slow-mo on restaurant row

as a see-and-be-seen crowd

crosses wherever. Laughter.

Smoke from grills, cigarettes, weed.

I have shish kebab on my mind,

the final night of a poetry festival.

Must have passed the Laundromat

Dozens of times without pause.

Must be the fluorescence that limns

faces this Saturday night: people making

change while making eyes, could be.

Could be singles night for the lonely —

between relationships, between jobs,

between homes, shifts. Hands smoothing

tee-shirts, stacking jeans, while sneakers

in the dryer summon a disco beat.

Could be me.

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