Down by the river near St. Johns, Portland OR

My latest poetry book, Released from the Wheel, is hot off the press. You can order it at https://ebisupublications.com/books/. Reviews are coming soon, but here’s what two other writers have said so far:

“Like all great poets, Shelley’s poems are about life and death—how imminent and inevitable death really is and therefore, how precious, how amazing, is each moment of our lives. She covers it all, from insect life to the stars—to the very galaxies, but she also covers politics, heroism, religion, cramped airplanes, and childhood memories of summers at the beach. Released from the Wheel is a pleasure and a wonder to read.”            –Phyllis Chesler

 “I love your book—read it out loud to myself this morning.” –Judy Grahn

(Judy adds that she plans to write more about it.)

Followers of this blog have already seen one of the poems, “The Ecstasy of the Banana Slug.” https://ebisupublications.com/the-ecstasy-of-the-banana-slug/ Here’s another, to whet your appetite:

Our Town, Saturday Night

Our town is a periphery,
the northernmost finger
of a swarming city.

The main drag on Saturday night:
the sun at its lowest flings
javelins of red gold light

through maple branches
illuminates the flights
of mosquitoes, dances

of dragonflies, midges on the wing,
drifts of cottonwood fluff, the mating quests
of the tiniest things.

Below them the pavement reeks
of spilled beer, pizza crusts, and wet
cigarette butts. Our young also seek

their mates, flashing dozens of piercings,
tattooed tapestries
on every limb, thumbs drumming

signals on cell phones:
meet me at the brew pub, at the party.
No one wants to be left alone,

rejected. The boom cars,
the backfiring Harleys,
the overamped rap from the bars

grab the street by its nape
and shake it till its ears bleed.
But we’ve been mates

these many years, no longer frantic
though not quite sedate. Desperate to escape
the din, the adolescent antics,

we walk to the edge
of our peripheral town and watch crows fly
to roost, blackbirds bed

down in the reeds, abandoning the hunt for bugs
to frogs and bats. A chorus of croaks. A high-pitched squeak,
and the low, low horn of a passing tug.