Tag: 2020s Poetry

Read 2020s Poetry written by slam poets, cowboy poets, and literary giants inspired by the state of Arizona on AZpoetry.com!

Rex Arramsith Arizona poet a man taking a selfie

Rex Arrasmith

Rex Carey Arrasmith: Bridging Worlds Through Poetry and Fiction

Rex Carey Arrasmith is a poet and fiction writer whose work traverses the landscapes of memory, identity, and the natural world. Splitting his time between Sedona, Arizona, and Lāna’i, Hawaii, Arrasmith draws inspiration from the vortexes of Arizona’s Coconino National Forest and the serene beauty of the Pacific. His writing often serves as a memorial to friends and lovers lost to the AIDS pandemic, capturing moments of joy, sorrow, and reflection.

After a 30-year career with United Airlines, Arrasmith pursued his passion for writing, earning an MFA in Fiction from Lesley University in 2018, followed by an MFA in Poetry in 2020. He is a co-founder of Cambridge Common Writers, a Lesley MFA alumni group that fosters community among writers.(cambridgecommonwriters.org, cambridgecommonwriters.org)

Arrasmith’s poetry and fiction have been featured in numerous literary journals, including Lily Poetry Review, Passengers Journal, Solstice Literary Magazine, Spillwords, Hares Paw Literary Journal, New Note Poetry, and Dark Thirty Poetry Publishing. His poem “Whale Song” in Spillwords reflects his deep connection to nature and the awe it inspires.

Arrasmith’s Poetry Transcends Literature and Spirituality

In addition to his literary pursuits, Arrasmith is an ordained Universal Life Minister, crafting uniquely inspired wedding vows that blend poetic sensibility with personal narratives. His multifaceted career and diverse experiences enrich his writing, offering readers a tapestry of stories that resonate with authenticity and emotional depth.

For more information on Rex Carey Arrasmith and his work, visit his Cambridge Common Writers profile.

Posted in Poets  • 
Gary Every AZpoetry.com

Gary Every

Sedona’s Storyteller, Poet Laureate, and Genre-Bending Wordsmith

Gary Every, the Poet Laureate of Sedona, Arizona, is a literary force known for his genre-defying style, energetic performances, and profound connection to the American Southwest. With over 1,300 publications and nine books to his name, Every has earned recognition in poetry, fiction, journalism, and speculative literature, carving out a unique space where the natural world, science fiction, and spoken word converge.

A Career of Boundless Expression

Gary Every’s expansive body of work reflects his commitment to telling stories that blur traditional boundaries. Whether delivering beat-inspired spoken word, penning sharp science fiction narratives, or crafting intimate essays grounded in Arizona’s diverse landscape, his voice remains uniquely his own. Every’s storytelling ranges from rock concerts and Earth Day celebrations to poetry slams and resort bonfires—wherever there is a microphone or a willing audience, Gary Every brings his signature style.

Prose, Poetry, and the Imaginative Frontier

Every describes his creative output as equally divided between prose, poetry, and fiction—or, in his own words: “journalism, science fiction, and beatnik.” This balance allows him to explore the human condition through both the lens of grounded reality and the infinite possibilities of speculative thought. His journalistic work has been honored by the Arizona Newspaper Association, earning consecutive Best Lifestyle Feature awards.

Honors and Recognition

Gary Every’s commitment to language has garnered critical acclaim across multiple disciplines. He is a four-time nominee for the prestigious Rhysling Award, which honors the best science fiction poetry of the year, and he has received numerous Pushcart Prize nominations for both his fiction and verse. His poetry regularly appears in journals and anthologies dedicated to speculative and literary writing alike.

Introducing The Mighty Minstrels: Poetry Meets Jazz

In addition to his solo work, Gary Every joined forces with a collective of musicians to produce the jazz-poetry fusion album Introducing The Mighty Minstrels. The project underscores Every’s musicality and his roots in performance poetry, showcasing the rhythm and improvisational spark that animate his live readings.

Voice of the Verde Valley

Though originally from outside Sedona, Every is deeply rooted in Northern Arizona’s landscape, folklore, and history. As Sedona’s Poet Laureate, he elevates regional voices and natural wonders through public readings, workshops, and cultural events that blend performance with environmental awareness. His work frequently draws from desert canyons, red rock formations, and the mythic aura of the Verde Valley region.

From Bonfire to Slam Stage

Before his poet laureate appointment, Every honed his storytelling chops as a bonfire storyteller at a luxury resort near Tucson. This period instilled in him a passion for live performance, which continues to inform his presence at poetry slams and community events across Arizona. Whether riffing at a jazz set or engaging audiences at literary festivals, his delivery is dynamic and unforgettable.

A Literary Bridge Across Genres

Gary Every’s writing challenges and expands our understanding of what poetry can be. By weaving together beat aesthetics, desert ecology, interstellar imagination, and sharp journalistic observation, he crafts work that resonates across audiences and disciplines. His ability to shift seamlessly between the page and the stage, the traditional and the speculative, places him among Arizona’s most versatile and visionary literary figures.

Want to read Gary Every’s books? Check out his official website HERE.

Posted in Poets  • 
Natasha Murdock Arizona Poet

Natasha Murdock

Natasha Murdock: Suburban Elegy and the Poetics of Everyday Awe

Natasha Murdock is a poet whose voice emerges from the quiet corners of suburban life, motherhood, and memory. Based in Gilbert, Arizona, Murdock holds an MFA in Poetry from Arizona State University, where she honed a poetic style that embraces clarity, understatement, and emotional depth. She is a part of the vibrant East Valley literary scene, balancing her writing life with her work as adjunct faculty at Mesa Community College.

A Poetic Eye on Domestic Spaces and Unspoken Moments

Murdock’s poetry reveals the sacred in the everyday—whether it’s the hum of household chores, the surreal exhaustion of parenthood, or the strange, persistent beauty found in life’s overlooked moments. Her poems capture what is often left unsaid, drawing readers into an interior world where grace and tension coexist. Through a minimal yet resonant style, she examines the ways silence speaks and gestures carry the weight of memory.

Published in BlazeVOX and The Cobalt Review

Her work has appeared in respected literary journals including BlazeVOX and The Cobalt Review, where readers and editors alike have praised her ability to render ordinary experience with lyric intensity. These publications reflect her place among contemporary voices that push against the boundaries of form without losing accessibility or human connection.

Teaching, Community, and Literary Advocacy

Beyond the page, Murdock is a dedicated educator. At Mesa Community College, she introduces new generations of students to poetry, creative writing, and the power of literary expression. Her work in the classroom echoes her own journey—one that is rooted in Arizona’s literary institutions and nurtured by the mentorship and community of the Southwest’s writing culture.

A Voice Rooted in Arizona

As a poet living in Gilbert and working in the greater Phoenix area, Natasha Murdock brings a distinctly Arizona voice to contemporary poetry—one that reflects the contradictions of desert life, the rhythms of family, and the challenge of reconciling selfhood with responsibility. Her poetry bridges the intimate and the expansive, the personal and the political.

Readers can expect more work from Murdock in the coming years, as she continues to explore the complexities of language, longing, and living fully in the moment.

Posted in Poets  • 
Doc Luben Arizona poet AZpoetry.com

Doc Luben

Doc Luben: A Powerhouse of Performance Poetry in Arizona and Beyond

Doc Luben is a dynamic voice in American performance poetry—a writer, educator, stage actor, and slam champion whose impact spans from the comic book conventions of Phoenix to the literary circles of Portland and Tucson. Known for his emotionally charged storytelling, razor-sharp wit, and captivating stage presence, Doc is a two-time Poetry Slam Champion of Portland, Oregon and a finalist at the 2013 Individual World Poetry Slam. In Arizona, he claimed the title of Tucson Poetry Slam Champion in 2009 and has continued to inspire new generations of poets across the Southwest.

Whether he’s headlining comic conventions, teaching workshops in schools, or weaving narratives that balance heartbreak with humor, Doc Luben’s work proves that poetry is not just alive—it’s electric.

CalArts to Comic Cons: An Artist with Nerd Credentials

Doc Luben studied at the California Institute of the Arts (CalArts), a progressive, interdisciplinary institution known for producing some of the most adventurous artists of our time. There, he honed his ability to blur the lines between spoken word, theater, and literature—developing a distinct style equal parts literary and pop culture-savvy.

A longtime fixture at geek gatherings like Phoenix ComicCon and Rose City ComicCon, Doc is no stranger to the intersection of art and fandom. As a panelist and performer at the 2010 Phoenix ComicCon Nerd Slam, he proved that poetry could coexist with cosplay, and that the language of the heart speaks fluently in comic book references.

Doc Luben in Arizona: A Voice for the Desert’s Dreamers

Though his performances have earned him acclaim nationwide, Doc has deep ties to Arizona’s poetry community. His work in Tucson’s vibrant slam scene earned him the 2009 championship, and his involvement with the Arizona Classical Theater introduced audiences to a playwright equally adept at verse and dramatic form. As a teaching artist, he has facilitated countless youth workshops across the state, using poetry as a vehicle for empowerment, resistance, and self-discovery.

Doc has been a featured performer at nearly every major poetry venue in Arizona—including Lawn Gnome Publishing in downtown Phoenix, where he has headlined many times, bringing his signature mix of vulnerable truth-telling and theatrical flair.

What Makes Doc Luben’s Poetry Unique?

Doc’s work is a masterclass in the art of confession without self-pity. His poems often walk a tightrope between the tragic and the comic, confronting trauma, masculinity, queerness, addiction, heartbreak, and mental health with a voice that is at once devastatingly honest and refreshingly irreverent.

His performances are built like one-act plays, drawing audiences into worlds where vulnerability is weaponized and laughter is a survival tactic. Whether telling the story of a failed relationship with the fervor of a tent preacher or exploring personal grief with subtle surrealism, Doc never flinches—and neither does his audience.

Teaching the Next Generation: Subversive Workshops and Youth Outreach

For more than 20 years, Doc Luben has worked with young people in classrooms, after-school programs, and poetry slams to build confidence, encourage storytelling, and teach the mechanics of great writing. His workshops are known for being radically inclusive, emotionally safe, and artistically daring.

His teaching method, like his poetry, doesn’t talk down to students. Instead, it invites them to speak up—loudly, fearlessly, and with the full range of their lived experience.

Digital Presence and Legacy Work

Though known primarily for his stage work, Doc Luben also maintains a digital presence through platforms like Tumblr, where fans can engage with his written work and stay up to date on live performances. His blog, doclubenpoetry.tumblr.com, is a trove of archived poems, thoughts on writing, and updates from the road.

As the national poetry scene evolves, Doc remains a beacon of what’s possible when spoken word poetry is fused with theatrical storytelling, literary precision, and social commentary.

Influence and Collaborations

Doc’s influence extends far beyond his own body of work. He has mentored dozens of young poets who have gone on to become champions in their own right, and has collaborated with visual artists, filmmakers, musicians, and playwrights across the country. His poetry has been featured at slams, literary festivals, and fringe theaters, as well as incorporated into interdisciplinary performances that combine lighting design, soundscapes, and live performance.

Signature Poems and Performances

Among the most iconic pieces in Doc’s arsenal are poems that blend personal narrative with biting cultural critique. Many of these works have been performed to standing ovations in national competitions, featured on slam poetry YouTube channels, and taught in college-level literature and performance studies classes.

Some recurring themes in his work include:

  • The conflict between performance and authenticity
  • Grief and the lingering ghosts of childhood trauma
  • Queer identity and the politics of masculinity
  • Escapism through pop culture and fandom
  • The failures and small redemptions of everyday love

Doc Luben and the Legacy of Slam Poetry

Doc Luben emerged during the golden era of slam, alongside poets like Anis Mojgani, Rachel McKibbens, and Mighty Mike McGee. His work captures the spirit of that movement—part confessional, part theatrical, wholly raw—and continues to evolve with today’s changing poetry landscape.

He’s also part of the living history of slam’s influence in the Southwest. Like The Klute, Myrlin Hepworth, and Tomas Stanton, Doc has helped shape Arizona’s performance poetry community into one that prizes emotional intelligence, intersectionality, and stagecraft.

Doc Luben in His Own Words

As Doc once famously declared onstage:

“We are all soft parts and lightning bolts.”

That poetic duality—the tender vulnerability and the sudden, crackling insight—is at the heart of everything he writes and performs.

Where to See Doc Luben Next

Though he’s no longer competing on the slam circuit, Doc continues to perform at select venues and teach workshops across Arizona and beyond. Follow his poetry and updates on his Tumblr blog, and check AZPoetry.com’s events calendar to see when he’ll next hit the mic.

Final Thoughts: The Poet as Survivor

At his core, Doc Luben is a survivor—of trauma, addiction, heartbreak, and all the other broken things that make a poet a poet. His work is a blueprint for finding humor in the pain, power in the vulnerability, and art in the aftermath.

For audiences across the country—and especially for Arizona’s poetic landscape—Doc Luben is a legend, a mentor, and a reminder that even the darkest story deserves to be told.

Posted in Poets  • 
Your Poem Is Not That Good Because by Christopher Fox Graham

Your Poem Is Not That Good Because (A Response) by Christopher Fox Graham

“Your Poem Is Not That Good Because (A Response)” by Christopher Fox Graham

I

Our poems were never that good
no one’s were
or the world we talked about
the revolution we prophesied
would have arrived by now
but it didn’t
and it isn’t
and it won’t
because poetry can’t change a world
drunk on its own power
deaf to so many voices
poetry is only the captured sincerity of a moment
we were the moment

So we kept writing
and slamming poems
and sparring on stages
spitting word graffiti against the walls we faced
or the walls we broke down

The good ol’ days of poetry slam
weren’t always as good as we remember
Though some days were better than we thought at the time,
remembering now and waxing nostalgic

The bastard son of jazz and Beats
born at Get Me High
and the Green Mill
where Capone could cover the exits
we spit to barflies and java junkies
book buyers and gallery goers
we had our holy places
Nuyorican, Cantab, Starry Plough
Red Sea, MAD Linguist, the Merc
Bowery and Lizard Lounge
Blind Lemon in Deep Ellum
in the heart of Texas
and Da Poetry Lounge
the hook there in the name
and a thousand temples
with a hot mic
a willing owner
and a free night

We crowd-walked like Jesus
called out and heard responses
used microphones and mic stands
as the props we were forbidden to bear
climbed on bars to be better heard
wrote poems for duos, trios, foursomes
to amplify our solo limitations
turned one-person plays into touchstones
persuasive essays into epics
street protests into soliloquies
cyphered in circles
telling tales about our adventures

Our grandfathers and grandmothers
did the same
when the cosmos was our companion
the stars our only stage lights
And civilization was just a campfire

Our skin or status
age, accent or origin
was wiped clean
we had three minutes and a ticking clock
to change the world
and ten seconds of grace
because we lost track of time
channeling the universe

We had arch rivals and forever allies
to push us forward
Titans and Olympians
who we worshiped
for crushing stages
like city walls
or opening hearts and minds
to other ways of thinking
or living
or loving

We had kings and goddesses
who blessed the microphones
in whispers and decrees
telling us to love ourselves
in spite of ourselves
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
“you, right now,
hearing this, reading this
YOU,
you are good enough
you are perfect”

We had heels and cads we loved to hate
hanging on every verse
waiting for a stolen stanza
a lifted lyric
a reference to clothing they wore
a cheater who judged them too knowingly
an untruth wrapped in beautiful fiction
we could later disprove
and turn into sin

Audiences didn’t care to know our strife
in the old days of poetry slam
they hung on the shimmering words
played out stanzas in their minds
heard old poems new to them
uttered at their first hearing
they left changed, bettered and brighter
the points were never the point
they were the gimmick
to get them in the door

We asked them to judge us
sans background, affiliation or inclination
no doctorate or bibliography required
their scores, our epitaphs
8.2, even on page
6.9 because it was a sex poem
9.7 worth the bus ride home
5.8, a punch to the gut
7.1 after we dropped a line
9.3 when we picked it up
a perfect 10 with tear-filled eyes
or guts sore with laughter
or hearing their story told through our lips

They judged our game
our struts and frets
in three minutes upon the stage
they were part of the show
they, the reason we spit:
Vox populi,
vox deus,
judicat poeta

We had demigods and divas
devils and demons
and sometimes,
perhaps too often,
we were they

We were “Beauty Ba Bo” perfectly translated

We had wingless seraphim
their halos lost in stage lights
Fallen angels seeking absolution
Mortals mid-apotheosis
We knew our saints by heart
could speak their names in mononyms
Shibboleths sans surname:
Marc,
Patricia,
Saul,
Beau, Reggie, Taylor, Buddy, Gary, Roger, Bob, Wammo, Marty, Shappy, Klute,
Sekou, Shihan, Ed, Derrick, Talib, Shane, Barbara, Miguel, Mahogany, Rachel, Sarah, Phil, Pat, MuMs, Jared, Henry, Mike, Scott, Suzi, Christopher, Hanif, Dayvid, Andy, Jack, Staceyann, Ken, Alvin, Corinna, Jaylee, Baz, Blair, Bao, Betsy, Sonya, Rives, Anis, Lauren, Bill, Patrick, Holly, Theresa, Billy, Jugga, Ragan, Steve, Sean, Suheir, Sou, Simone, Sully, Celena, Zork, Omar, Olivia, Oz, Iyeoka, Isaac, Corbet, Ebony, Eboni, Janean, Jamie, Jive, Jeremiah, Jasmine, Jerry, Cristin, Kenn, Eitan, Daphne, Danez, Donnie, Delrica, Duncan, De, Denise, Desiree, Darrell, Amelia, Xero, Mack, Paul, Stefan, Angela, Karen, Midnight, Erik, Sierra, Hakim, Adriana, Frannie, Ebo, Jesse, Matthew, Doc, Lindsay, Mickie, Maya, Laura, Emi, Nathan, Mikel, Mojdeh, Tank, Thadra, Robbie, Omari, Gypsee, Tristan, DaShade, Blue, Blythe, Tony, Rudy, Andrea, Ayinde, Abigail, Alex, Akua, Adam, Taalam, Rowie, Claire, Gabbi, Gabrielle, Genevieve, Goad, Taneka, Cass, Frank, Ryan, Valence, Evan, Josh, Nodalone, Neil, Briana, Brenna, Brit, Randy, Lydia, Jess, Naughtya, Eddie, Amy, Angelica, Caleb, Dylan, Dwain, Hakim, Lacey, Natasha, Zack, Panika, Amir, Chrysanthemum, Imani, Glori, Gigi, Tui, Jerri, Omni, Emanuelee, Ekabhumi, Javon, Jomar, George, Joyce, Joaquin, Mercedez, Mindy, Morris, Mckendy, Mayday, Matt, Esme, Brett, Dahled, Sam, Sevan, Suzee, Sabrina, Soul, Cheryl, Logan, Myrlin, James, Taz, Twain, Tova, Thomas, Crystal, Christa, Guante, Angelique, Colin, Theo, Jozer, Kealoha, Keith, Katie, Kat, Khary, Kataalyst, Bryan, Nazelah, Porsha, Daryl, Ian, Jon, Jay, Jeremyah, Jordan, Duke, FreeQuency, Flowmentalz, MrHumanity, Candy, Rage, Diamond, Nova, Tempest, Verbal, Vogue, Tapestry, Rooster, Toaster, Whoopeecat
Don, Damian and Danny, the Trinity of ABQ
AJ, RJ, RC, CR, GNO, IN-Q when initials were enough
Bowerbird just happy to be there
Mona turning spoken word into silent speech
Jeanne and Jim, no distance too far
Stephen and Julia with a Tattler
Arrian with a camera,
Inkera with a “welcome”
Clebo shirtless and rarefied
and Mighty Mike McGee, whose three names are always spoken as one

And after,
always after,
always underground
where only poets could enter
if you knew the password
the secret location
was Harlym125
the crownless king
holding court
for the best of us
to duel in the round
until last poet standing
but no cameras in the courtroom
no secrets from the sepulcher
no record made in this arena,
our Holy of Holies

Some of us were broken people
writing to survive
Some of us didn’t
some cut short by our own hands
some by fate we railed against
some by time, that takes us all
they all died too young
even the old ones
especially the old ones

Some of us never healed
some only healed through slam
because of the poems
because of the scores
because of the praise
because of the failures
because we got up again, and again and again
because we could banish our monsters
cast them back into darkness with wordmagic
because we would expose our sins
And find absolution by the last line
or because some stranger
we could not see under stage lights
said later in the lobby
or at the bar
or the afterparty,
“I loved that poem…
… you made me cry”
sometimes that alone was enough
perhaps too often,
it was enough
which is why we’re still here, still living
save one
and save the world entire
their tears saving us
from drowning ourselves

If not for the old days of poetry slam
we would not know each other
not have lived the stories in other skins
served in three-minute epics
or afterparties or hotel lobbies
we would not have a safe sofa,
a paying gig and eager crowd
in 50 cities and 500 small towns
a welcome smile from a host we’d never met
but who knew us intimately
from that poem,
you know the one
the one never that good
whose ending you tweaked
100 times trying to get right
but to someone, tonight,
it will be perfect
exactly what they needed to hear
“your poems are not good because”
you say over and over to yourself —
they’re not good —
to you —
swallowed in self-doubt and self-criticism,
but to someone,
tonight,
they are a masterpiece
wordmagic from a microphone
slammed by a wingless seraphim
halo lost in stage lights
chasing their monsters into the dark

The points weren’t the point
the point was poetry
we knew that, we knew the math:
1,590 teams went to nationals
only 118 touched finals stage
we went to lose
at nationals,
lose across states,
lose across town
hundreds of hours practicing
thousands of miles traveled
to be statistically eliminated on night one
to be cut from round two
to go over minute three
but we went to share
to become family
stay family
mourn lost family
you stopped caring about the scores
about winning
about fleeting victories
you cared about family
about impressing them with a poem
trying something new
and winning because
“your poems are good”
because you became the captured sincerity of a moment
the points weren’t the point
the point was we wiped clean
skin and status
age, accent and origin
to become stories in skinsuits
we were words walking
the bards, bhats, griots, skalds, seanchaithe,
of our slam scenes back home
and a family wherever we were
we knew that
in the “old days of poetry slam”

II

We forget now
the churning civil war inside ourselves
“The revolution will not be televised”
we believed wholeheartedly
poets may start revolutions,
but we don’t lead them
without an army, armed and funded
no one fights them
airwaves aren’t free
raised fists don’t rake in ratings
empty seats at finals add up over time
But we refused to be bought
we refused to cash in
we refused to sell out
even when bankruptcy came knocking

Our poems were never that good
but we believed our own bios
in the old days of poetry slam
Gaslit by our own press releases
we knew the money would come
the chapbooks would one day be bound
TV gigs and book deals were around the corner
bars would become Broadway
book thrift shops would lead to theaters
finals night would be standing-room only
MFAs were as good as MBAs
success would fall off the shelf
if this poem was perfect
this line was just right
if this hook had teeth
if we unfurled our dreams into a ship’s sail
we could make it to Avalon or Valinor
Penguin, Simon & Schuster,
Random House, HarperCollins
PBS or HBO’s Def Poets
presidential inaugurations,
UN floor speeches
White House dinners
Olympic openings
like the other poets who did

But we forgot
no one reads poetry anymore
no one reads print anymore
we pay to be published
selling books at slams
to make it to the next gig
and we’re left with
bookshelves of others’ words from
The old days of poetry slam

It was never enough to be brilliant
you have to do the work to prove it
sometimes you have to break into Harvard
and put your poetry book on the Woodberry shelf
for it to be found there

Now we count our scars and remember
the sins and stages, the dream teams
the host hotels and victory poems
hip-hop battles and haiku head-to-heads
nerd quizzes and fifth-wheel features
group pieces and late-night erotica
a trophy we once tore in half
the beautiful bouts 0.1 points apart
with the whim of a judge —
some college kid on a date
some mom from the suburbs
some closet writer with her journal at home
some wannabe rapper
some grizzled retiree reliving his youth
or sweet grandma seeing what the kids are doing now —
deciding between prize money and parting gift

We were Kings of Kings, shouting:
“Look on my words, ye Mighty, and despair!

All statutes crumble
All empires fall
All languages change over time
or die on lips of the last speaker

“The old days of poetry slam”
are the “old days” for a reason
and the reasons were legion,
but sometimes
but perhaps too often,
we were they

III

But words never die
not once uttered and amplified
they echo endlessly across eternity
or get swallowed back into the throat
for a new voice to speak

The new slam isn’t the old slam
it’s better, it’s worse,
it doesn’t follow the rules
that we belabored and bickered over at slammasters meetings
ensconced in scripture we printed before Nationals
but it’s here and it’s now
and it’s asking us to dance
the steps are new
the new music is different
but we learned the last time
and danced waltzes across stages

“Your poems are not good …”
we shout on social media
with a million reasons why
some don’t read other poets
some don’t read better poets
some shun critique or criticism
some forget it’s a gimmick not godhood
some outshine their mentors
some have no mentors to follow
some first drafts stay final drafts
some value victories over craft
notching one-night slams into headboards
like some of us did

time will cull or cure
like it did us —
we forgotten heroes uncelebrated
we word barons stripped of fiefdoms
we veterans with razorblade tongues

Our poems were never that good
but they were good enough
and the proof is new slam is here
in the echo of the old

They love slam like we did
because we taught them to
the high schooler in the back out past curfew
the fan who bought our chapbook with $1s
the one-time judge, drunk on our fire
the mourner who saw us grieve in public
watching a man cry without sin or shame,
the teen who added 100 to your view count
didn’t you see them?
were the stage lights too bright
in “the old days of poetry slam”?
When we gave up
when the old slam became old
when we euthanized it at 34
in the city where it was born
at a meeting of 200 who loved slam so much
we had to cut its throat
when we took ”kill your darlings” too literally
they rose up
where our words had sowed them
and built temples
with the blueprints we burned
enriching their soil with our echoes

A legacy isn’t a carbon copy
it’s not a clone or a rerun
children may have our names
but they are only half-us
half-someone else
wholly themselves
something new built on the old

they read our poems in school
in chapbooks, on websites
shared our voices, videos and clips
In mixtapes, LiveJournal, MySpace,
YouTube, Instagram, Facebook,
Tumblr, TikTok, TedX,
Button, Write About Now
They heard us say
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
like we were taught
and they believed us
even when we didn’t believe ourselves
they still believe us
because our poems were that good
they outlived their makers
words still speaking
“Poetry is Necessary”
like food, shelter, water, poetry is necessary

No cataclysm can kill poetry
manmade or otherwise,
not really, not forever,
it’ll rise from the corpses, the ashes,
the broken bones and fallen towers
emerge from the flood waters
that could kill,
but not drown
Team SNO taught us that

We martyred ourselves in suffering
on stages or pages
but not in vain
and not in silence
and someone was listening
even if we didn’t hear it

They heard about a thing called slam
how it could change the world some day
if the poem was perfect
the line was just right
if the hook had teeth
and when the old slam became old
they made it new again

The new slam isn’t the old slam
it’ll wander and conquer and collapse
and get back up, like we did
they will learn by doing, like we did.
they will learn by failing, like we did.
they will learn but getting up again and again and again
they will anoint new saints in new styles
they will take the ghost from our rebel skeleton
and outshine their ancestors
it is out legacy even if our name is absent

We were candles in the dark
but one can light another
and still burn brightly
our words remain to light the way
even if we don’t,
some new poets will become furnaces,
others bonfires,
some just brief matches and flashes in the pan
some will come in like a fireball,
burn into explosion and fade away into the dark
like some of us did
sometimes it’s enough
just to light the flame

Our poems were never that good
they didn’t have to be
but they were enough
to someone, somewhere
and sometimes,
perhaps too often,
that someone
was me

New slam is here
there are first-timers on stage
new voices in old skins
old voices with new poems
legends in renaissance
prodigies proving themselves
and audiences oblivious to the difference
but they heard about a thing called slam

because they’re here
our poems were good enough
they’re ready to listen to wingless seraphim
see halos in stage lights
show them the glory
of the old days
in the new temples
leave them changed, bettered and brighter
like in “the old days of poetry slam”

There’s a sign up list
and a hot mic
if you have a poem to share
or an open seat for tonight
if you want to lend your ears

They just want to be heard
like we did
want to say to us —
but more so to themselves —
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”

and hear us answer
sincerely
simply,
with hope
and with thunderous applause

Reclaiming the Stage: A Slam Poet’s Retrospective

Christopher Fox Graham’s poem, “Your Poems Are Not That Good Because (A Response),” serves as a heartfelt homage to the evolution of slam poetry. Through vivid recollections, Graham chronicles the journey from the early days of slam—marked by raw energy and communal passion—to its present state, reflecting on the art form’s challenges and triumphs. ​

The Pulse of Slam: Community, Competition, and Catharsis

Graham delves into the essence of slam poetry, highlighting its role as a platform for marginalized voices and a catalyst for personal and collective transformation. He emphasizes the communal bonds forged through shared experiences on stage, where poets confront personal demons and societal issues alike, seeking solace and solidarity in the rhythm of spoken word.​

Legacy and Renewal: The Ever-Evolving Art of Slam

Acknowledging the inevitable changes within the slam community, Graham reflects on the new generation of poets who carry the torch forward. He underscores the importance of mentorship and the enduring impact of past performances, asserting that while styles may evolve, the core mission of slam—to give voice to the voiceless—remains steadfast.​

Discover More About Christopher Fox Graham

Christopher Fox Graham is a prominent figure in the Arizona poetry scene, known for his dynamic performances and contributions to the slam community. With a career spanning over two decades, he has represented Flagstaff and Sedona on multiple National Poetry Slam teams and continues to mentor emerging poets. ​

To explore more about Graham’s work and his impact on the poetry world, visit his official biography.

The Laziest Man in the World poem Arizona poet Kalen Lander | AZpoetry.com

“The Laziest Man in the World” by Kalen Lander

Behold!
The laziest man in the world

Damn I’m a pearl
Countless bedsores adorn my soul
Check it, if you see my corpse walking round it’s a hoax
Cause in my head I’m at home

Tomes tell of my liquified bones
Don’t question it just keep an open mind
And know I’m holed up inside and it’s alright
It’s kinda like summer vacation
Well it’s more like mummification
It’s sorta like I’m Jason Statham
But instead of punching
I’m stuck in the basement
Yup

And I’ll I’m transporting are snacks to my mouth
All I look forward to is chilling out
All of my memories center around
How much I enjoy becoming one with the couch

Don’t tell me not to slouch these shoulders are heavy
Weight of the world? More like an early Wednesday
Wake up at 4 n then turn on the TV
Repeat indefinitely
Frozen pizza to me is a delicacy

Maybe people might say that I am my own worst enemy
I get all tuckered out from not exerting any energy
I prefer to be the middle link in human centipedes
I don’t want to be deciding when it’s time to shit n eat
Literally anything that isn’t sitting sickens me

I’ll pretend to be asleep when anybody intervenes
My mama wants to say I got a problem naw man
I’m taking after Grandma this rocker is awesome
And I ain’t getting up until you toss me off it
And then I’m probably gonna conk out on the carpet

Ooooo did I mention?
All this inactivity has given me heightened senses
I can smell a cheeto on the floor like it was incense
I can ignore the doorbell better than anybody ever
Got no competitors no natural predators

No feeling in my legs n no plans of leaving bed at all
N I would eat your disapproval if that shit was edible
I said it all before but I’m repetitive I’m
The Laziest man in the world

Music Video of “The Laziest Man in the World” performed by Snailmate

About the Poet Kalen Lander

Kalen Lander’s “The Laziest Man in the World” is a humorous and self-aware exploration of extreme idleness. With witty imagery and a tongue-in-cheek tone, the poem delves into the comforts of slouching, snacking, and avoiding the hustle of daily life. Lander’s ability to blend humor with sharp observation reflects his unique voice in the world of poetry and performance.

To learn more about Kalen Lander’s creative journey, his contributions to Arizona’s arts scene, and his evolution as a performer and poet, visit his full biography HERE.

Land Alive by David Chorlton poem artwork AZpoetry.com

Land Alive by David Chorlton

“Land Alive” by David Chorlton

The land isn’t empty, it’s thinking.
What will it become when
the clouds disappear and rocks take their place?
Where will the roads lead

when they reach the edge of human thought
and turn into philosophy
where the compass needle bends
and points toward itself?
How much history
can a lizard carry on its back
when it moves at the speed of a reflection

that waits for no one?
It’s as dark as dreams in the canyon
where shadows conspire
to climb the red walls
and fly, as questions do when

they outgrow any answers
that would have bound them
to the Earth.

Originally published online on September 3, 2024 by Lothlorien Poetry Journal, where you can visit to read Land Alive and four more poems.

About the poem Land Alive by David Chorlton

Discover the poem’s philosophical layers and explore the Arizona desert through Chorlton’s lens.

In “Land Alive,” Arizona poet David Chorlton challenges the notion of the desert as a barren, lifeless expanse. Instead, he breathes consciousness into the land, describing it as a force that thinks, reflects, and questions. The poem opens with a striking declaration—”The land isn’t empty, it’s thinking”—and from this premise, Chorlton invites readers to consider the Sonoran Desert not as a backdrop for human activity, but as a living, sentient presence.

The poem flows like a dream, moving from questions about geography and thought to surreal images of lizards carrying history and shadows conspiring to climb canyon walls. The language is both reflective and elusive, packed with metaphor and subtle philosophical questioning. What does it mean for a road to “reach the edge of human thought” or a compass to “point toward itself”? These images suggest a journey inward as much as outward, where the landscape provokes self-reflection and existential inquiry.

Chorlton, a longtime Phoenix resident and visual artist, brings an abstract sensibility to his desert poetry. “Land Alive” feels at home in his broader body of work, which often fuses nature, art, and meditations on place. The desert isn’t just scenery—it’s a character, an entity with memory and imagination. The lizard, a frequent figure in Southwestern imagery, is transformed into a metaphor for time, memory, and motion—“moving at the speed of a reflection / that waits for no one.”

The poem culminates in a moment of mystery and release, as questions “outgrow any answers / that would have bound them / to the Earth.” In this sense, “Land Alive” celebrates not just the land’s physical resilience, but its capacity to outlive and outthink human limitations.

Themes and Style

  • Philosophy of Place: The poem explores the mind-like quality of the land, raising questions about its future, history, and consciousness.
  • Nature as a Living Entity: The desert is not empty but active—filled with thought, movement, and ancient stories.
  • Metaphor and Surrealism: Chorlton’s imagery blends the real and the abstract, painting a landscape that is both physical and metaphysical.
  • Existential Tone: There’s an underlying sense of mystery and questioning, with no easy answers—only poetic observations.

Why It Belongs in Arizona’s Literary Canon

David Chorlton has lived in Phoenix since the late 1970s, and his poetry is deeply rooted in the desert Southwest. In “Land Alive,” his knowledge of the Sonoran landscape and his background in visual art converge to create a unique lyrical experience. This poem is not just about Arizona—it thinks like Arizona: expansive, enigmatic, and quietly profound.

Discover more about David Chorlton, his poetic vision, and his connection to Arizona’s desert landscapes by visiting his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com.

Running In A Red State poem by Cymelle Leah Edwards AZpoetry.com

Running in a Red State by Cymelle Leah Edwards

“Running in a Red State” by Cymelle Leah Edwards

Don’t be political.

Sinclair Wash Trail:

Anger is that which your body recognizes as alien; that which has been whittled nonexistent; you temper that emotion at the age of eight when you indulge it and learn that your angry is angrier because it’s also darker; when you serve a man who says he’ll take his coffee like you; standing phone-to-ear at the bus stop when a woman nearby interrupts to say, you have great diction; when he lets his dogs off their leashes as you jog past; in your sleep when this all happens again; you forget what it’s like to be angry until your larynx stiffens from singed resistance; from charred light curdling in the back of your throat.

Don’t sit on a fence.

Woody Mt. Road:

I tried to be both; tried to cinephile-file roles; tried to balance our budget; tried to sleep in my own bed; tried to re-create memories; to be in two places at once; to protract the hours in a day; tried to be honest anyway; tried to sit on my hands so they wouldn’t reach for her; tried to spell without vowels; tried to circumnavigate her body; tried to sorrel our walls; tried to pray it away; to run it away; tried to away; this is when I learned to splinter. 

Saying nothing is saying something.

Fat Man’s Loop:

The dogs are off their leashes again, moments before I meet his path. I say to myself, don’t move over this time, let them move over. Let them disrupt their own PRs, mess up their own stride. Close enough to feel heat radiating off his jogging fluorescents, I inch to my right.

I can’t hear you.

Been dreaming about grandma lately, about running into her house after school and watching her rescue the princess on Nintendo classic. She was really good at being Mario, at moving through different worlds, at saving. I’d ask with my small voice can I play? She’d look at my school uniform covered in grass stains, my fingers sticky with the remnants of a pb&j. It’s hot right now, let the machine cool down. I’d wait thirty or so minutes which felt like hours, return to the living room, remove the cartridge and blow.

I could never make it through the underwater theme.

Not choosing is also a choice.

Buffalo Park:

They ride their bikes close so dirt kicks into my nostrils, they look back to watch me cough.

Silence speaks.

Walnut Canyon Ranch:

I learn to give her alfalfa pellets, to stretch my hand out flat, to pet her crest and say, that’s a good girl. I learn to stand parallel with her legs when removing her coat, to pat her bum before I unclip the left hook, to not bother with getting her to like me, she will never like me. I learn that naming a horse is an art. That it took Susan over a year to come up with “Yankee” and that she’s fine with it. I learn their names can’t be more than eighteencharacters, that I’ll never own Ubiquitouuuuuuuuus. I see the rope hanging in their front yard, chalk it up to a game for their grandkids, a tool to swing on. It is the noose at the end that makes me wonder if I should ever return to feed the horses. To find another subset of winona acreage to run through.

Say it, I dare you. 

Downtown:

Sometimes, when we experience trauma, we build a boundary of invincibility. We think, the worst has already happened and I survived. At least, this is what I did and still try to fake. I was assaulted last August, seven days after moving to a new town. I knew the guy; we went to high school together. Erring-on-the-side-of-caution was fleeting. I relied on a mutually established sense of trust over four years old. I wrote poems about it, some of which are in the ether right now, being traipsed by cursors and sponged with the fingertips of a stranger. After this event, this uncanny eventuality, I stopped running. This had always been my way of shedding; through perspiration and escapism, I let trees and trail markers lead me through unnerving, undoing, and misremembering. Like most of the runners on my high school track team and those I met while briefly a part of a collegiate team in Seattle, it is our sustenance, theoretically as important as air itself. This, if you couldn’t tell, is written in the vein of writing’s most repudiated word, passion. Back then I was a sprinter, I hadn’t learned to appreciate great distances, pacing, stride, or breath. Sealed-off from the outside world with chain-link barriers, I also didn’t know what it was like to run without the protection of synthetic rubber keeping me from traversing a world unknown.

Forget about how hot it is. I don’t think about it. Running in Arizona is what it is. Hydrate, you’ll be fine. There are other dangers that lurk besides hyperthermia. Suburbs of Phoenix, like Gilbert or Casa Grande (maybe its own town and not a suburb), are mostly white communities. I grew up on the east side of Casa Grande. I built speed being chased by loose dogs in the neighborhood while walking to and from the bus stop. Apoplectic though they may have been, we understood we were helping one another out – me with learning to accelerate, them with their daily exercise. Is this what men with confederate flags billowing from the back of their F-150s believe too?

Who is this little black girl, and what is she running from?

Winning:

Winning a race used to involve medals, ribbons, clout.

Winning means punching code into my garage’s keypad, getting back. Winning is protracting, is living longer than yesterday.

About the poet Cymelle Leah Edwards

Summary and Analysis of “Running in a Red State” by Cymelle Leah Edwards

In “Running in a Red State”, Arizona-based poet Cymelle Leah Edwards crafts a poetic essay that powerfully intertwines personal memory, cultural identity, trauma, and resistance—both literal and figurative. The poem functions as a hybrid narrative, blending free verse, social commentary, and prose poetry with rich specificity of place, capturing scenes from Northern Arizona’s rugged trails to the subtle violence of everyday life in a politically conservative environment.

Structured as a series of meditations mapped across familiar trails like Sinclair Wash, Woody Mt. Road, Fat Man’s Loop, Buffalo Park, and Walnut Canyon Ranch, Edwards navigates what it means to run through a landscape that is at once physically beautiful and symbolically fraught. These trails aren’t merely places for physical movement—they become spaces of reflection, confrontation, survival, and reckoning.

Navigating Rage and Race

The poem opens with the assertion “Don’t be political”, only to dismantle that notion line by line. Edwards presents a litany of moments in which her Blackness is othered: a man making a racialized joke while ordering coffee, a woman praising her “diction” as if surprised, dogs unleashed in spaces where she runs, and the self-awareness that even anger—when expressed through a Black body—is perceived as more threatening. The poet confronts these aggressions with grace and measured defiance, describing them as embers, singed resistance, and “charred light curdling in the back of [her] throat.”

Queer Identity and Duality

On Woody Mt. Road, Edwards explores a layered identity with lines like, “tried to spell without vowels; tried to circumnavigate her body…” Here, she probes queer desire, the constraints of binary expectations, and the impossibility of fitting into a system that doesn’t accommodate complexity. In trying to “be both,” she introduces the metaphor of splitting—learning to “splinter”—and thus illustrates the emotional cost of existing in intersectional spaces that demand singularity.

The Silence of Compliance

At Fat Man’s Loop, the silence becomes palpable. The refusal to yield space—“don’t move over this time”—is itself a radical act. It represents a reclaiming of bodily autonomy and public space. The references to her grandmother playing Mario and saving princesses offer a tender respite from the poem’s heavier subjects. Yet even this nostalgic moment underscores her longing for safety, for someone to “rescue” her.

Violence, Trauma, and Recovery

In one of the most visceral sections—Downtown—Edwards speaks directly to her own trauma. “I was assaulted last August, seven days after moving to a new town.” With brave vulnerability, she recounts the emotional aftermath of sexual violence and the way it disrupted her sense of freedom. Running, once her method of release and healing, became unsafe. Here, Edwards captures the weight of trauma—how it rewires the body’s instincts, maps new caution into muscle memory, and alters a runner’s stride.

Running as Resistance

Despite these dangers, Edwards continues to run. She catalogs the subtle racism of white suburban Arizona—F-150s waving confederate flags, sideways glances, dirt kicked into her nostrils—and continues to find her rhythm.

“Winning is protracting, is living longer than yesterday.”

In this closing line, she redefines survival as success. Her poem is not just about running; it is about reclaiming space, healing, and moving forward through pain, oppression, and silence.

“Running in a Red State” is a poignant testimony to the lived experiences of a Black woman in Arizona, navigating identity, systemic racism, and resilience. Cymelle Leah Edwards’ voice is essential, powerful, and unflinching. Her ability to pair physical movement with emotional evolution makes this poem a landmark piece of Arizona literature.

👉 Learn more about Cymelle Leah Edwards on her AZPoetry.com poet bio page.

Bob Frost Scottsdale Poet AZpoetry.com

Bob Frost

Scottsdale’s First Official Poet Laureate and Cowboy Wordsmith

From Marine Corps to Master of Metaphor

Born to share a name with one of the most celebrated poets in American history, Bob Frost of Scottsdale, Arizona, found his own poetic path through life’s winding roads. His journey into poetry began with a high school English assignment, and over the years, his pen never stopped moving. Even during his time in the U.S. Marine Corps and throughout a successful professional career, Frost continued to write verse—capturing his experiences, observations, and reflections on life in rhythmic form.

After retiring in 1997, Frost revisited the growing collection of poetry he had amassed over decades. That decision culminated in the release of his debut book, A Sweet Place to Play, marking the start of his public journey as a poet.

A Cowboy Poet in the West’s Most Western Town

Frost’s poetic voice deepened after joining the Verde Vaqueros, a charitable riding group supporting the Boys and Girls Clubs of Greater Scottsdale. Inspired by the traditions of the American West, Frost began writing cowboy poetry—an art form rich in humor, grit, and heart. One of his poems won a cowboy poetry contest in Tombstone, Arizona, prompting the publication of his second book, Cowboy Poems about the Old West and New, in 2009.

Noticing that Scottsdale—branded “The West’s Most Western Town”—lacked an official cowboy poet, Frost approached then-Mayor Jim Lane with a proposal: to become the city’s poet laureate. Though the initial request didn’t yield an immediate response, Frost continued to build bridges with Scottsdale’s cultural community by reading poetry at city council meetings and public events.

After reading his poem A Cowboy’s Lament at a memorial for Councilman Tony Nelssen, the mayor responded. In that moment, Bob Frost officially became Scottsdale’s first poet laureate, a position he would hold with distinction for more than a decade.

Championing Poetry in the Community

During his 11-year tenure, Bob Frost made it his mission to bring poetry into everyday life in Scottsdale. He worked closely with the Scottsdale Center for the Arts and Scottsdale Public Library to organize workshops, literary events, and public readings. He also hosted several episodes of a poetry-themed show on Scottsdale’s municipal television channel, broadening his reach to residents throughout the valley.

One of his most beloved contributions was the Poetry Hike, held in the Phoenix Mountains Preserve. Participants hiked scenic desert trails, pausing every few hundred feet to share and reflect on poetry—blending physical activity with literary appreciation in a uniquely Arizonan fashion.

Frost was not just a poet but a facilitator of creative dialogue. He encouraged readers and writers of all ages to engage with poetry, leading by example with his generous spirit and relatable storytelling.

Poet Laureate Emeritus

In 2024, Frost stepped down from the role of Scottsdale Poet Laureate, passing the torch to the next voice in the city’s growing poetry legacy. He was honored with the title Poet Laureate Emeritus and invited to serve on the selection committee for the city’s new laureate.

Though no longer the official voice of poetry for Scottsdale, Frost continues to inspire through his published works, community involvement, and dedication to keeping the spirit of the West alive in verse.

Posted in Poets  • 
Cymelle Edwards Flagstaff Poet AZpoetry.com

Cymelle Leah Edwards

Flagstaff-Based Poet and Editor with National Recognition

Cymelle Leah Edwards is a rising literary voice from Flagstaff, Arizona, whose work echoes across page and stage. A Pushcart Prize nominee and recipient of the prestigious Diana Gabaldon Creative Writing Award, Edwards is quickly earning a place among the most vital poets in the Southwest. With a strong commitment to both craft and community, she balances creative output with leadership roles in Arizona’s vibrant literary scene.

Academic Excellence and Literary Leadership

Edwards holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Northern Arizona University, where her passion for poetry blossomed into a broader commitment to publishing and editing. She formerly served as the Poetry Editor for Thin Air Magazine, NAU’s long-running literary journal. Her editorial insight also extends as an editor at Kelp Journal, where she cultivated voices across genres.

Community Organizer and Advocate for the Arts

Cymelle is not only a powerful writer, but also a champion of literary culture in Northern Arizona. She served as a board member for the Northern Arizona Book Festival, helping to organize and support one of the state’s most important annual literary events. Her work as an organizer underscores her dedication to amplifying diverse voices and creating inclusive platforms for poets and writers throughout the region.

Publishing Credits and Performance Poetry

Her written work has been published in respected literary journals such as Elm Leaves Journal, Contra Viento, and Ghost City Press. Beyond the page, Cymelle has made waves in Arizona’s spoken word scene, winning the Phoenix Poetry Slam at the downtown art venue Megaphone PHX, a hub for poetic performance and creative experimentation.

GCU Roots and the Arizona Connection

Before pursuing her MFA, Cymelle attended Grand Canyon University, an institution known for producing talented artists and thinkers. Her creative trajectory remains deeply tied to Arizona—from the desert landscape to the mountain views of Flagstaff—and her poetry often reflects the natural, cultural, and emotional terrain of the Southwest.

A Voice to Watch in Contemporary Poetry

Cymelle Leah Edwards represents the best of contemporary Arizona poetry: talented, thoughtful, and unafraid to confront personal and political truths. Whether through her haunting verse, her curatorial insight, or her work behind the scenes in the literary community, Edwards is a vital part of Arizona’s poetic identity and an emerging force on the national literary stage. She currently lives in Indianapolis, Indiana.

Posted in Poets  •