editorial comment on "Bottle" by editor, Truancy

In the editorial introduction of Truancy 9, the editor-in-chief, Nin Harris, comments on my poem of the fantastic, "Bottle":

...[We] move to Scotland by way of Sarah Webb's "Bottle", a Selkie poem that was so intense, it caught me by the throat."

Thank you, Nin!

The writing in Truancy draws on folklore and fairy tale.  

Click the link to read the poem (and other writing in the issue) on Truancy's website:


 Events where I'll be reading or doing workshops

next:  August 24 Texas Poetry Assignment Friendship Reading

        https:zoom.us/j/98407046849     ID: 98407046849 Passcode: friendship

August 7 & 8, 2021 Georgetown Poetry Festival , Georgetown Public Library and on Zoom

                      2:15-3:30  Hewlett Room: Poetry Workshop: Out Of An Old Tale

                    Writing to draw on internal myths, led by Sarah Webb


                            6:00-7:30 Blue Hole Contributors Reading


                            various open mics

August 15, 2021 7-830 PM Texas Poetry Assignment Contributor Reading (Zoom)

July 11, 2021 7 PM Texas Poetry Assignment Contributor Reading (Zoom)

            zoom 939 8432 6131Password TPAJuly11


Every Thursday night at 7 PM. Zen and Writing writing session 7-830 PM. by Zoom

        co-leader with Kim Mosley, Martha Ward, and Judy Myers


find the link on the Appamada Zen Center calendar by clicking on the event on the 


Every Saturday at 1-230 PM Art Atmosphere Poets (Georgetown) by Zoom and every other 

week also at Georgetown Public  Library  ( hybrid). open to whoever comes

                     Zoom ID: 827 9757 2020  Password: Gull

I'll add to these as I emerge post-pandemic

Last Pieces

To Kim Mosley’s “Last Pieces”

The crow who makes a nest of the world looks for colors from the heart left behind on picnic tables or trailed behind careless pedestrians. He flaps down to the grime of a sidewalk and caws in triumph, Here’s a treasure! Memories of sunsets, a scrap of Jamaica turquoise against white sand, a bonfire of bodies shuddering in bed and the dull of oxblood as habit sets in, pencilled love notes, sweat-stained apologies, burnt bridges, frown lines and quirked-up dimples, twigs that scraped against kitchen windows and bedroom blinds, pleading Let me in, I’ll do anything if you let me stay! It’s a midden of a nest, and it steams with the ache of a thousand families, hums sometimes with Happy Birthday, with tears swallowed at Auld Lang Syne and the That’s Our Song of forty different couples. Reproving sniffs, eye-raised ecstasy, malice like a brown slug. A cattle dog’s bark is caught in the corner by somebody’s sob and a whisper It’ll be all right—hang on till I can get there. Once, There’s nothing you can do that would make me not love you—rarest of all and gleaming. People don’t drop those like a crumb from a sandwich. 

More Complicated

Now To Kim Mosley’s “More complicated!”

The day comes at you.
“Look at me!” it says,
bursting with sunlight and blossom,
making it almost impossible to see
the dirt below the forsythia—
yellow banging at your eyelids—
the pink of tulips, blue of Mexican tile
calling, No, me! Me! I’m the prettiest!

It wakes you up early, the day calling out, hello!
You didn’t really want to sleep, did you?
and keeps you buzzing—a coffee of a day
and three-margarita dance floor jumble in the evening.

When you stumble home at last,
there’s a moment of can I read myself to sleep?
and oh, did I forget ...

But wasn’t it fun, lost in the pretty bauble of the day,
the disco-ball of the night sending
shivers of light over everyone’s makeup?
and just one quiet dream deep in the dark
asking, where have I gone?

Sarah Webb


To "Ran" by Kim Mosley

It is not what we see
in the bright shapes of the day--
a crinkled gold of sunshine
on flowers and steps,
a pond we walk by catching the sky
a watered lawn the right green.

These are there, of course,
and true in their way,
as is the gray of concrete,
rainy morning duty 
where we rise with not enough sleep
and drink our coffee, shake our arms, 
our shoulders, to rouse ourselves.
Look at the sunshine creeping 
under the blinds, we say,
You can do this—get out there!

But behind all that—the sun catching 
rainbow on the drops from the sprinkler,
the paper we draw from our briefcases—
lies an ocean that sun and paper 
float in, a dark they rise out of, like islands.

An antelope runs the plain. 
It leaps the absence,
the gap,
the lightless fjords between the known.
Its body—not-body—is a black possibility,
a night that turns into the face of day

that turns into so many things—faces
and oranges and isthmuses, 
crowded onto our mainland of the real.

Beyond it float fragments and wires 
of the ungraspable,

an island of fog 
where the unnamed and the unnameable
rub against each other in the mist

and the broad water beyond it all, 
the deep below things and their names,
the black of everythingalltogether 
not yet born
ready to rise.

Sarah Webb, 11/16/20

Kim's artwork and Sarah's poem published in Just This, December, 2020


To Kim Mosley’s “Meteor” on the Eve of the Election

Ooh, coming right at us
the slam!

hurls us upside
and sideways
splashes a thousand
into the clouds

steams us
wrings us

buildings to house-
under the sand
the archaeologists can puzzle over—

Oh, why not?
mutter lava
and melted coins

A tree stands here and a
segment of

Maybe a mountain range
can make it through
a child
a deer
or two.

Sarah Webb 11-2-20

The Dreams Escape

20201127: The Dreams Escape

Dreams are rising from the sleeper
like steam from a hot towel.
They waft past bedstead and dresser
bump and jumble their way toward the window.
The sleeper thrashes his sheets, 
throws off his blanket.
Fragments of dream—llama quilt-suited
for winter, striped Christmas candy,
spaceship diving toward Earth—
collide as they float.
Out they go into the damp of the night,
drawn by the need of dry-minded sleepers
up the hill, across the bay, fog on the water.
They are eager to say what they can't quite say,
share their stories that won't stand still,
find their way to dream islands, dream continents.
A wave of them—puzzle pieces, shards of letters—
float from the house, followed by a second,
and the dreamer drifts toward the day. —Sarah Webb