Poetry 3/26/26

Posted on by sereichert

The week has been a full one with meetings and interviews, all manner of busy-making to keep myself…accountable? Distracted? In a false sense of purpose? Sometimes, in eras of encroaching depression, I find that making myself go through the motions is akin to treading water in the middle of the ocean. I’m not really getting anywhere, but I’m not sinking under either. All that to say, here’s some poetry. About quietness. And how loud it really can be.

In Quiet

the world is less complicated
without the obligation of you

it is simple now
in droning waves of sunshine and
isn't that better?

no need to perk my ears 
to your words

no longer worrying my lips
over where yours are residing

life is simpler here
it's quiet like
a ragged street in a forgotten city

trash caught in dead weeds and
chainlink

its quiet like 
burnt olive carpet in funeral homes

ghosts of lilies 
blooming to fade in grief
it's quiet

like a room with no children
and a meadow with no breeze

silent like a catacomb
stale and cold communion with death

my world is less complicated
without you
in it

it's finally
oh so quiet

On Laurels and Mountains

Posted on by sereichert
Photo by Startup Stock Photos on Pexels.com

I was trying to think up a topic today, within the sphere of writing, that might be new and interesting. It was then that I realized I like to fall back on my favorites. Character writing, dynamics of character interactions, emotion on the page, building tension. Or perhaps turn the microscope on myself and talk about burn out and creativity, progress without production, heart without hustle. But I feel a little bored with those topics and if you read my blog enough, you’ve probably read more than you wanted to.

So what do you write about when you’re toolkit feels a little… empty?

Well, maybe just that. I’ve long been at war with myself over the worthiness of a higher degree in the Literary Arts. Let me preface by saying in no uncertain terms: Every Degree You Get is Meaningful. Education is never a waste. And time spent learning and perfecting your art and voice and style is a worthy pursuit. But I have to add, that economically speaking, it doesn’t always give you an advantage. And…if you are at an economic disadvantage due to student loans, it can be harder to pursue a writing career.

So, what does a financially unstable writer do, when faced with the knowledge that she could certainly use a little more education and a freshening up of her skillset? Well, honestly, I could just rest on my laurels. I’ve published books and had work in different literary magazines. I’ve won some awards. I could argue I know enough.

But that would be short sighted and frankly pretty fucking egotistical. I don’t know everything. I could know more. I could experiment more. I could find a new mountain to climb, and shouldn’t we all? After all, what are we doing with this life if not learning? So, I’ll be looking for some affordable alternatives and, for any other writer who might be, like me, looking for a new challenge in their skills department, share some interesting options from down below.

  • Research new or unknown forms of poetry. This is my new favorite. I’m working on pantoums and cinquinta, and all kinds of weird little funness
  • Take a class from a local writing group or community center: Like Writing Heights or Lighthouse Workshop
  • Try an online course like MasterClass or a YouTube channel: Currently I’m taking Aaron Sorkin’s Screenwriting, and Roxanne Gay’s Writing for Social Change
  • Join a Book Study or Writing Challenge: again–shameless plug for Writing Heights Writers Association
  • Check out what Harvard offers on line for free: Harvard Free Classes
  • Take a class or invest in a book, outside of your genre: I’m currently reading both a Screenplay book, and one called “Howdunit” all about how crimes are committed and solved.
  • Consider switching over to Fiction or Non-Fiction: whichever you don’t normally do
  • Attend a conference or workshop in your area: Despite the recent hubbub, (and it’s not in my area) I will be attending AWP with the hopes of taking some classes that can broaden both my poetic skill and my writing organization’s offerings.

Well, I hope those ideas have given you a little goose to the behind to get started on reclaiming your lifelong love of learning (or inspiring one if you lacked it).

Happy Writing!

Newsletter February-March 2026

Posted on by sereichert

Hello readers and writers,

Welcome to my monthly update about what’s going on, what’s not, and how I’m navigating the current horrors. First, look at my damn cat. Every damn day, this is what I put up with. If she’s not yelling at me to let her on my shoulders, she’s taking up space on whatever project I’m trying to work on. Pray for me.

Random Shit:

In, non-writing related news, I spent the weekend going outside more for the Great Backyard Bird Count. I think in times which are particularly trying to one’s heart and soul, it’s important to spend more time in nature. Away from the screens, and ground ourselves in something that’s real. It’s a strange sort of joy to sit still in a field, stand next to a marsh, breath quietly beneath the canopy of evergreens and just listen. Not for the loudest, most painful rhetoric, but the simple song of birds in conversation with one another. It resets our nervous system and tells our lizard brain that we are safe. A predator-less moment is much welcome.

Reading:

In reading news, here’s what I’m currently working on. My book club is reading “The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell”. I put it down somewhere around 20%. Why? Well, I don’t know. But I think it’s because I’m really not interested in reading something from the white male perspective right now. Because within a couple of chapters between his youth and adulthood, he both vilified men who were making derogatory comments about his mother’s body, and made similar comments about an assistant in his office. I don’t think I used to notice those things. But they’re glaring now. And I’ve already spent over half of my life being bombarded by this particular viewpoint and I’m bored with it.

So I put it down in favor of: “How We Learn to Be Brave” by Mariann Edgar Budde. While I was raised in a Christian faith, I no longer practice, and I have some deep and justified rifts with the church. However, this book is written by the Episcopalian Bishop who spoke out against Trump’s horrific public policy. It’s a pretty engaging book about how various people throughout our country’s history have been on the precipice of great and difficult choices and chose to be brave, stand for what they believed was right, and up against tyrannical forces. Budde includes examples of her own life and how we, as ordinary individuals can utilize our own inner strength to act when it counts. I’ll let you know how it goes.

I’m also lightly reading “Nettle and Bone” by T. Kingfisher. I’m only about a chapter and a half in, but I like it so far. Beautiful fantasy, and it’s fun to get back into a genre I haven’t read in a while.

Writing and Editing:

I finished up my first deep-dive edits of “Heir to Time”, the last book in the Timekeeper series, and sent them off to my astounding editor. I’ll still have a couple more rounds to go, but I feel like the major issues have been addressed and with any luck, it’ll be ready to go on to cover and publishing in March sometime. I’ll keep you posted and next week I’ll include a blurb. If you liked “The Mummy” and Jane Austen, you’re gonna love this little book with a nod to sapphic romance and all the hours I spent obsessed over Egyptology in middle school.

I’m also participating in 5 Prince Publishing’s first shared-town anthology due out in the 2026 holiday season. 9 authors, of the several, from 5 Prince will all submit a short novella (30-50000 words) based in the same small town over the holidays. It should be an interesting group, from across a wide spectrum. Mine will be, as usual, a little subversive, and a little dark, but it will be a beautiful nod to finding the light on the darkest days, and having someone to share it all with.

I’m participating in a “Postcards for Peace” project where I write a thought, hope or poem on peace and send one out a day to a stranger who has signed up. That’s going well and it’s nice to get some good thoughts in the mail for once.

I recently got a short story accepted at a small press (Rat Bag Lit). It’s a bit horrific and dark, but also strangely romantic. More on that as it gets closer.

Before you think I’m too high up on my horse, also know that I’ve received 4 glorious rejections so far this year as well. Well on my way to the 52 for the year I’m aiming for.

I’ll be attending AWP in March and I’ve never been to a conference this big for any reason. The Association of Writers and Writing Programs annual meeting is chocked full of classes, not just on craft but on how to teach and encourage other writers and inspire your community through your organization. I’m hopeful it will help me be a better organizer and community resource for Writing Heights and the expansive group of writers in the Colorado and Wyoming areas.

Finally, if you’re in the area tomorrow (Friday, February 20th) from 5-7pm, I’ll be a the Loveland Ale Works, hosting a write in with some folks from WHWA. You don’t have to be a member to stop on by and work on your writing, poetry, or anything that needs a little focused time.

Well, that’s about all the news that’s fit to print. I wish you luck on your projects this week, even if all that means is getting out of bed and brushing your teeth. Even the little stuff matters in a world overrun with big stuff.

Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.

Poetry 2-12-26

Posted on by sereichert

I’ve been writing a lot of rage poetry and journal entries lately. It’s a method of processing, a safe space where my feelings won’t be chastised or be cautioned to calm down. To be told, with shrugs, that this is just the way it is. To be hounded with others’ convictions that I’m being the irrational one (or worse, the powerlessness, of ‘nothing can be done’). No wonder women go mad. No wonder we quit our jobs and our relationships in droves. I think someday we’ll all probably wander of the grid and go feral. I hope that someday our leaving destroys the grid completely. I hope ‘feral’ is a return to what we were always supposed to be. In ownership of our own bodies, part of an egalitarian community, taking care of the Earth that sustains us, protecting one another. I hope for this.

Today’s poem is part of a project I’m working on, tracing philosophically through the roots of my own rage, and the collective anger of my generation of women. Raised to believe we could be equal from a generation that was slowly learning it themselves. As such, this poem is an exploration and an ode to one of the most influential albums (and songs) of my teenage years. And to the seeds that she planted in my soul, that have found a fearsome bloom in current times. 

The Jagged Little Pill (I can No Longer Swallow) 
(lyrical exploration of "All I Really Want" by Alanis Morissette)

All I really want
is deliverance

from the maddening hold
of the lesser sex’s self
inflation

Do I stress you out?

to remind you
that you came from a womb
and still she chose to keep you 
even after all
the repulsions she knew you would
own and 
call power?

I am frightened by the corrupted ways of this land

when faced with pedophilic horrors
and the butchering of innocence
as if it were any 
other
expendable resource
men rape the land, why not us too?
why not our daughters? our sons?
we are fresh streams and 
teeming oceans
gold mines
and diamond fields
all for the taking
all for the discarding

Reel them in
and spit them out

calm down
there is nothing to be done
let the broader shoulders shrug
to end the matter

I am frustrated by your apathy

while you drink your martini 
and cast sunshine, between sips, 
that at least the stock market
is finally up
and I sit still, as prey
praying in bushes might,
cheap wine I feel guilty for
and watch blood run in the gutters
and remember my own, horrible
8-year-old truths
while the news blares
of babies being eaten
or burned
or buried by the ninth hole
water hazard and sand trap
thank fucking god
the stock market is okay

the sound of pretenses falling

is louder to me
but you were never listening
anyway, were you?
just for the sound of panties dropping
be a good little girl
for daddy
sit on my lap and reassure me,
I’m still a ‘nice guy’
right?

No.

I won't speak these lies
any longer
my lips have been sewn shut
needles in and out 
the thread of anger
trapping unsettled bees in my throat
and handcuffed wrists bleeding 
as I fight against 
the radiator of the American Dream

why are you so petrified of silence?

does it make you hear the echoes 
of your own dissonance?
A good man who still
sometimes
objectifies his high school students 
and calls it ‘American Beauty’

And all I really want is some peace
a place to find a common ground

but we aren’t standing on even ground
never was there equal footing
from the day I spilled out of my mother
my knees have been broken
by the bat of masculine ‘protection’
my voice scalded with the shame
this system gave me 
for a body 
that nature knew and named 
as more divine

you want me to calm down

all I really want is justice

Writing Challenges: Reconnecting to Self

Posted on by sereichert

I’ve been reading a lot of writing and life advice for the past few years (few, meaning 18 years?) As we’re approaching February and another Writing Heights Writing Challenge, I feel a little edgy in my gut. Knowing there’s an accountability is part of it. Knowing that a lot of the writers I follow have been recently talking about their writing habits and writing every day. Knowing that the last two to three years I’ve been in an editing whirlpool (stacks of books written that are now under contract means back-to-back edits and very little new content.) And I think the edginess is resting somewhere in the knowledge, that I haven’t written anything new lately.

Okay, back up a tick. Yes, I finished the last novel for the Timekeeper Series in October. But that book was bit of a possessed demon to both my process and my love of writing. I won’t go into it now, but suffice to say, it did not feel like the beautiful, flowing, creative river that writing often is for me. It was more like I had to manufacture a kayak run by diverting a real river into a human-made one. Anyway, what was my point? Ah yes, I haven’t written anything lately.

I could just as easily use the February challenge to work on edits and it would count. I could even more easily, not participate at all. But I’m starting to feel (admittedly with the unneeded pressure of listening to other writers’ processes) like I’m not much of a writer anymore. I have a hard time nowadays, sitting down and just writing. And it kind of breaks my heart because I always feared that this might happen. That I’d get to a point when I was out of ideas for story. When I had no one left I wanted to follow in their journey. That I would be resigned to teaching instead of doing and reliving glory days behind book jackets of years-ago published work.

But maybe it’s not that I lack story. Maybe there are still characters still locked away in there. And maybe I’ve just thrown curtains over them in my constant state of editing. Maybe what my writing really needs, is a challenge to sit down and recommit to it again. So…I’m looking ahead and spending some quiet time to myself, to think about what a good, but not overwhelming challenge might bring me back to the essential core of who I am as a writer. How can I be present again with the creative process?

It will need time. It will require me to let go of some other things that have siphoned off minutes and hours in my day. It will need consistency, and the letting go of perfectionism. It will need a dash of whimsy and a whole shake of bravery. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’ll let you know who I find beneath the curtain. And if my edits take a little longer. If my house is a little dustier. If the email responses lag and I don’t make every meeting…perhaps that is a better thing for my overall existence. I’ll even schedule some write-ins through Discord, at some local coffee shops and the occasional brewery. Keep an eye on my social for when and where.

If you want to be a part of my bumbling reset, it’s free to join the challenge. I’d love to meet you there. We can figure this thing out (once more, again) together.

(contact Bonnie at membership@writingheights.com for more info)

Poetry 1-15-26

Posted on by sereichert

A bit more Hallow’s Eve than New Year’s Eve…but this came from a poetry challenge a few years ago and I thought it was interesting.

Corvidae

Black oiled beauty
needle claws to grip
solid to my eye sockets
no longer needed by me

I'd rather be your throne

and you can be my new eyes
and continue on
in this dark world
light glinting and 
soul exposed 
in the off feather sheen
and firelight behind your beaded eyes

ever higher, above the madness
that ended me
you will be my wings and I
will be your resting stone
your peaceful,
calcified nest of respite

you will be my freedom
from the fog of earth
the stains of so many moments
now rested in the dry and brittle grass

we are a pair
dark wanderer
above the grief 
of an impermanent world
together in easy camaraderie
until your bones rest atop mine

the world will go on,
in wreck and ruin
growing up through our silent jawed beaks
until we are stones in the grass
nothing 
and everything
more

Submitting to Rejection

Posted on by sereichert

Nobody likes being rejected. Yet one of the fundamental truths of life is that we will not be accepted by everyone, every time, and that includes our work. Admittedly, throughout nearly two decades of being a writer, I’ve been rejected more than I’ve been accepted. In recent years I’ve put aside submitting to pursue work with my publisher in the craft of novel writing, but I’ve come to realize that it’s stunted my growth as a writer.

The years I spent submitting weekly (mostly in an effort to gain experience and get some publication credits, as well as harden my tender, little writer heart against rejection) were the years when my writing grew the most. Submitting to whatever contests and journals I could meant I was always pushing outside of my comfort zone. Feminist horror? Sure, why not? SciFi Flash fiction? I can do that. Memoir? Creative nonfiction? Humor? Let’s try it out. Whatever was calling for a submission, I would fumble my way through it, and that led me to explore genres and forms I might not have otherwise attempted. I learned I do have a little dark streak that likes to come out and play.

I learned that a thread of justice and the unsettled walking of moral lines often shadowed my flash fiction. I wrote poetry about lawnmowers and tricycles. I threw paint at the wall in so many colors that my writing house became a mural of unexplored and emerging thought. All of it wouldn’t have happened if I had focused on a ‘rejection’ goal instead of an ‘acceptance’ goal.

Now, in a certain stage of stagnation, I’m returning again to a rejection goal for 2026. Not so lofty as 100 this year (I do have important things at home to still attend to and novels coming out) I am just aiming to submit once a week and garner 50 rejections in the year. I’m looking into playwriting contests, and speculative fiction, memoir and essay. I’ll probably revisit my favorite literary magazines and quirky publication to see what they’re up to. All of it, a practice that I hope you try too. A practice in being brave, in being curious, and in being untethered to the ideas of publication as success.

What can you learn about yourself as a writer? Not just what genres you might unknowingly enjoy, but also in sticking to a schedule, brushing up your cover letters, and learning how to concisely formulate a story (or poem) that feels like your voice and your soul. Knowing that you’ll be rejected. Knowing that not everything (maybe even none of it) will be published or given a place in the public sphere, can you reorganize you brain around the idea that it is the practice itself that’s the prize to be won?

That’s the goal for me. To rediscover the boundlessness of my creativity. To get uncomfortable. To learn things about myself and what the world looks like through my words. I hope you can find something similar that challenges you, humbles you, and eventually strengthens your love of writing.

Poetry 12-25-25

Posted on by sereichert

On this day you shouldn’t be checking your email. I hope, instead, you are watching holiday movies, and still in your pajamas, and drinking coffee, and finding joy, and calling your loved ones, and eating one more cinnamon roll, and picking up pieces of taped wrapping paper, stuck to the floor, and feeling…feeling…feeling, the light and warmth of the season. Feeling that you can finally settle down. Feeling that this is the day to rest and think about nothing in particular. I’m here with you.

On this day you might also be mourning, and seeped in a kind of loneliness that feel worse than on any other day. You may be trying to keep hurtful memories at bay, or separated and far from the people you love. You loved. Maybe this day you are begging for it to be swift and end quickly, because you cannot bear to be told to carry joy when pain is taking up all the space inside your chest. I’m here with you too.

And so, here’s a little poem, nothing your brain needs to work too hard at. Nothing as important as honoring where you are at, and being gentle to whatever is filling your heart. I am here with you.

Flight

a fallen feather is a piece of grounded soul
aimless without a body 
to lift
a reminder of once great heights
no longer attainable

she is a sign from the gods
that even the most perfect designs
lose elemental fragments
along the bumpy ride
and every fragment shed
is an updraft not caught

still, I think they’re pretty
and I tuck them into books
and pin them to walls
and read in them messages 
in the timing of their arrival along my path
on my right means yes,
left is no
even when a question 
hasn’t formed yet

maybe if I collect enough
I can build my own wings someday
maybe leave this place,
a curtain of elemental fragments
lost pieces of soul,
to lift


Poetry: The Truth of Elliana Byrne

Posted on by sereichert

Good morning. Wednesdays are what I affectionately call “Therapy Thunder Dome” (would have a better ring if it were “Therapy Thunder Dome Thursdays” but we work with what we have). So since my little peabrain will be too tired to blog well (as if my rested brain does it ‘well’) I’m recycling an old poem from a supposed former contributor. Here’s what I what once wrote:

“Today’s poetry comes to us from a former and continuing contributor to The Beautiful Stuff’s Poetry Anthology. Ms. Byrne has a knack for gripping the guts with her poetry and, as an almost graduated student at the University of Boulder, she is finding her way with a powerful voice in the world.

Elliana spends her days reading (sometimes for fun…most times for class), daydreaming, and writing. She studies English Lit and dabbles in short stories and poetry when possible. She enjoys life best curled up with a good book and her cat, Gil. You can read her work in last year’s anthology “No Small Things” (https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1692331558/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o00_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1“

The truth is that I am Elliana Byrne. And I used the pen name because some of the poems I had written felt too visceral to put out into the world. But after having gone through this last year, I’ve realize life is nothing but visceral and I don’t have a problem trying to hide the gory truth of what it sometimes means to be human in all of our messy failings. So…please enjoy, and think about what masks you’ve worn, and if maybe, in light of these lives of ours being unbelievably short, if it’s time to take them off, and just be unapologetically you.

And now this:

Clean Slate

I want to wipe away 
the grievances of your skin
and its heated strokes against mine
and darken the unforgiving universes 
of your eyes
that know and
do not know me

But the treasonous mind
casts wayward glances,
over shoulders turned cold
and the love and ache of wounds
that should be healed over
still echo in weakening heart beats

this disloyal heart
casting out lines 
into currents that have battered the boards 
of my ship
and sunk it deep, 
where it now lies 
desolate and quiet a tomb
on the ocean floor
waiting, in vain,
for a tug of interest

treacherous
and dissonant soul 
vibrating in time
to the sound of yours
even when the harmonic waves
shake my teeth and
dislodge my brain
and seize my nerve endings

I will sit in this heavy deep
and wait
for reason or worse
divinity
to tell me how
to clean you off
by needle or by blade
I will close my eyes,
turn my back
and huddle in
to the shipwreck of me
and cut lines
until
i bleed clean
again


Whatever You Have to Give

Posted on by sereichert

Hey kids. Today’s blog won’t be long or detailed. For the last three months, I’ve been engaged in trying to support and treat my youngest’s eating disorder on my own. Taking her to multiple appointments a week, doctors and therapists and dietitians. Monitoring every meal with her, coercing and begging her to eat. Lab work, consults, admissions to programs that turned out to be abusive…

I’m in the middle of it.

On Tuesday we admitted her to a better program. But it requires that I be here, in Denver, with her. Monitoring a few meals, learning better techniques, taking her in at 7 and not leaving the facility again until 7. They are long, hard days, filled with meetings and often a lot of tears over grilled cheese sandwiches. We’re lucky to have a space at the Ronald McDonald Charity house and it’s honestly been the biggest blessing. It isn’t home but they provide a safe place to be in the times we’re not in treatment.

This blog is just a reminder…that even on our hardest days and maybe especially on them, I want you, as a writer or poet, to remember the comfort and the break that your craft can be. Even a sentence a day counts. One stanza. A paragraph, a dialogue. Hell, a journal entry (man…I’ve never journaled so much in my life) can work wonders. These things can switch the tracks in your brain for just a few moments, bring you out of the chaos, and into a world you can control, into something brighter. Or make space to hold all of the hard thoughts you can’t put out into the world in the moment.

So that’s it, that’s the blog. Write. A little. Everyday. Use a hospital napkin, or the edge of that overpacked therapy schedule…doesn’t matter. Just stay connected to who you are, and that there are stories still to tell.