Molly Fisk
Molly Fisk is the author of the essay collections “Houston, We Have a Possum,” “Using Your Turn Signal Promotes World Peace,” and “Blow-Drying a Chicken,” as well as the poetry collections “The More Difficult Beauty” and “Listening to Winter.”
She's the 2017-2019 Poet Laureate of Nevada County, California, and is also Poet Laureate of KVMR in Nevada City, CA and Hell’s Backbone Grill in Boulder, UT. Her essays have aired weekly as part of the News Hour of KVMR-FM Nevada City since 2005.
Fisk has been awarded grants by the National Endowment for the Arts, the California Arts Council, and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. She teaches writing and works as a life coach in the Skills for Change tradition.
New essays can be found on Molly's Patreon page (https://www.patreon.com/mollyfisk) and heard live streaming every Thursday night at approximately 6:25 p.m. Pacific time at KVMR (http://www.kvmr.org/player/). If you'd like to join the fun, you can follow Molly here: 1. mollyfisk.com 2. mollyfiskunlimited.com and 3. www.facebook.com/molly.fisk.poet
I hope some time you’ll get a chance to see 200 candles stretched over three city blocks. The faces of the people who carried them were lit from below, haloed in reverse.
World peace could be achieved by more people using their turn signals. In 30 years, children all over the world — a kinder, more peaceful world — will thank you.
My friends and I are of a certain age, which means that a) we forget things, and b) we don't jump to our phones to look up what we've forgotten. We're of the generation that still likes the meandering conversational process of trying to figure out what the word was.
This year, I feel as though winter isn’t just one in a comforting circle of seasons, to be followed by spring and then summer again. I’m getting the creepy feeling that my life is heading into its winter, and in the metaphor of a life, you only get one round.
A small creek joins the river here and a rope swing hangs over the bank. I sat listening to the sound for a while, and then wrote a poem about it, mentioning God, which is strange, since I'm a lapsed Unitarian and don't believe in God.
It opens that creaking door to old age and death. First a tooth, then pretty soon I won’t be able to drive at night or walk into town on my own two feet.
I’m going to remind myself why we’re having the party in the first place: to appreciate all the women who work for a non-profit where I volunteer. It’s about love and gratitude. Two of the very, very few things worth cleaning the counter-tops for.
Every now and then, as a person might need to binge on horrible junk food like Twinkies or Velveeta, my mind craves a break from the real world. . .Every now and then, I sit around the house like a sloth and read mail-order catalogs.
How do I talk about fire when it's this bad and there are so many, some with lines holding them back and some uncontained, roaring through neighborhoods and wineries, schoolyards, even Trader Joe's?
I have some other young men in my life: a poetry student with whom I drink coffee, a godson, my ex-boyfriend's nephews. It's really fun to talk to them, they're so jazzed about life.
“I wonder if I'll ever lose any weight?” Then I think, “Who knows?!?” and look at the clouds again. There's no point in ruining a beautiful cool relaxing invigorating refreshing and fabulous swim by thinking about your weight.
Now that I'm in my 60s, there's talk about what will happen to Baby Boomers with no families to take care of them at the end of life. This is a bit crazy-making, reinforcing the cultural myth that we should have had children in the first place.