Wednesday, November 1, 2023
BUILDING A WALL
Saturday, August 26, 2023
TRUE CHANTERELLES in Medicine for Minds & Hearts anthology
TRUE CHANTERELLES (2013) was (re)published in Medicine for Minds & Hearts, an anthology of mushroom poems from Fungi Press, 2023. It originally appeared in Fungi Magazine in 2020. I had sent the poem to Art Goodtimes soon after it was written, but it languished in email format, then we dusted it off for publication, and he asked me to go ahead and load it up with scientific terms, which I did, and then, eventually it was published, but it was a long birth! A decade later!
Sunday, July 2, 2023
Poem forthcoming in Spectrum 36 NOT Don Campbell took down the web page. Gone.
- Spectrum 36 well, I guess the poem is not forthcoming. After all it is the editor, Dan Campbell took down the blog, so now it is once again unpublished.
Tuesday, April 4, 2023
Uncurated poems versus unpublished poems, Rattle Magazine
Sunday, April 2, 2023
Two poems forthcoming in Spectrum 34/35
I have two really old poems that date back to the very beginning of my apprenticeship as a poet appearing in the latest double issue of Spectrum 34/35. One poem in each issue, p. 25, and p. 16. The operative word is noir. A SENSE OF TASTE, and SALMON DANCE. well, I guess the poem is not forthcoming. After all it is the editor, Dan Campbell took down the blog, so now it is once again unpublished.
Thursday, March 23, 2023
Retro Russian River Poison Oak Festival photo redux
Some of my retro 1980s Russian River Poison Oak Festival photos from The Paper were published in the Press Democrat. Daylighting these old negatives is always good. Thank you Maci Martell.
Sunday, February 26, 2023
Oh, Wind published in Fly Like the Clouds of Time, 2022 California Poets in the Schools Statewide Anthology
Oh, Wind published in Fly Like the Clouds of Time, 2022 California Poets in the Schools Statewide Anthology. Available from CaliforniaPoets.org and Amazon. I was late submitting and didn’t realize it was selected until today’s Zoom reading. I had never read it aloud before. Until today.
Friday, February 10, 2023
Tulips pastel (NOT) published on Spring Spectrum blog (art)
Don Campbell just published my old tulip pastel as well as the extra heart pastel that I included called, believe in love on his Spring Solution Spectrum blog. It’s nice to get my old art work out into the world, rather than languishing on the hard drive. The digital world gives my old art a new life. There’s a lot more work over on my art blog as you like to go visit it.
Don took the blog down. Unpublished just like that.
Saturday, December 31, 2022
Bio for anthologies
Recipient of numerous California Arts Council artist in schools grants, and other arts teaching grants and awards including nominations for the Golden Bell Award, and the Kawasaki Award. She has taught arts programming to students of all ages throughout California and beyond—including Montana, the Bahamas, Mexico, and the former USSR.
Maureen Hurley is a photographer and poet whose work has been widely published in print and in electronic anthologies. She has won several awards for her writing, she was nominated for Sonoma County Poet Laureate, and has several Pushcart nominations. Her photos are featured in an upcoming documentary on Berkeley street poet, Julia Vinograd: Between Spirit & Stone.
Her recent poems have appeared in Spectrum; Fly Like the Clouds of Time; The Freedom of New Beginnings: Poems of Witness and Vision from Sonoma County, California; Memories of Southern California; California Fire and Water; Our Lady of the Avenue; and the US Air Force’s Literature and the Arts.
END OF YEAR WRITING STATS 2022
Needless to say, I’ve long since blown right past the 4000 blog entries entries mark where I began the year. It’s now closer to 4500 entries. Because of revisiting and recording old journal entries, and using Facebook Memories, I’ve managed to garner dozens of posts lifted from Facebook comments that I had not posted before in this blog. It’s interesting to realize many FB comments are often the nascent beginnings of a poem.
For example last year, in mid-December, 2021, for example, I only had 125 posts, and then, because of Facebook Memories, I was able to add more posts. Call it found art. For 2021, I eventually tallied 170 posts—that’s nearly 50 more posts. I thought I was not going to break the 125 posts mark either for 2022, but suddenly a rush of poems gave me 181 posts, with 90 poems and 28 prose poems written.
Now I will need to revise that figure because I went through my latest writing journal whwich I am about to retire, for lack of pages, with a fine tooth, comb, and pulled up 10 more prose poems and non-fiction, leaving me with a total of 190 posts for the year. Wowza. Considering I began this stats analysis post with 125 entries, I'm stoked.
Wednesday, December 21, 2022
War, Literature & the Arts publication of War’s End (3 Days After Hiroshima)
At last, my Nagasaki poem appeared in the War, Literature & the Arts, an international journal of the humanities / Volume 34 / 2022, from the US Air Force. It was a long birthing process: two and a half years to be exact. And somehow strangely fitting that the Fall issue was published on the winter solstice, the coming of light.
I don’t publish very often. But this was a wait of epic proportions. First there was Covid, then the editor retired, then the website died, and the web hosting site died as well, so the entire WLA magazine had to be reconstructed from scratch—so this is a brand new website. Thank you, editor Thomas Maguire. Perseverance furthers.
“In 1989 WLA was launched as a simple collection of six essays examining the nexus of culture, conflict, and war. More than three decades later, WLA continues its exploration through a growing range of creative genres. Artists of all types share wars' jagged and fragmented horrors alongside its provocative and captivating narratives.”
When colleague Jane Hirshfield began to teach poetry workshops on the East Coast, I asked her why she was teaching poetry to West Point cadets, and she said they need poetry more than ever. So I took a page out of her book and submitted this poem to the US Air Force Academy, never dreaming they would take my poem. what a great solstice gift, considering the source of the light. I am Shiva.
Featured poet, John Balaban, with whom I shared a publication credit in the 1995 anthology, Atomic Ghost: Poets respond to the nuclear age, (his title poem, BTW), quoted WH Auden in his preface in WLA.
“The problem for a poet in writing about modern war is that, while he can only deal with events of which he has firsthand knowledge—invention, however imaginative, is bound to be fake—his poems must somehow transcend mere journalistic reportage.”
Hopefully my poem transcends mere journalistic reportage.
Table of Contents and intro.
Maureen Hurley / War’s End (3 Days After Hiroshima)
Here is my blog link with photo which they didn’t use.
Sunday, September 25, 2022
Poems & photos published in Memories of Southern California: Poetic Recollections, Four Feathers Press
Friday, December 31, 2021
End of year writing stats 2021
When I began working on this blog post, mid-December, I only 32 poems, I hadn’t counted or added in the prose poems yet, as this was the year of dangerously morphing prose poem posts and straddling genres. So I guess so much depends upon what passes for a prose poem vs. poetic prose, sometimes disguised in journal format. Elevated reportage. I did eventually reach my 52-poem goal but I had to stretch. Note to self, that’s 4.3 poems a month. Get on it.
The good news is that I now have 153 blogposts. A miracle, considering I was having trouble breaking 125 posts mid-December. Not like last year’s 2020 Year in Recap where I managed to break my own personal best record with a whopping 227 posts. Of course, it was the year of serious sequestration, which had something to do with my prodigious output. Some scrambling ensued. I don’t know what happened in May—only four blogposts? And they were all rants against Google for destroying old posts. I have 4,160 posts, many of them not backed up, so I was understandably freaked out. I raided several Facebook posts to bump up my writing stats. And I suspect Facebook Memories will add a few more errant posts next year.
Monday, August 10, 2020
Thursday, July 9, 2020
True Chanterelles finally published
- Also published in Medicine for Minds and Hearts, Fungi Press, Sept. 2023
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
WAR'S END (3 days after Hiroshima)

What happened to pilot Major Charles Sweeney
after he dropped Fat Man on Nagasaki?
Did he think he could turn the B-29 Silverplate bomber,
on empty to Tinian, largest airbase in the world,
13 trial runs, and 3 dress rehearsals. Shame to waste all that....
obscured by clouds, was spared to live another day.
A fuel pump sealed the fate of Japan's window to the world.
Nagasaki, home of M. Butterfly, became the hired wife, Plan B.
he could've aborted, but he bombed Nagasaki anyway,
when it appeared through a curtain of clouds like a mirage.
faster than Hiroshima, more intense, more angry,
at once breathtaking and ominous.
Even Enola Gay's pilot Paul Tibbets went a little mad.
I took no pride or pleasure in the brutality of war,
After Tokyo, Hiroshima, then Nagasaki. Emperor Hirohito said:
We must now bear the unbearable and endure the unendurable.
A hundred thousand gone. According to the Manhattan Project,
it was a smashing success. But Shiva was unleashed,
and a hundred thousand more burned from within.
The voices of the hibakusha sang a silent aria of grief.
Oppenheimer invoked Vishnu:
I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.
Monday, March 25, 2019
KILLING THE CAT
Cat wants in and out at the same time
But she is stuck on the stoop of indecision.
Coming and going are one thing to her.
She doesn’t differentiate, however,
she is merely exorcising her rights—
like Schrödinger’s cat. Ah, the variables of physics.
She complains. Looks up at me as if it’s my fault.
We stand in the doorway, frozen in time. And wait.
Maybe we are the thought experiment in action.
This room, this door. This moment in time
caught in the crosshairs. Not the cat—
who is neither dead nor alive,
depending upon your perspective.
And yes, boxes may have been involved.
If I think of her in the box, then, she is dead.
If I don’t, then, she she is alive. Either. Or.
What’s so ironic is that she’s not even my cat.
We wait, contemplate the vagaries of air.
Measure the depths of sky.
And close the door.
3/25/15
rev. 3/25/19
Published in Spectrum 24 August 2020
Saturday, December 1, 2018
Sunday, July 9, 2017
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
TRUE CHANTERELLES
… finding a good patch of morel mushrooms…a trace of the glad hearts of hungry earlier gatherers… — Jim HarrisonAfter an unseasonable rain,
at the end of the road, I found
a stand of blue chanterelles
in the detritus of a pine stump.
I mourned the loss of a childhood tree,
but admired the gift it gave back.
They were more amethyst than black,
like fluted horns, or flamenco dancers.
Careful not to bruise them, I cut them
with a silver knife, jealously guarding
their dark secrets, reveling in their muskiness–
like their dark truffled cousins, but with less bite.
A friend was up from LA visiting for her birthday
so I opened the last hoarded jar of mushrooms
preserved in sweet clarified butter. Flecked
in butterfly pasta, they were divine sparks
inspired by the salt tang of the sea
with glistening mauve shallots sautéed
& deglazed with a splash of old Madeira.
As she droned on about her poetry career,
she picked out the offending fungus,
lined them up on the lip of the plate
in battalions, my rare woodland crop.
Perhaps they weren't true chanterelles,
but perse-hued pig's ears.
10/30/2013
TRUE CHANTERELLES
… finding a good patch of morel mushrooms…
a trace of the glad hearts of hungry earlier gatherers…
— Jim Harrison
After an unseasonable rain,
at the end of the road, I found
a stand of blue chanterelles
that most singular of species,
the Polyozellus multiplex,
in the detritus of a pine stump.
I mourned the loss of my childhood tree,
but admired the gift it gave back.
They were more amethyst than black,
like frosted horns, or flamenco dancers
than leathern earthfans. The hymenium,
a delicate lace edging the violet skirts.
Careful not to bruise their glaucous bloom,
I sliced them with a silver knife, jealously guarded
their dark secrets, reveled in their muskiness–
so like their dark-truffled cousins, but with less bite.
A friend from LA was visiting. For her birthday
I opened the last hoarded jar of mushrooms
preserved in sweet clarified butter. Flecked
in butterfly pasta, they were divine sparks
inspired by the salt tang of the sea,
punctuated with glistening mauve shallots,
sautéed and deglazed with a splash of old Madeira
As she droned on about her poetry career,
she picked out the offending fungus,
lined them up on the lip of the plate
in battalions, my rare woodland crop
then scraped them into the compost heap.
The chardonnay glass beaded and wept.
Perhaps she thought they weren't true
chanterelles, but Gomphus clavatus,
perse-hued pig's ears, imposters
posing in the pasta.
rev. 8/1/18
forthcoming in a mycology journal
- True Chanterelles finally published 2020
- Also published in Medicine for Minds and Hearts, Fungi Press, 2023