Heartfelt, Thought-Provoking, and hopeful…

Mason’s compelling latest novel lays bare the quiet yet relentless struggle for freedom within the heart of a dairy farm, where survival and empathy collide in the bond between a cow and her conflicted farmer. Wary of her fate, Cinnamon, a talking cow, hesitantly befriends Jody, the farmer who “owns” her, hoping this bond might bring freedom.

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In the interest of continuing to connect my past with my present, I am posting a poem from my collection a woman alone that I wrote twenty-five years ago when I was on a pilgrimage to the poet Sappho's homeland in Lesvos, Greece.

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My mother told me that when she was a girl that my grandmother would tell her stories about her own childhood. Her favorite stories were about the People’s Theater...

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"So this is what the Goddess Ishtar looks like." Tabitha held the bas-relief on her lap so that it faced the children.

"She's NAKED!" exclaimed Zerah. “Just like in the story. And she's really pretty. She looks just like you Mama -- when you wash -- except her breasts are bigger."

"And you don't have wings," chimed in Pharez. "Wait a minute. Where's her penis?"

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In the end, it was Linda who saved her. She started coming to visit when Art was in the County Jail. Art still remembered their first visit with the glass window between them when Linda was fighting back tears. Linda said that she left Tommy after he told her he and Cal set Art up the first time she had been busted.

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Casey looked like she was suppressing a snicker, but then she said with the utmost conviction:

      “Yes, people may be able to delude themselves into thinking they’re just eating burgers, but what they are really eating is the future and the air their grandchildren could have breathed.”

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a woman alone

is her name--

undeciphered in

hieroglyphs

written on walls

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"It seems that I don't only have a nephew," Tamar said as Orpah turned toward her with the other infant. "I have a niece, too."

"What are you talking about?" asked Orpah.

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I’ve heard that humans like to eat pigs and call the strips of flesh

bacon but have never seen it before. I had just smelled it one morning

in the pasture when my cow friend from childhood remarked, “Oh, the

smell of bacon is particularly strong today.” Then she proceeded to tell

me what bacon was. When I looked horrified, she said simply, “Don’t

worry, I never heard of cows being turned into bacon.”

“As if that solves the problem,” I had retorted.

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Lately, I've been thinking about the importance of connecting the dots between the past and present. I was a poet before I was a prose writer, and I decided to find my broadside of Boobs Away and bring the poem back to you!

The video of me reading the poem now is below, and under that I pasted the text of the poem.

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