Meet Cheryl Boyer

Meet Cheryl Boyer


Cheryl Boyer recently launched her first blog,, and finds the thought of friends and family reading it more daunting than the thought of strangers doing so. She has written a novel that still wears its training wheels, and several of her poems have found a home in Iodine Poetry Journal, The Main Street Rag, and Kakalak.

Check out Cheryl’s published poems “Devoted” and “Ember.”

 A Sample of Cheryl’s Writing


(My Father’s Mother)


Cheryl Boyer

Separated from me by
a generation,
a culture,

my grandmother
never scrubbed her pots and pans
until they shone

but cleaned them
with efficiency,
moved on to the next thing to be done

Her Kitchenaid, Imperial Gray,
(the color I insisted on when I bought mine)
mixed chocolate,

for sheet
after sheet
of cookies for market

I hear her hum this morning
in my memory
this stranger
who was flesh and blood,

her voice etched
by decade
after decade of use

What would she think
of my dark-eyed daughter,
not born of me,
who hums her way through each day

like the great-grandmother
she will never know

 What Cheryl says about WordPlay

A decade ago, in the midst of the grief infertility brings and no children appearing on my horizon, I took a leap and finally signed up for a writing class. That class, “Writing Ourselves Whole,” became part therapy, part fulfillment of a long-held dream to be a writer. I’ve been taking classes with Maureen ever since.

Maureen provided a safe place to process my grief out loud. She nudged me and encouraged me until I transformed from a scared and timid writer into someone who just might admit that I am a writer (among other things) if you ask me what I do. My writing path has traveled down the roads of personal essay, poetry, and fiction, much of it delving into families, how they come to be, and the relationships involved. Maureen opened the doorway into poetry and showed me that it can be a vessel that holds some of my deepest hopes and griefs and dreams. In the last decade I’ve had a handful of poems published and it’s still where I turn when there’s something scratching away at my subconscious, something that needs to breathe.