I CARRY YOUR HEART WITH ME, rereleased as a board book, is a children's adaptation of the beloved E. E. Cummings poem, beautifully illustrated by Mati Rose McDonough. Showing the strong bond of love between mother and child, within nature and throughout life, Cummings' heartfelt words expressed through McDonough's lovely illustrations combine to create a fresh, yet classic, portrayal of love.

The prisoners in I Carry Your Heart in My Heart are serving long-term sentences for violent crimes, mostly life - without the possibility of parole - for murder. They represent society's ultimate outcasts, personifying evil brought to justice. Sharing Family Constellations with them is actually a great privilege. These men have gone through ordeals that we can only imagine and have worked to find a way to their souls. Systemic Family Constellations are unlike cognitive, behavioral, and interpersonal therapies in their origin, form, and purpose. Constellations succeed by diminishing the unconscious impulses that drive destructive behaviors. The process reaches the invisible clockworks of the mind and heart to reveal with astonishing specificity how individual problems nest within a larger tapestry shaped by ancestral family traumas. In a heartbeat, the patterns release, opening the mind to reverence for life and compassion for others. Problems that were frozen yield to new solutions. Dan Booth Cohen spent five years leading monthly Systemic Family Constellation circles with these prisoners. This book tells stories of these experiences. It also includes rigorously researched chapters that describe Family Constellations' historic roots and underlying philosophy.

One hundred and fifty-six poems, grouped by theme, are accompanied by drawings, oils, and watercolors by the poet.

My only son was murdered in December 2012 and I was having a very hard time dealing with my grief. I looked into councelling groups but the meetings were held on week nights, and this was impossilbe for me as I work an afternoon shift. I would come home from work and write how I felt in a notepad, as I was doing this, my expressions of grief were coming out in poems. I began posting my expressions of my grief on my facebook page., my family would comment on how beautiful they were, and that maybe I should consider publishing them in a book. I thought no who would really want to read about my grief and how I hurt inside. Then I found a facebook page for grieving mothers and began posting my expressions there. In no time so many grieving mothers from all over were wanting to share my poems. They had all encouraged my to write my expressions in a book and thats what I've done. For all the grieving mothers in the world this is from my heart.

Let poetry help you examine the depths of your wounds. Let it remind you that no matter how deep it goes, you will be able to heal it because you have been able to heal every single wound inflicted on your heart and soul before. Let these words show you that you will be able to find the light at the end of the wound because you have always found your way before.

An astonishing collection about interconnectedness—between the human and nonhuman, ancestors and ourselves—from National Book Critics Circle Award winner and National Book Award finalist Ada Limón. “I have always been too sensitive, a weeper / from a long line of weepers,” writes Limón. “I am the hurting kind.” What does it mean to be the hurting kind? To be sensitive not only to the world’s pain and joys, but to the meanings that bend in the scrim between the natural world and the human world? To divine the relationships between us all? To perceive ourselves in other beings—and to know that those beings are resolutely their own, that they “do not / care to be seen as symbols”? With Limón’s remarkable ability to trace thought, The Hurting Kind explores those questions—incorporating others’ stories and ways of knowing, making surprising turns, and always reaching a place of startling insight. These poems slip through the seasons, teeming with horses and kingfishers and the gleaming eyes of fish. And they honor parents, stepparents, and grandparents: the sacrifices made, the separate lives lived, the tendernesses extended to a hurting child; the abundance, in retrospect, of having two families. Along the way, we glimpse loss. There are flashes of the pandemic, ghosts whose presence manifests in unexpected memories and the mysterious behavior of pets left behind. But The Hurting Kind is filled, above all, with connection and the delight of being in the world. “Slippery and waddle thieving my tomatoes still / green in the morning’s shade,” writes Limón of a groundhog in her garden, “she is doing what she can to survive.”