No Packing Necessary

poems for the solo journey by

Patricia Ann Joslin

~84 pages, $15 (+ shipping)

Projected Release Date: April/May 2026

An Advance Sale Discount price of $9 (+ shipping) is available HERE prior to press time. This price is not available anywhere else or by check. The check price is $13.50/book (which includes shipping & sales tax) and should be sent to: Main Street Rag, 12180 Skyview Drive, Edinboro, PA 16412. 

PLEASE NOTE: Ordering in advance of the release date entitles the buyer to a discount. It does not mean the book will ship before the date posted above and the price only applies to copies ordered through the Main Street Rag Online Bookstore.

Patricia A. Joslin grew up in southern Wisconsin, raised her family in Minnesota, and now calls Charlotte, North Carolina home. As a former educator, she is passionate about lifelong learning and volunteerism. Her debut poetry collection, I’ll Buy Flowers Again Tomorrow was published in 2023. Since then her work has appeared in a variety of literary journals. Patricia travels widely, often alone, seeking immersive experiences that inspire her poetry. She enjoys time with her four lively grandsons and believes that every stage of life holds its own magic—a belief reflected in both her poetry and her dedication to community service. Discover more at patriciajoslin.com.

“The divine exists even in the darkest places,” writes Joslin, but these poems are far from dark. Though many deal with aging, mortality, and grief, they exhibit grace, vulnerability, and empathy. She renders the world in vivid sensory detail—a flash of cardinal’s wing, rock wrens rising in song, the scent of her father’s pipe tobacco, the music of Boccherini or Miles Davis—and moves us to see the “bliss in the mystery of it.” ~David E. Poston, author of Letting Go.

No Packing Necessary is a moving, tenderly wrought collection that navigates grief, remembrance, and resilience with lyrical eloquence. Patricia Joslin writes with a steady voice and prayer-like reverence for the ordinary details of life – a clock, an apron, an onion – that summon memory and the fine, fleeting grace-note moments of life. She gifts readers with poems that begin in loss yet rise to renewal and resonance, lingering well beyond the page. ~Lucinda Trew, author of What Falls to Ground

Some things travel with us—smell of pipe smoke, sway of a slow dance, music of a kiss—for a lifetime. No Packing Necessary asks “how long will I churn the earth in memory,” and replies “the divine exists even in the darkest places.” In this eminent debut, Patricia Joslin’s poems, as the best do, defy time, expertly navigating loss, widowhood, aging, and the importance of finding, building in unexpected ways, what once felt impossible—acceptance, joy, new. ~Junious ‘Jay’ Ward, author of Composition and Poet Laureate of Charlotte, NC

One More Move

I live alone. No cat. The king mattress
no longer needed for sex replaced last month.

Exhausted, I fall asleep in minutes. Too many
thoughts and things to do. The move in weeks.

Boxes, sealed and labeled, crowd the kitchen
where once graced our family table. Donated.

Loveseats gone, along with his leather chair.
I’ll keep the matching ottoman, pottery we collected.

But what about his mother’s good dishes?
Our travel treasures? Old photos and journals?

Pack light. The new apartment is compact,
yet the 9th floor corner suite has treetop views

of the city and the steeple of my church. I think
about him, our children. His easy manner,

strong arms holding me. His last breath.
I sigh, smile and bend to fill another box.

Memories follow easily. No packing necessary.

High-Rise Heaven

1.
Sunday evening slump, body
beat. Heat clings to the balcony
as if overlooking a cauldron.
Clouds clash on the horizon,
a wall of rain the vertical
demarcation between light
and dark. End of a long day
that began early. A fire-filled
sermon (without brimstone)
to dispel hell, the minister’s words
a generous reminder that the divine
exists even in the darkest places.

2.
I wait for the sunset, which
promises to be spectacular.
Summer is memory, trees
wear a tinge of orange-red.
Heat dissipates as dark
draws close. Patience.
Just now, Carolina wrens
rest on the rail to discuss
the evening ahead, then fly.
Distant planes align
to make their descent
into nightfall, into dreams.

Monday Night In the Church Basement

frayed edges
of your bulging backpack
remind me that the perimeter
of my world is larger than yours
on the street

we sit together
share a meal
a roof above

tell me the story
of your dead daughter
absent sons and eviction

read me your memoir
of life without work
or shelter, or meds

smudge the pencil-mark borders
erase the margins of difference
excise the space between us:
light-years of travel from
your birth home to mine

white-out my privilege
erase my margins of indifference

Jazz: The Cosmic Connector

In fine form, the Friday night house band
plays Miles Davis’ E.S.P. – burns hot.
Guest trumpeter Al Strong ignites us.
Sticks ablaze, the drummer pummels
my body, becomes the pulse of the city.
Ziad’s saxophone freestyle takes flight,
brings us to our feet, sizzling.
Rhythms rope me in,
leave me limp.

The rowdy crowd
spills out of the Bechtler
in high spirits, chilled by the spring
evening breeze and thoughts of home.
Honey, you look good in pink whoops
the old woman propped outside the venue
to feel the heat, the beat, overstuffed bags
beside her. Newspapers neatly arrayed–
a magic carpet to carry her to this moment.