Photo by Stephanie Scheibe

Photo by Stephanie Scheibe

Nicole Borg is an English teacher and poet.  She was born in Jamestown, North Dakota but split her childhood between the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.  An only child, she spent much of her growing up inside the world of her imagination. She fell in love with literature at an early age and began writing her first horror novel at eight and her first poems at ten.

All Roads Lead Home, Nicole's first poetry collection, is a poetry road trip of sorts.  Place features prominently—the plains, the mountains, the high desert of Colorado, the low desert of Southern California, and the Mississippi River Valley of Minnesota where she currently resides.  All Roads Lead Home was published in the spring of 2018 at Up On Big Rock Poetry Series, an imprint of Shipwreckt Books Publishing Company.

For five years, Nicole was the lead editor of Green Blade:  The Magazine of the Rural America Writers' Center. Her poetry has been published in Lost Lake Folk Opera, The Talking Stick, The Nodin Poetry Anthology 2015, and Eclectica Magazine.  She was a recipient of the SEMAC Emerging Artist Grant in 2014 and an honorable mention in the LOFT Mentor Series 2012.  

Nicole lives with her tech-educator husband, Glen Irvin, and their sons, Lyzander and Lynx on the lovely Mississippi where she writes, takes night-walks with her boys, does Yoga, and likes to imagine she is the heroine of her own witty adventure story set in the rural Midwest.




To succeed


Began with my parents. Soft hands tracing lines, opening doors,

nudging me through.

A finger pointing—do the right thing. A finger shaking—

tell the truth. A finger wagging—be responsible and safe;

safety over happiness.


I quit teaching English—

two years in CA, two years in CO.

I taught suspended students three days.

An MA in counseling I will never finish.

I have been: waitress, Yoga teacher,

assistant director, arts president.

I have one son. I have a rough draft of a novel and a poetry manuscript.

I sleep well at night.


I don’t go to church. I don’t go to the bar. I have a writing desk

piled with papers. I attend my husband’s basketball games

and my son’s preschool events.

I go to poetry readings and book signings,

coffee shops and libraries. I take long walks and short.

I write while my family sleeps.

I sit in the silence. I wait.


Available upon request.

Contact my son. He is four.

Contact my high school classmates—

they thought I would make something of myself.

You might, through a spirit-guide,

speak with my younger self.


I walk my road with intent, hearing every footfall—

I write one more line, give one more kiss,

watch one more moonrise over the sugar maple.