A peom, mama? Now what could that be?
A poem, said she, is what we will read.
Let it drizzle into your ears
And melt away your fears
So the words that you hear will lull you to sleep
Will cradle you into the sweet arms of a dream.
At that point in my life I might have been four
A few years more and I’d hear poems, galore!
First grade brought Limericks, Ballads, Haikus
Judy Blume, Shel Silverstein, and Dr. Suess.
The rhyming in twos and words they explored
Sparked my imagination like never before.
While Junior High inspired short poems of love
The phase became something I grew sick of.
As time went on poems became a passerby
On the street at night when most appear sly.
Ignoring the character I could find if I looked above
I wouldn’t spare a glance in its direction thereof.
Then one day life grew sharper and colder;
I carried a boulder that grew with me as I got older.
I sought out peace
Turned to my past for relief
And I couldn’t believe what I found as I shouldered
A large box of poems from my closet, the memories I had smoldered.
Revived memories took hold of my senses
As I read the old poems, I saw life through new lenses.
The tree in the front yard I hadn’t noticed before
Now became an artful beauty that I couldn’t ignore.
Furthermore, the poems broke down my walls and defenses
I felt a resolve to change, to make right my offenses.
I’m lucky I found that dusty box that day
If I hadn’t, I’d forfeit the courage to say
That life is gift, a field of endless opportunity
Amidst hope and despair one can brighten a community
And one’s inner disunity and ultimate dismay
Can and will, with effort, dissolve away.
This is why I write, why I write anything at all:
So a great soul is released from this body so small.
I write to remember, I write to go back
To my childhood, a time without longing or lack.
Although I tend to stack emotions of hurt into a wall
Writing poetry continuously makes it fall