Writing Poetry

In college I wrote a poem on a Greyhound bus from Maine to Boston, something about a water gun, sun, translucent plastic. The next poem arrived in slumber, The Brilliant Liar, you are a shining ripple on the surface of a stream, enticing all currents you are spread thin, and to the bottom you sink, like a now forgotten skipping stone. That earned me an 8-page single-spaced reply. Slanted, upside down, my ebullient view, my lens, the one I use to look at the landscape and us in it. Apart, distant, watching my inner introvert who lives in constant wonder. The ink has sat in notebooks, on trains, planes, imitating others, their rhyming schemes, becoming my future plans. I have used it to protest wars, entice love, linger longer in memory, where it all becomes eventually ephemeral. In the past I was mostly scared, to share it, the words. But now, in the social media world of half-truths, fake news, tweeting presidents, an eroding earth, I look for little bits of real, especially tiny slivers dwelling well within.



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