I am not a poet. Yet, the poems come.
Not often, but once and again.
They come from pain. They come from emotion. They
come from inside.
No rhyme or reason; they chase and hunt me down.
Or better yet, slip up unexpectedly inside me.
Tempting. Calling. Begging for release. To be
owned.
Mine now.
If I am lucky, I steal time to write them down.
I am a writer. And the stories do come.
The words that ache to be said. To be read.
Fiction. Non-fiction. Truth. Fact. Lies. Whatever.
A collection, a rambling of thoughts. Made
perfect. Maybe.
Some decades old. Some fresh and new.
Old souls, old poems. Baby fresh, new words and
phrases.
Mine.
My thoughts. My meanderings. My collective
wonderings.
My first poem was written
in high school. Years later I found it in tucked in a piece of music in my
piano bench. I remember when I wrote it. At the end of my first real boyfriend
relationship. Thankfully, it is lacking in teenage angst, because if it were
filled with that, you wouldn’t be reading it some 35 years later. I read it
today and try to remember how that seventeen-year-old girl felt when those
words came.
I try to recapture that.
This collection, my
Turquoise Morning collection, is a mish-mash. A scrapbook. A patchwork quilt. Poems.
Essays. Snippets of blog posts. Articles. Passages of fiction. All from a women
who long ago realized she could express herself much better in words on paper,
than words spoken. Who learned at a young age that expressing herself with
music and art and writing, was much more safe than putting oneself out into the
world in other venues. A woman who, for a lot of years, was pulled out of that
comfort zone and found that she, actually, could survive. For a while.
Now, the muse is strong,
begging to be set free, acknowledged and nurtured. Chased. Pursued. Captured.
Found. Delivered.
I am me here, between
these pages. I am more me here, than other places. More than I am speaking with
you face to face, where life us unedited. Unpredictable. For here, in this
place, in my world, I get to rewind, replace, repurpose. Edit.
It’s a lovely place to
be. Welcome.