By popular request I’m going to post some poetry. Of my own.
While painfully aware that one person asking isn’t the full, honest definition of popular, it is one more than enough to flatter this non-poet into poetry. And being honest, I have already used the “Look how messed up I was as a teenager cause I wrote such atrocious verse” excuse to hide a seldom expressed poetic voice behind. Now there’s no where left to hide.
I had the nerve to suggest a minor rewrite to a poetically more prolific friend recently, so what exactly would my excuse be for a failure of poetic nerve? That I make a better critic?
It’s Monday Poetry Train day today. Let’s grin and bare it for a little exposure…
Untitled and in progress
I am the drop of glistening rain,
puddle formed by side of road,
I am the car driving straight ahead,
beneath skies clouded and grey.
That is my sky,
as good as any other.
I walk under that sky,
along that road,
and beneath this rain
as happy as anywhere else,
as happy as any other.
It’s a few verses short of completion, a few ideas short of expression, and true lyricism was lost somewhere around the second line—the entire first verse has been rewritten off the page. But I’m feeling so much better for the saying…
On the topic of messed up teenagers, I made an initial attempt at tidying this one up, a several thousand word story about my own formative years, posted (with embarrassing photos) for all to see on another site: Miracles out of Mountains out of Molehills. It will also do as my response to Camille’s now ancient Conversations With Your Teenage Self Meme. Better late than never.