Hi friends, family and (possibly) fans. I’m not a poet, really. I have no formal training beyond my love of Whitman, Cummings, Frost, Blake and Shakespeare. But I keep trying.
And now I want to enter a contest. I’ve written a poem, revised and edited it for quite some time, and now it’s time to submit it. But first, I want to post it here and see if you all would give me some tips.
Don’t worry about copyright. It’s protected just fine.
Here it is:
Trickles of light
in a hall of books toys clothes and cat food
eddy and squirm around me
casting my shadow
resting on four forms. They
settle gently, breathing softly, one snuffling in sleep
and others- lips parted stomachs sighing- sing.
My lovelies sing a harmony
of whispering breathing and sleep creeping close.
I imagine that dreams
begin to glimmer
behind their closed lids.
both blue and green- an inheritance from she and me- see
nothing. But imaginations begin to fire and I turn
from the room.
is heavythick with memory of
climbing trees, houses bursting with strangers,
long lectures from non-parents
Playing monopoly risk chess checkers cops and robbers
with roommates not family.
Who is my father?
Where is my mother?
Who are all these people?
Was this family- all jumbled confused and angry?
Was this life?
Filled with boredom, rigid rules
candles incense rituals oil
empty of motherhugs and fathertalks.
Was this disorderly, off-key, strain-to-fit
melody my song?
Her voice echoes
off glimmering hardwood
pictures framed and couches stained.
tales of crafts legos books tears and hugs.
This is the harmony I love
the song I sought.
Her hand, chapped from vented heat
touches my arm.
entwine with mine
filled with wifelove, mothersweetness
draws me back to light
to life- present, real, sweet like ice cream- and family.
So tell me what you think please. I will be submitting this on Friday morning.
And as for Servant of the King, when this week of getting submissions ready for contests is over, I’m going after it big time. I intend to get this book done within a couple of months, then revised and sent out and all of that by June.
I will be a successful writer. Why? Because it turns out I can write and I am pretty lucky. Plus– as the emperor in Return of the Jedi would say, “It is my dessssstiny.”
So even if my dad has to cut off my hand. Or even if I have to shrink, turn green and grow big, rotten apricot ears. Or even if I have to kick an ewok– I’ll be successful.
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