Poetry (part 1)

Poetry was the beginning, the source of my love of words. Poems from the Junior Classics Poems, Guide and Index, or Heart Throbs. Poems such as Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley, The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe (forevermore, I’ll never listen to The Raven and not hear my mother’s voice.), The Duel, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, and The Sugar-Plum Tree by Eugene Field, There Was a Little Girl by Longfellow, The Spider and The Fly by Mary Howitt and of course, Master Johnnies Next-Door Neighbor by Bret Harte. Oh, and I mustn’t forget Hiawatha by Longfellow. (A banquet of luscious words)


For me, poetry is the watercolor of writing. Pictures made up of vivid metaphors, layered with meaning. Clear, precise. Every word counts. Every word perfect. Nothing wasted. Rhythm, play on words, tangled meaning and personal interpretations.


A poet uses every tool in the writer's box—assonance, consonance, similes, metaphor, hyperbole and uses it skillfully because every nuance is critical.


I think writing poetry is a wonderful practice for any kind of writing. A palate cleanser. A Zen practice. A meditation, if you will.


I return to poetry like a prodigal child. I read it, write it when rejections overwhelm me, when writer’s block threatens to win, when my mind feels like oatmeal. Poetry has saved me. Over and over, it has saved me. Could it save you?