Yellowed photograph shows a desk
set up outdoors in grass, paper and pen
readied in a little girl’s clench.
Her grown up fingers poised and bent
to show her knowledge of authors’ lilt.
The stuff from which dreams were built.
Arms Library became a sanctuary she
longed for as a child. The world at her
fingertips uncensored and free!
She never felt alone. Many characters
could keep a girl company albeit
Marie Higgins Clarke or Agatha Christie.
Looming in the middle stood a press
which ne’er left her memory. ‘Twas
a third grade with Mr. Spearance:
he who inspired her to publish
and create and write, along with
others who directed childrens’ gifts.
Journal writing in home room
took her along journeys she’d
started so young, in many a book
guilded with diary, lock and key.
Quickly, passion erupted on letters
she snuck into lockers, all unfettered.
This young bride, planning motherhood,
ignored her joy in English Lit. Along
with that one assignment which stood
out above the rest: it made her strong
inside to write her first children’s book.
A seed had been planted. One that took.
Age forty, along with seventy pounds
of a life gone awry, crept upon this
girl. In a wink, tears were the sounds
she often heard. Hers. Some, the kids’.
Her dreams submerged under self-help
books piled high to keep her adept.
Soon enough and way too fast, her
children found themselves in school
at last. She found herself with a turn
to breathe, and rediscover lost cool.
This was surprisingly easy with tea
and a heart wrenchingly good read.
More herself with so many perks
and a reading list growing, she soon found
that she wanted to read her own work.
How? Such a temporary question now
that I know I am not a writer wannabe,
but a writer who needs to write regularly.
one of the only poems I have ever written that took me one hour to write…
It’s mine so please recognize an unofficial copyright.