I’ve been writing poetry for…about 15 years. I am never sure what to think.
Here’s a poem I wrote just the other day. It’s kind of a “returning to poetry” poem…as I haven’t written in about 6 months and I just recently went through an extreme poetry purge.
It is currently untitled.
[i]I haven’t seen you in two weeks.
I’ve tried to avoid it, to be honest.
Things are changing with me,
forced to grow up and watch you die.
There you are, 6 inches shorter than I,
yellow and thin, skin clings,
frames the bones holding you up.
When you were taller than me,
I’d run outside in the fields picking flowers,
bring them back and expect a vase.
You never disappointed me.
You let me help with your vegetable garden,
mother and daughter kneel in the mud,
pull weeds and pluck peas from the vines.
You brought me home a kitten,
even though it could kill you to be near them.
I had Boots for years.
Eventually I grew,
moved away from home
because you wanted the best education for me.
I was 16 then, slid into the car
suitcases in the trunk and waved goodbye
leaving the security of your home. Our home.
You cried when I graduated. So did Dad.
The only time I had seen him cry before,
was when Grandpa died. We all cried then.
Dad cried again not long ago. I cried too.
We learned we were losing you.
Now I sit across the table from you.
Your spirit is strong, you aren’t giving up.
You can’t imagine how thankful I am.
I won’t give up either. [/i]