Writing on Wednesdays: “Me”

I really wish that I were more creative with my poetry titles, but, alas, it is one of my many weaknesses. This poem really forced me to look inside of myself…and have fun doing so. You should try it and show me your work if you do. Ask yourself what color you are. Shape? Action? Sound? Instrument? Secret place? Natural occurrence? What hides behind your eyes? Name yourself. If you want more fun exercises like this, check out Susan Wooldridge’s book, Poemcrazy.


I am a sky blue, encased in ice;

I am an uncut diamond, as rough as a cliff’s face;

I am twirl.


I am the faint echo in the crisp forest air;

I am an anthem of confidence and desperation;

I am Violin.


I am a crisp, green valley between two snow-capped peaks;

I am a crowded and colorful market;

I am Comet.


Too many words

Hide behind my eyes.


Too few words

Hide behind my eyes.


Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think. 🙂


Writing on Wednesdays: A Novice in Poetry

writing and coffee

For my creative writing class, I find myself embarking on a journey into the massive and terrifying depths of poetry. Beware, esteemed readers, that my poetry here is…I’m not sure whether there is a name for it. Novice? Senseless? Creepy? Either way, I admire you for stopping to take a closer look at it.  Prose is most definitely my strong suit compared to poetry.

This poem is part of a response to a chapter entitled “Lying to Tell the Truth” from Susan Wooldridge’s Poemcrazy, the poetry book we are using in class. The chapter encourages the poet to seek after exaggerations, to “lie” in order to convey emotional truth. Remember: I do not post these to receive professional criticism or anything; I have a pretty hard Writing teacher for that. Besides that, any thoughts, questions, comments, etc are welcomed! P.S. the formatting isn’t entirely correct on the blog compared to my Word document.

A tame savage,

I beat upon my chest

Frantic rhythms of hushed distress

As peaceful as a silent scream

As tormented as a sleeping infant.

I beat upon the walls of my skin

A lonely litany of turmoil within.

My heart.

My heart beats.

My heartbeats

Inside my chest,

Inside my skin—

They respond.

They remind.

I am







Writing on Wednesdays

writing and coffee

Alright, guys, here’s the thing: I’m a reader and a writer. I can’t explain my love for writing at this moment; it’s just inherently a part of me. I don’t expect everyone (or anyone, for that matter) to like my writing, but I continue to do so anyway. OKAY. SO. I’ve decided that, as a “kick in the butt” to make time for my writing a few times a week, I would start publish a “Writing on Wednesday.” I’m excited about it. Hopefully you’ll find some enjoyment out of it. I am looking for minor critiques (nothing crazy, as I’m not planning on writing a novel…yet), but I do welcome constructive feedback. This particular scene is based off of what I thought would be happening in the picture beneath it. Here goes!

**This is first draft**

I lean my head into the space between his shoulder and mine and sigh. He turns his head and places a kiss on my forehead the same way he’s done it for almost fifty years. I smile as I think about the implications of that number. In love for half of a century. If that isn’t an epic love, I don’t know what is. We’ve been sitting like this for hours now, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, our hands intertwined. I look down at our hands and think about how each deep wrinkle signifies some trial or success we’ve conquered together. Our hands. Both the same, yet so different. His, callused and worn from years of performing the sacred duties of a husband and later a father. His hands have killed every insect that dared cross the threshold into our daughter’s room. They’ve put out stove fires many times over after I had burnt yet another meal. They’ve fixed leaky roof shingles. They’ve brushed my hair out of my eyes and squeezed my trembling fingers as he said “I do.” My hands once bore the marks of motherhood, but those have been washed away by months of cancer treatments. Only translucent skin and brittle bones remain; I am in my final days.

As if sensing my thoughts, he squeezes my arm lightly and tells me that I look beautiful to him. I sigh. God really has been good to us. I don’t deserve the man next to me. I don’t deserve to spend my last days sitting with him, contentedly reflecting on the beautiful life we’ve had. The afternoon light is fading and a light mist starts to fall, casting a soft glow over everything. The maple tree to our right that wedged deep cuts into our daughter’s arms as she fell from its branches one childhood summer doesn’t seem so vicious anymore. I suppose every bad memory loses its sting when you realize that its impact has long since vanished. As the light wanes, my life wanes too. I soak in the breathtaking view of my house for half of a century; I turn my hand over and relish the tickling sensation of the mist as each minuscule drop touches my palm; I allow the maple and pine scented air to waft through my nostrils; I listen to the music the air makes as it swirls around us and moves through the trees; I begin to fall asleep to the strong rhythmic heartbeats thrumming from the chest next to mine. “I love you,” I murmur. “You will always be alive in me, darling,” he answers. “Don’t prolong your pain for my sake. I love you too much.” I close my eyes.

Old Bench

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