Why Poetry

 It started in 1981.

Mr. Nixon's th grade English class.
Work done. Blank page.
Start writing "On the high seat of Telar."
Fantasy narrative.
The teacher took what I was writing.
I chased the old man around the room.
Embrassed to share.

For five years, wrote and wrote.
Poems. A play.
Lost it all when given to the person who I gave my heart.

Then the darkness.
Heartbreak.
Illness.
Loss.
Depression.
Futile attempts to find the person I had been.

Academic and professional writing. Stale.
Thesis.
Dissertation.
Presentations and articles.
Memos, emails, and reports.
Classroom posts.
Two advice books published.

Creative force invested in children.
Ten in fifteen years starting in 2001.
Pen name from their initials and their parents inititials.

My mother was an artist. Paints. Pencils. Pens. Scuplture. Not me.
My father was a storyteller. Better than I will ever be.
My siblings took after them. Not me the youngest.

Wanted to write short stories knowing a novel was too much.
Poetry for me.
Rhythmic images made of words.
My first language rediscovered waiting to be set free.

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