(For Ann Morse)

Back to the days of
Crayola and pop music;
when life was optimistic.
Before the Beats’ words
sprouted my ideas to the
heavens, rooting them in
foundations of debauchery
and debris – I felt home.

When prose was just another
word, and abstract meant
nothing in rhyme; when
words were lost without
blue ink to take notice,
back before odd numbers
became haunting, and
broken heart pieces ran
frantically through verse –
there was one to inspire;
a rose in the rubble.

A library of foundation
in my childhood recanted,
with books and metaphors
still springing up in
free formed rhyme today –
she was a model for the
curious, the knowledgeable.
With a love for dark
chocolate, set to illuminate
all seasons of fall, it is
her voice that I carry in
the outskirts of my mind,
creating pillars of hope
and discovery in my stages
of free verse and rhyme.

I cannot recall when my
words in ink first flowed
through me as my foundation
of love, yet I know she was
there with words and books
in hand, calling out
“Sandburg” as though my
tears couldn’t be more
proud to have a grandmother
like her, on my side.

The moon and back, remember…

I had never thought,
as a dreamer of morning sun,
that I could miss the moon
hugging me at night so much –
with company in the stars,
shining pathways guided
by hope, glowing laughter
in the silence, warming
edges then my heart.

Every night I glance up,
hoping for the moon to make
an appearance – just one
conversation to kiss the
eyelashes, sparking
sonnets down to me toes.
As I close my eyes and
make a wish, I only sing
for my moon to come home.

Fourteen years ago…

I first fell in love with poetry – the ability to create something so beautiful with only my words and imagination. Over the years my hero’s changed from Shel Silverstein to Allen Ginsberg, Kerouac to Shakespeare – but one thing has remained true, and that is the unconditional love I had for the written word. From blue ink smeared on paper to my first typewriter, I have dabbled with rhymes and free-writes, abstract and undefinable prose to expressive and insightful poetry. I have had my heart broken through words, only to fall again.

It has taken years of insecurities, developing patience and honing my procrastination to get to this point – but at twenty-five I am ready. I have words to share and friends to find. Welcome to my own Storylines in Verse.