first poems

after a long dry, or perhaps, in this case, a marathon of creativity--or something akin to creativity--, and jawing about creativity, hear, a master's program. the first poems to come in the clear, on their own (though i did oblige myself to turn them in, so i'm a little ahead of the gun on that one, but i think my being done is more a fact of the matter, than actuality at the moment), are like the first buds of spring.

the delicate crocus, hearty, brave, brightening up the brown fade of winter.

and now, the goldenrod are blooming.

spring is gearing up, the little ones are gestating. (or incubating)

and my mind is, thankfully, doing the same.

after so long, what does one write about. how does one write. i've come from a land where all we speak of is craft. a thing with as much appeal to me as roadkill. though i look, i try to figure out what it is there on the side of the road, and in what state of decomposition it is in. that's about how i feel about talking craft all day. it's nice to be able to identify things to satisfy my morbid curiosity (really, who doesn't look), but it's nice to not have to go scrape it up and find some way to make a living from it.

though i've known a few masters of reworking roadkill, literally, not pertaining to the metaphor above. i don't know what it means to master craft and i don't want to know.

creativity is such a unique experience. the way we set words down, what we're trying to get across.

it's such a personal journey.

which is why, when this poem came, it was nice to hear my friend's sigh.

that exhalation signals the muse is stronger than any program.

craft is for the critics to discuss, dismantle, analyze, but i've never been about that in poetry. it has always been my soul expression. and i'm just grateful, that remains the case.