It is time

For some time, you have heard some of the poetry I write that is flavored by the life I knew with my daddy. I have written poems you will never read, because I have burned them or torn them up or gotten past them. Frankly there are whole sections of my poetic life that I don't remember. I know I was writing. I remember doing it. I just don't know what. Then there were times when I couldn't write and I just jotted phrases. There were whole years that I journalled about recovery, because that was what I had to do to stay alive. I didn't write poems then. I just dreamed and wrote down the terrors I saw. There are worse things in my life than the things I lived through with my father, if you can believe that.

I have been writing poetry since I was eight. My sister, Julie, could draw very well and I wanted to draw some peace roses. I wasn't satisfied with the drawing and knew I liked words, so I wrote a poem. Here it is. It is my only poem I know by heart.

The Peace Rose

It's standing there like any other

so delicate and perfect yet the symbol of life.

The whole world should look upon it

see no hate, no sign of strife.

Ironically, I was standing in my grandparent's house when I wrote that. It was my house when I was a tiny girl, the first I remember, the one I ran from many times. Not such a peaceful place. I remember writing the poem as clearly as anything. I remember how I did it; quickly, without much ado. I remember how I felt when it was done. I said, "I am a poet." I was. I am.

Poetry has been cathartic and curative for me. It has become, of late, a joy to me. I love to write sassy, witty, sexy, funny stuff. I never did until recently and I am making up for lost time. But I can never turn my back on the recovery poetry. It is often dark and hateful and some of my friends don't like it much. Those poems are my babies. They were gestated from a dark conception and birthed with a lot of pain. They are mine and of me. I invite you to comment as you will.