I Think We Will Begin the Story Here

Of course, I have to begin by telling you that this particular story started more than four decades ago, in the early 70s. But let us go ahead and make this its new inception point, the place where we can chat cozily about our present states, express hopes for our precariously-balancing futures, and weave a tiny bit of our past in there too by way of context and providing that always irrestible backstory that begs to be told.

I am a poet. You have likely heard people call themselves writers, poets, artists, and creators more times than you can can count several times over on all your fingers and toes, that it frays around its edges and ceases to carry anymore significance to you, if it even permeates your consciousness at all. But I cannot help what I am, it is the truth upon upon where I have been firmly planted right in the middle. If you asked me to describe myself, this word, poet, would pop up among the first five ones, without a second thought.

Being a poet, being creative, has been a thread woven into my make up from childhood, from birth, maybe even before any tangible concept of existing. It surprised me when I recognized it and acknowledged it, back in 2000 when there was still the presence of MSN “pages,” and little subgroups where you could find community in like minded individuals. I found one where several members liked to to dabble in writing short poems. I discovered that I really loved teasing and frolicking with words, delving into all their meanings, seeking out new words to play with on paper and by form in my mouth and speak out loud to no one in particular.

Every experience had the potential of a story that stacked up like glistening offerings before my mesmerized eyes and leaned against my willing ear. They begged me to tell them, to write them.

Very few things come naturally to me, I can tell you this now; I do not have an athletic bone in my body, I am wretched at mathematics, and even as I love salsa dancing, I can only claim to be somewhat moderately good at it. Writing poetry though clicked into me like I had been hardwired for it in some secret alcove of my mind, a sleeper skill waiting to be awakened. It was like discovering aliens really do exist and poetry, writing, was the mothership.

So now I write, because I feel incomplete and bereft when I do not. I don’t believe I would adequately know how to empathize, to emote, and to connect with the people unless I did it with words against a blank, white backdrop.

Yes, this is me, poet, mingling with humankind by writing my story, our common story, really, as I go.

Where do we go from here? I hope you are able to stick around for the long haul and help tread the journey with me, to experience, to learn, to add to this history, as we approach the coming days.