She stepped up to read poetry
at her father’s funeral.

He was my friend and compatriot

Rolled my eyes but admired her boldness

But poetry…

Never captured my interest

Then she read.

It was not roses are red, violets are blue.

Sentences

Thoughts that rang true

“My head says your gone but my
heart says you’re still here”

That lands

I should try…

Now I can’t stop

I can compose any time, any where.

Daily

A new topic. A new subject.

Composing is life-giving. Why?

Something authentic that captures reality.

Not propositional. Blunt. Indirect.

Candidly honest.

A means of demanding a hearing
without demanding to be heard.

A means of collecting thoughts.

Turning thoughts to words and images
Sometimes to answers.
Often clarity without answers.

Re-reading – repeatedly.

The words put to the moment
 so I can find it again.

Feel it again.

Wonder about it again.

Maybe understand it
a little differently
the next time.

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