I have written poetry nearly all my life. I can still remember in early grade school when I would summon my mother after she had tucked me into bed and kissed me goodnight. It didn't happen more than once or twice a month, but I would call her back within a few minutes of the last snuggle-kiss because a poem would have formed itself in my head. Mother was always willing to write my poems down for me, no matter the time of day or inconvenience factor. She would sit on my bed and take dictation, as if she were my very own private scribe. I must add here that she continued to support all of my creative efforts throughout her life. Yes, I was spoiled that way. Lucky me!
Recently I came across a manila enveloped stuffed with my early-life writing (from grade school through high school) and I'm still reading my way through at least one hundred pages. Much of it will meet the waste basket instead of the filing cabinet, but it's been a trip through my emotional life on a narrow and winding road and memories come flooding back, most buried until the writing dredges them up. Some might be worth sharing--I'll decide after I read the entire oevre.
Just last night I was retrieving a poem from another paper pile written in the last couple of years. I had told a friend about it after we stopped to admire a vase filled with fresh peonies and offered to send it. Oopsie, that meant I needed to find it. Sometimes my computer filing system isn't as logical as I think it is, so I resorted to looking through recent poems I've printed out to read in the my poetry-writing group sponsored over Zoom by the YMCA. It's equally fun to read two-plus years of poetry from the pandemic era. I found a number of poems I'm not ashamed of. As a result of reading my random thoughts in poetic form, I decided to spend the next several blog posts sharing a few. So here's the poem I shared with my friend. It's a ridiculous and silly rhyme but the message is dead serious (pun intended). Enjoy!
As I age, I wonder more and more
how it is I’ll exit out the door.
I look at bouquets brought inside,
consider them, and then decide
what I wish for my demise.
Stately, tall. Majestic, trim
then slowly drooping toward the rim
of the vase. One by one
the petals drop. They’re done.
Tight, then open. Scent
prevails. Stems unbent,
but all too soon diminish
to dull and withered finish.
Sphere-like buds start small and round
then quickly to their full size bound
for explosive scent and amazing size,
then—poof—drop petals before my eyes.
It’s obvious to me I’d like the latter
and despite this poet’s foolish patter,
I wish to disappear in splendor
not fade away as my up-ender,
and hope my wish will be the way.
Sara J. Glerum