I wrote my first poem in the 4th grade. I think it was for a Girl Scout badge. I still have it. I seem to have understood poetry before I understood the world as the the layers of meaning behind what I wrote are almost staggering.

Or maybe it’s my 31 years of experience that have filled in the meaning? The poem could have been what it looks like - a cinquain about snow. My adult brain, however,  has a hard time recapturing the moment. Could it be because the marker I used has since dried up? And even though it seems ages ago, the paper I wrote on has not yellowed.  Perhaps it is a sign that the poem will always remain fresh, no matter which stage of my life I’m in.

Periods of my life are often defined by poetry. I revisited the writing when I was sixteen. I had a boring summer job at an amusement park and scribbled poetry on napkins, in the dirt, on gum wrappers. I still have some of the those wrappers. It’s in the same plastic container as my first poem.

Verse went stale, then started back up again when I lived in Germany. Came out as a flood. Five years after moving back to the states, I felt the tug again - about thirty minutes ago. I decided to plunge in and write based on Beaman’s latest poetry prompt. Subject is birthdays.

Happy

Flame dancing
Moonlight - suppress
Peer behind clouds, eyes slanted.

Irrelevant, irreverent

Mistakes flatter the icing,
dancing on the bright dots of wax.
confetti - chocolate cake,
sweet phrases - of wishing
wistful

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