Maine

The cold granite stones beneath our feet made us taller,

Elevating us above the ordinary cobblestones of Post Office Park,

The moon shinning over our pre-pubescent crew of misfits.

One step closer to the sky.

 

It was on nights such as these that I felt my first creative pangs.

They began as fleeting impressions like witnessing a shooting star,

At first you are not sure of having seen one,

yet there is a sensation of awe that lingers.

 

Then came the tremors,

electric and charged,

pushing me to put words to the haunting beauty that surrounded me.

I dramatically tried to verbalize what I was experiencing,

the sound of wet snow falling on the churning winter ocean

or the scent of wild roses in a thick salty fog.

 

By the time the earthquake hit at age 15, I was armed with the art of words.

Poetry became the valley through which I channeled my raw, turbulent emotions.

At the time I did not understand what was happening,

nor the power I had found in my falling;

I would be saved time and time again

by a blue Bic pen and a white wide-ruled notepad.

 

Life would pull me through twists and turns.

Poetry would make me stay the course.

Hardship would not find me helpless.

 

I often think of the young girl gazing at the summer stars over Exchange St.,

Sipping a cappuccino at Java Joe’s,

Dreaming of what the future would offer.

 

Although 6000 miles and a lifetime away,

not much has changed.

I am still dreaming, still longing, still learning

to be, to love, to create…

Advertisement