An emotion

For today’s prompt, pick an emotion, make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: “Happy,” “Sad,” “Angry,” or well, there’s a universe of emotions out there. Here’s a list of some possibilities.

Today I read a bit more of Anne Compton and tried to figure out how she constructed her poems. I have never really studied poetry and have never been instructed in it. I’ve written a few hundred poems and have been to workshops.  Just like prose, maybe even worse, poetry instruction paints pictures of how poems look, but few books write algorithms for creating them. Writing Poetry From The Inside Out might come closest: pick four random words and write four random lines. There’s your start.

Perhaps I should write a frustration poem about learning how to write poetry.

I searched through the above list and stopped at peaceful. It is a state I am attempting to achieve by shedding the baggage I’ve accumulated over my life. I cringe at the way I am going to sound; because I see many young people try to do the same thing. The bottom line is I think I am a writer, at least I want to write full time. Maybe that’s fiction, maybe that’s poetry, maybe it’s technical writing, maybe it’s editing, or maybe it’s all of it. It’s not a think I can decision; it’s a must do decision. I am at home over a keyboard, with a pen and facing paper, reading a book, or studying story. If you placed a bag of gold, a bag of diamonds, and a bag of books in front of me, I’d probably take the books.

I am handing in my CPA and CMA certificates, my professional accounting designations. I earned my CMA in 1987 and joined the CPAs in 2011. But I have not worked in accounting since 1997, and I have no intention of ever working in it again. I have tried over the last two years to volunteer as a treasurer, and honestly, it’s not what I want to ever do again. So why pay $900 a year? Why earn 30 hours a year CPDs? Why continue typing up all this creativity inside of me? I hate to say my writing is worthy of praise; I hate saying I am a good writer. But I constantly compare my own words and understanding to other people’s, online, in groups, in books I read, or wherever. I think my 2016 PAD is showing, at least to me, that I can write for a living, somewhere.



I’ve built many walls. Life trundles forward, with persistent construction
Signs were posted.
Dances and balls celebrating, the backs of our shoulders
We march on, but where are we? How did we get here?
And when is the next limousine leaving?

He couldn’t explain the business, keep walking
He said, keep struggling and peace will find you.

I sit in my morning chair and try to unravel the intentional.
My pen etches out love, but my page reads back the negative spaces.
I’m handing in my certificates, turning my world over
I’ve decided to stop paying for emptiness.
I prefer gravel over walls.