Am I Really a Poet

Am I really a poet? I don’t know, maybe a would-be poet, not quite there yet? I keep writing what looks like poetry, at least to me. But then, it’s only my opinion, and what makes me an authority one way or the other? I’m kind of an ordinary person, wife mother, ex-tv commercial writer, ex-teacher. Not particularly known for anything except chocolate lava cake. Brilliant ideas for poetry come to me when I’m out walking, in the grocery store, driving, just sitting in the living room. But then, when I write them down, not so brilliant? My poems don’t always like me. They needle me with questions I can’t answer. “Why do you describe it that way? It’s not convoluted enough to make people think! Why do you think anyone cares about your old apple tree? (politics, walk on the beach, regrets, whatever)” I wrote a poem about my childhood. When I finished, I looked at it, and it looked back at me and frowned. It said, “Who gives a hoot?” I wrote about getting old, how it felt, and that poem just stared at me and asked, “Who cares? Is that really poetry?” My poems tell me, “Get real! Write about something important!” But I guess I’ll just keep on writing, whatever I write, because I really can’t help myself!