A writer is a dandelion, constantly growing, evolving, blowing words -pieces of themselves- into the wind like dandelion fluff, then starting over.
I only recently joined Poetry Soup and discovered a multitude of talented poets and contests that inspire me to grow and blow my fluff in new directions.
I started a new series of poetry written in prose form. These are short conversations, moments in time, that will fit on a postcard. Originally I was thinking 'Postcard Poetry', but I now wonder if it is actually 'Postscript Poetry', the words left unsaid at the end of a conversation, when a letter is mailed, when a relationship is severed. The title for the series 'Postage Still Due' was suggested by a poet friend of mine at my local free verse group.
I would appreciate and be so grateful for any and all critiques and comments as I post new entries to this series.
September 1968
To: Dappy (AKA Grandpa)
Kenmar Road
Reidland, Kentucky
I hitch the little cart to the pony you gave me.
Ride it up and down the pasture for hours until he tires.
Then I sit on the steps to wait for your battered black pickup truck
to come rumbling up the drive. Mom and Dad watch me with sad eyes.
They said heaven is too far away for you to visit. I don’t know about that.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I still feel your hug.