My favorite subject in high school was English Literature. In my junior and senior years, my English teacher had a soft spot for poetry. We delved into the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman, and Robert Frost and even dipped into Rumi and Pablo Neruda. I ate it up and wrote hundreds of poems, trying to emulate or capture what was in my heart. I did share some of them with that English teacher. He kept asking, “Would you consider publishing them? They’re good.” I was horrified. What? Share my innermost thoughts with the world? What if Antione (my then-current crush) reads them? So, I stuck to my guns and didn’t consider publicizing them. Almost all those poems are long gone, but I have a tattered and yellowed scrapbook with a few I kept. However, when I re-read them, they seem too immature and sentimental to publish.
Years and years passed. I still wrote poems occasionally, but my family and career took precedence. I attended poetry workshops or classes when I could without too much thought about sharing them with the world. I just loved writing poetry. It’s always struck a chord—a way to express some of my deepest feelings. If you read my blogs regularly, you know I sometimes include a poem from time to time. I’ve been amazed at how much people love them.
“Do you think you might put out a new book? Poetry perhaps?” a friend asked.
It got me thinking. I think it’s time to overcome my fear and share some. Isn’t vulnerability a cornerstone of a good writer? So, over this last year, I picked out some of my favorites, narrowed them down to fifty, assembled them in a manuscript, and sent them off to a poetry editor. Let’s see what she thinks.
The result is my new book, Silver Tip Poems: a collection of thought-provoking poems capturing the celebration of being alive, the tenderness of love, and the beauty of nature.
Here’s one that didn’t make the book:
old bugs crumbled into a corner
the rain against the steps
silent shadows under pristine skies
a dark forest nearby
quivering in the cold
a wrinkled face with speckled hands
leaning into a blinking glass mirror
wondering if she can go back in time
and lay her head on the soft grass of summer
weave through green ferns
and white daisies
her breath trembling with excitement
for what-ifs
wet and moody with promise
oblivious
to the burning bush of time
…
“Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.” Rumi
Sharon
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