In 1993, journaling presented an emotionless sounding board to a frustrated teen. Anytime pen found paper, hopes and fears were accepted without judgement. Hours of emotional bleeding filled pages as an analytical intellect transformed prose to poetry. A writer was born in the desert of angst.

The Gardener

The Gardener

She planted flowers in the spring

And as she watered she would sing

Then chilling wind blew through the trees

With piercing frostbite it would bring

As flowers then began to freeze

She saved them from the frosty breeze

And rescued them from driving sleet 

The nipping bite had failed to seize

Then summer brought a scorching heat

Evaporation did deplete

The water sources one by one

A searing death they all would meet

Before the ravages were done

She saved them from the burning sun

Then fed them with the greatest care

And watered them ‘til they had won

With generosity to spare

Compassion she would always share

Her constant work did not abate

She gave up more than most could bear

She nurtured them with love innate

Rewarded now with garden great

Resplendence she did cultivate

Resplendence she did cultivate

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Soon a Tree

I wrote this poem in 2006 (I believe) about my 2-year-old son. It was written in the style of Robert Frost's poem, Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening (Iambic Tetrameter). It was around the time I took literature in college so I must have been trying it myself.

There are good reasons that I quake
It takes such effort to be fake
In front of my sweet little tot
I wish I could just be opaque

He has to learn and learn a lot
His happiness is what is sought
There is so much he seems to know
How do I do that which I ought?

What will he do? Where will he go?
How will he learn, mature, and grow?
The things he learns he gets from me
My influence begins to show

He's mine for now but will be free
Soon he won't fit upon my knee
He is a sapling soon a tree
He is a sapling soon a tree

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