Each month, write a new collection.
Little me is telling my mother about King Arthur, the sword in the stone, and how that story goes at a coffee shop and she is telling me about King Arthur and Camelot and the Round Table and how it was all destroyed. Little me says why? Why did that all have to die?Big me tells young writers about the elegy about prose poems about the Ashberryian haiku. Big me says poems are traditions and when we contribute we keep those traditions not just alive but vital and exciting. Little me writes a poem that rhymes and shows it to the babysitter.Big me writes a poem that rhymes and sends it to my friend Robert.Little me wants to know all the stories and think about what they mean in movies and in books and in comic books. Little me and less little me want to tell my own version and act out my own version with dolls, with a tape-recorder, with dress up, with music, on stage, on video.Big me wants to know the stories not written in English or in any Western language. Big me wants not just meaning but comfort. The knights of the Round Table still alive and talking. The Soviet Union opening its doors but remaining a country devoid of advertisements. How nice people were in East Germany. How the evil empire didn’t have to be evil. How ours was eviler than we thought. Big me wants to tell a story about that, about how history isn’t what we think it is, and how religion isn’t what we think it is either. Big me sits in the kitchen and hopes for more conversations.Little me does too.
I love the contrast and the points of both girl and woman
My crying on the court during a basketball game My tears while playing third baseDuring a baseball gameMy mind... drifts... to whenI left home at a young age of thirteento go live with my dad, hurt and confusedBalling uncontrolled without understanding why?Later I found out it was because they couldn't afford to feed me and I was eating all the foodthey would buy as I didn't know this until recentThe crying in the 5th grade because I was a sensitive kidThe tears rolling down my cheeks without regard for how the other kids would think of me as a cry babyMy mom took me to the front lawn and asked meWhy? why are you so much in the dumps?I told her I don't know?I guess it was trying to be perfect when I wasn'tMaybe religion could save me from all my guilt?From years of pain being forgiven and accepted?I doubt it!It is just who I am, The most recent time of emotionwas when my dad made me apologizeto the neighbor for throwing eggsinto there backyard patioShe forgave meBut I didn'tIt is as thoughmy writing this has