Girl In A Rocking Chair.

 
Girl In A Rocking Chair
 
Curled up in a bud,
asleep for the awakening
if there’s any hope of coming to life,
the flickering bulb is a siren’s song,
into, instead of away. What’s next,
instead of what’s left –
the glow rubs tired circles onto
the stone steps, halfway up
and halfway down the lie.
A lovely place to pretend to rest
after making promises
life can’t keep
until it does.
 
I love writing poems, or, what an old (and now deceased) friend dubbed my poEms, because they’re a free-er form of writing for me. Partly it’s because they’re not something competitive, like fiction writing definitely must be, in today’s market.
 
These little word puzzles of light, as I called them today, make my writing self happy.
 
Is your writing self happy? My Auntie Em advice for you today is, write what makes you happy.
 
At the least, write something. It doesn’t have to be great, or even good.
 
But it’ll be something.
 
And if you do it often enough, it just may be good.
 
It just may be great.
 
Or it just may be for you, and you alone.
 
As long as the writing makes you happy.
 
That’s how you know.
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