Flashback Friday

How many of us have kept journals and diaries from our youth? I might be the only one. My journals/diaries did keep ramblings of my teenage angst, but I also kept a journal of my poetry and writing. The poetry I wrote from my teenage years and even some when I was in college is amusing to me since I feel (and hope) that I have grown as a writer. Now I write things that deeply have an effect on me, feelings I have that are powerful and moving that I must get down in some form on paper. When I was younger, it was usually poetry influenced by other writers, or sometimes inspiration from ordinary things that I tried to make seem unordinary. Writing this to you now about my younger poetry makes me realize that all writers tend to grow from this. That we all start off emulating and being inspired by poetry and writing greats. We don’t, yet, have our own voices. But in continued growth, courage and confidence, a writer’s word choice, rhythm and style start to become their own.

This isn't me. But I used to look like her long ago and before kids. Plus she has that far away teenage angst look I was talking about.
This isn’t me. But I used to look like Winona Ryder long ago and before kids. Plus she has that far away teenage angst look I was talking about.

My writing dry spell occurred distinctly between sophomore year of college to about six years ago, so about a 10 year span. Which makes me sad. A decade of not writing poetry. But within that decade I was pursuing what I considered at the time my ideal career choice and life. How great and therapeutic it would have been to continue to put words onto paper by my own choice. The signs were always there to continue to create poetry and stories, my professors and bosses were always so impressed with how well I wrote my essays and reports even when they were as dry as writing about key points in history, DNA repair in mammalian cells or even an arrest report. It wasn’t until I decided to strip my life bare six years ago to pick up the pen (or computer) again and revisit that old flame of writing. Interesting when you stop and listen to what nature has to tell you, what is revealed is something that has been there this whole time.

I didn’t intend on writing this much. I intended to just say here is a poem I wrote way back when in my high school days. I was influenced by Emily Dickinson at the time. It’s obvious. Enjoy!


Waiting – straight soldier
The Candle’s cold
Scent – fresh – perfect heart,
A soft – white – soul.

The warmth – glows – the skin,
A flame – melts the wax,
Sulfur match – strikes life,
In Dark – Light attacks.

Fire burns – silence,
White tears fall – hot pain,
Wick – soul – turns ash black,
The innocence – drains.

Perfume – vanilla
Mixed with charred smoke,
Rises after Death,
A spirit floats.

Candle disappears,
Pearl blood – coldness again,
The softness turns hard,
As the flame fades – soul dims.

Heart stopped – broken bone,
Scent deceased – on white the ash stained,
The Darkness enclosed,
Condemned Candle – Forever Flame.


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