Is my writing enough/
to win her love?/
I hope not.
But it could be a start/
on the pathway to her heart.
Is my writing enough/
to win her love?/
I hope not.
But it could be a start/
on the pathway to her heart.
Elizabeth,
that day
dressed in red
can’t know
what she started
that day
in me.
The fire
she lit
was not because
of praise
for that day,
nor the fire
of past time,
which were last time
lit by others,
but because
I saw,
that day,
my own potential,
my own abilities,
my own
audacity
of hope.
She stood,
cold and wind-swept,
that day,
on steps
others had built.
I heard,
and stood
that day,
and from that day,
on words
she’d written.
I claimed,
that day,
for myself,
the knowledge
and ability
that I could climb
those stairs
as well.
That day,
in her mind,
was not about me,
or my people,
or my ilk.
But for me,
that day
was the start
of a new day
and a new way
of being
that I claimed
for me.
You were the mother
of my escape,
of the start
of the birth
of my
(as yet unfinished)
self-discovery journey.
It was you
who set my feet on the path
that opened up my soul
and my heart
and my mind
to what could be
and should be
and now,
increasingly,
is.
I started reading/
when I decided that my/
excuses were *lame.
OR
*dumb.
Must I always be/
one who starts conversations?/
Should I be patient?
Instead of engaging in foreign-tongued/
intellectual banter,/
now we’re not so young/
I think I’d rather/
gaze deep into your eyes/
and write you poetry/
and gently surprise/
your mind and your heart./
At least, I surmise,/
that’s where I’d like to start.