The Return

This post lays between a poem and blog like two pages stuck together in your favorite book.

On the page where your favorite passage rests.

I took a break.

I lost my way in a hazy maze sometime in October- of some year.

I forgot what I enjoyed about writing.

I forgot how to write.

Maybe, I didn’t forget.

Maybe, I was ignoring the desire, the calling, the muse.

I just let myself fall off the wall refusing to let the kings-men help.

I moved around, numb, on my own endless hamster wheel, living a never-ending rut.

Then, suddenly, I find the desire and joy in writing.

I may not write all the time.

I may not be as consistent as I like but I am here, again.

I fall, over and over again and I like my wounds, I tend to them until they have healed.

I discover the urge that excited me was visiting Rip Van Winkle for a much needed slumber.

Maybe, I had nothing to write about and that’s ok.

Push button start, ignition, READY, SET, WRITE.

Copyright © Delia Marrero 2019 All rights reserved.

Revised: An Empty Love Letter

I just revised this poem. I revised it because after reading it with fresh eyes I realized that it needed something else, it needed a facelift, a poetic facelift.

I am going to try and practice what I learned at The Martha’s Vineyard Institute of CreativeWriting.

I was fortunate enough to attend this program a few weeks ago and I learned so much.

I came home with a new found enthusiasm to work on my poetry and short stories. So this is my first revision of an old post.

via An Empty Love Letter

Creative Writing HELP

Hello everyone! It has been a long time since I posted a blog. I have not been writing much since the dreaded writer’s block has made its way into my life and has settled down for the long haul. Recently, I decided that I need to break through this writer’s block and I have been actively revisiting works from my past, rewriting, redrafting and submitting. I have been receiving rejection letters but they do not deter me. Then late one night I received an email stating: “Your poem, which speaks to both your love of poetry and the moment of birth of your work is wonderful, and your letter which reveals the joys and the struggles of creative writing (btw: I’ll be talking about my own first 100 rejections in the class I teach) is precisely why MVICW exists—you seem a perfect match for our program.” I received a partial scholarship opportunity for a week-long writing workshop.

I am writing to ask for your help. Since this is only a partial scholarship p I still have to pay the remaining tuition balance, lodging and travel expenses.

I am reaching out because I need help. I have had unforeseen expenses and my general responsibilities and bills have made this surprising opportunity a little challenging to come up with all the necessary funds. The program received an additional donation and reached to me for the opportunity. If you can help it would be greatly appreciated.

Below is the link to my go fund me campaign:

https://www.gofundme.com/creative-writer039s-dream

 

THANK YOU! SHARING HELPS TOO!

 

 

K.D. Dowdall : To Wish Upon a Star

To wish on a star in the dark of night shows true faith, belief and courage of the heart. That is what has been captured here by K.D. Dowdall. Please take the time to look at her blog you will not be disappointed.

Pen & Paper

If you wish upon a star,

For true love’s sake,

Please don’t tell it,

Where you are,

For stars are fire,

Burning bright,

And it will surely,

Take your sight,

For if your love is true,

No star can ere replace,

The light of love,

Upon your face,

Should there be,

The darkest night.

K. D. Dowdall

Copyright 2016

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The Poet & Writer

I want to be a poet, so I say “I am a poet.” I want to be a writer, so I say “I am a writer.” I have these tales in my head I write them down. I have these poems I place in this dumping ground. They’re rough draft versions that need much work.

Editing- that’s what they need.

Editing, the dreaded daunting task of correcting my own work. In this exercise, I stab my piece and make it bleed. Slashing the prose of my mind, I become the killer—my very own horror movie. Holding a knife I cut through the surface of ideas, what a bloody mess! I begin stitching together the remains- I’m creating Frankenstein.

I have blood on my hands.

I must massacre all my hard work.

The blood, sweat, tears and hand cramps didn’t create an impeccable first draft. I do not want to hack away any piece of them, of the story or the lines of poems. I am, emotionally invested in the purpose of my prose.

Weaving together intricacies, creating new identities, giving life to the characters you read. Even made up people have feelings too!

I know that what I have is a draft. I know that I must continue to create.

I know that I must learn to walk away.

Breathe and take a break.

To write and create!

Let’s Share: Lisa St. John

You ever meet anyone who you instantly connect with? Someone who is amazing, happy and authentic. That is Lisa, I met her at a writer’s conference over the weekend and I cannot begin to tell you how kind she is. She touched my heart with her generosity and sincerity.

Check out her blog.

Oh, and her poetry because it is beautiful.

https://lisastjohnblog.com/about/

In Passing

In passing-
you walked on by without a word,
moved away so stealthily- swiftly moved and out of sight;
careening on your route.

I moved on by,
afraid to speak- for fear you’d laugh at me;
I thought I might break my flight;
and ask you words out loud,
Alas, I choked-
I turned away.

Silence just remains.

I Walk On Through

I walk on through the halls,
Of –
these places once unknown to me.

I reminisce about those who-
once upon a time I met
in the classroom corridors.

I stop and view the scenery
Of learning right in front of me.

I think about the memories-
that have shaped me.

I view the waves of students who unlike me are me.

When yesterday is gone today;
Tomorrow beckons nightfall,
This final moment here;
right now.

Memories take shape,
I think about these things again.

The late nights in the library,
or that time when,
and that boy who-

Time will fade,
and you won’t recall some names;
friendships change.

Look back-
Remember;
The halls that we once stepped through.

Underneath My Pale Skin

Underneath my pale skin-

below this white concealment
the spirit of;

African beats;
Taino blood;
European conquest-
this is the Caribbean echo of my being;

The blood which flows-

Exposing this-
American identity.

 My history;
I recall-
The darker skins that preceded me.

The caramel flesh my daughters possess; the tangled hair that sits on their head
a mixed tone of inclusion;
Identify my Afro-Caribbean-Indian-European mix.

Rhythmic drums,
pounding out the tears,
of the island’s sing-song melody.

Composed with time;
two worlds collide;
to produce the American in me.