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.

Poetry and Me

Today, I am working on my poems, and I must have hit a nerve.

I began to squirm.

Writing from a place of vulnerability can be exhausting, in part because of the emotional toll it can take on you. Exploring past issues, rehashing out experiences that were once dead and done, reliving memories can be hard.

Lately, I find myself sifting through a compartmentalized box of memories (good and bad).

Sometimes, we bury our feelings deep within the confines of our souls and never really find closure. We move on from a bad moment and some of us never get the closure we need. But, my personal trip down memory lane has left me with a sense of healing, or closure.

What does closure look like?

For me, it comes in the form of a series of poems that explore my life and identity as a woman, a minority, and mother trying to figure out who I am in the midst of trying to raise strong young women.

And, let me tell you I am tired.

I am tired of being subjected to a world that expects certain behaviors and norms in order to succeed. I am tired of the way society has created standards of beauty. I am tired of sitting in a room where I am silently criticized because I color my hair blue (purple, pink, and green) or I have henna on my hands. I’m tired of trying to fit into white America in my America.

But, in this exhaustion I also find truths.

I find that I love discovering myself. I love the beauty of language. I discover that the power of words can move me to tears, bring me joy, or bring me peace. In this vulnerable place of discovery, I use my words to heal my wounds, to find my serenity.

Within the spaces of my lines, I build my stanzas of truth creating my poetic voice.

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

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

View original post

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.