My Box


Through the years I have noticed that life is a series of reruns so when old people see something that others consider strange we only nod our heads and smile knowing quite well that it’s been said or done before.


Poetry is kind of like that.  Everything has been said that’s ever going to be said, but the poet’s challenge is to express it differently.  I can’t count all the poetry I’ve read by the “greats” and wish I had said it…too many to count.  I simply repeat words used by so many others, but I try to say exactly how I see things.


The world has shrunk it’s true with the advent of the internet Ipads, Ipods, and cell phones, but it’s still the same.  People still kill for power or shame others for power.  The act of dehumanizing others is alive and well, and all the digital communications owned or invented by man or woman will not change the black hearts of dictators and religious leaders…sometimes critics can fit in that category.


I live in a box which keeps me safe from the world around me and as long as I can stay inside the box all is good and delicious, but one cannot stay in his or her box forever.  I guess it could be said that my poetry and my attempts at poetry are an effort to leave the box metaphorically.  It is scary I must say to write words and stories and have them judged by people I don’t know.  Perhaps it is my way of coming out of my world and sharing some of it with others.  Rejection hurts and acceptance is marvelous, but the silence of complacency and disinterest is deafening.