A Writer and her Psychologist

It began in October of 2002, with tender embraces and lingering caresses; the way we held each other during the incipient stage, is how the branches cleave to their blooms in the autumn.

Don’t let go, they seem to say. Hold on tighter. Just a few days more.

We couldn’t bear to be away from one another, and because of that, often spent countless hours — not to mention tanks of gas — commuting back and forth from Orange to Dana Point, roughly 35 miles separating us.

The nights Michael arrived on my doorstep, well after he should have gone on home to bed, and after a 10 hour shift at On The Border (a Mexican restaurant where he waited tables), were some of the most exhilarating nights of my life.

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Poet. Poem. Poetry. Prose.

I didn’t realize this, but April is National Poetry Month.

Poetry: the topic is not so much as important, as the freedom to bend and shape it.

For me, writing poetry is an outlet. I go there when I cannot sleep, when my soul is restless and weary, reverent and grateful, or simply inspired to say something that refuses to reveal itself within conventional understanding.

Unlike writing commercial fiction, poetry affords liberties and gratuitous indulgences, allowing the writer to spread those wings hidden beneath the plumage of her everyday attire. The restrictions and confinements are only those the author arbitrates. And in my poetry — whether I be reading or writing it — there no restrictions. All is fair, just so long as what is written is done so with integrity and behooves the reader/writer, alike.

With that said, and lest I shock a few of you, I should tell you that the writing you’ll find below isn’t the norm; though I am the woman who sing praises to the One who loves me Divinely, equally, I am the woman who writes of the one she calls husband. Passion takes many forms; it is impartial, favoring neither the provocateur, nor the christian. I believe there is a misconception that passion cannot share a bed with morality. It can, and I do. There is lust and there is love, and passion fuels them both. I, however, choose to funnel mine through love.

This poem was written for a contest judged by the Poet Laureate himself, Billy Collins. The only precept was that it must start with the sentence “I want to play in a band.”

It received the honor of third place, and I am very proud to share it with you.

Have a wonderful day, everyone.

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