Memories

I gathered hundreds of my old poems into a Scrivener document, a patchwork of old selves. I love reading my past poetry, provided it is old enough for me to not be offended by misplaced words and childish notions. 

I am always shocked by how little I've changed. I've shed old skins, printed new words on my brain, grown new ideas and loves in my heart, but there's a core to me that is always hungering for the same things. My heartsong is unwavering in its cry for companionship and home and all that is unearthly and wild. As much as I'd like to believe in Progress and cocoons, the Rebekah Lee Burcham-ness of my soul remains.

For nostalgia's sake, here's a silly poem I unearthed:

The Writer's Song

written at 13 years old

I’ve got a stick o’ dynamite in my right,

a hammer in my left.

May I smite mistakes where they stand

and clarify what’s left.

May my description be enhanced,

my participles replaced.

May I raze run-ons to the ground,

may the sloppy be erased. 

Please forgive my language, Lord,

it should be left for dead...

May I waste my passive voice

and use electric words instead.

May I decapitate confusion 

and deprecate distaste, 

throw out soiled grammar

and leave misspellings in disgrace. 

In the end when hammer and dynamite

cease their hungry growl,

may my disheveled writing

end up better, somehow.