I question my talent as a writer.

I am afraid to call myself a writer because I am constantly reading the works of others and by comparison I decide that there isn’t any way I could write like that.

Yet, it is all I ever want to do. I began writing at roughly age 5.

I wrote little rhymes about the things I saw around me.  I had many bits of paper and blunted pencils.

I made it big when I began grade school and was given writing books.

I wrote in the backs of them not realizing that I was doomed to be found out.  Later on at age 7 I purchased my own notebooks with the help of my indulgent father.

I wrote day and night.  I had a tendency to write long epic-like poems.

I was displeased with what came naturally.  I wanted to write prose. A novel, so stunning that the world would sit up and read it.

Instead I wrote poetry. Poetic lines, turning my words in odds ways.

I was ashamed of what poured out of me naturally.  I kept the lines to myself.

One fatal day, I looked at the pile and made a fire.  Crying wasn’t going to bring them back.

Gone. They were gone, but not so fast, I heard the words bubble back into my mind.

This time they attached themselves to other lines newer and fresher, and most relevant.

The lines remained.  They were not in the fire.  I cannot it seems, lose who I am.

Who can remove a single DNA? Who can remove a gift?  If I may take the liberty to call what I do a gift.

I am romantic to the core. I like love and loving, and to be in love.

I am also afraid to show my work because I don’t want anyone to know my thoughts. I fear ridicule or too harsh criticism. I was immature in my emotions, but I have aged and am finally coming to terms that I can afford to expose most of my thoughts.  I realize that it does not matter what other folks may think.

They have the right to form opinions, the joke, I find, is which one, if anyone can really understand what my words mean when I write them.  What was, or is my perspective.  So I am now writing and willing to let others read some of it.  My poems are:

Succulent, savory, chock full of metaphors and passion.

 I am passionate and enjoy painting pictures of my emotions with words,

subtle words,

soft buttery words,

words that cinch the heart and make the eyes water with sweetness.  

Yes, I love, love; and I love to talk about it in lines,

short, staccato sweet,

lines that thunder down my loins and drill my knees to the floor,  

leave me exhausted  

the sound of Angel voices and fairy tale spells ringing in my head.

If you ask me what part of me these words are streaming from I have no answer to give that is remotely explanatory.  They just come when I call or nod or hint that I am feeling in a mood or have something to say, I think in metaphors and pictures.

I am fascinated with the way Gabriel Garcia Marquez commands the concept of Magical Realism. 

Truthfully, I am more than fascinated, I am devoted to it and addicted to the pictures that invade my head when I engage pencil and paper.

I love images like the heartbroken girl who sat up and cried all night and her tears filled her bedroom, ran down the stairs, and broke down the front door of the house.

They did not run through the kitchen, or the drawing-room, they stayed in a straight path in a flooding rage and headed straight to the house of the man who jilted her. The angry, salty, vengeful tears, climbed her ex-lover’s stairs and flushed directly into his bedroom.

His wife was shocked.  She stifled a scream as some of the warm salty river of tears splashed on her cheeks.  The man immediately knew where the river originated. He had tasted those tears before when his ex-lover’s dog died and she cried. He knew the tears.  He knew also that he was facing his end. He inhaled and drowned in a river of bitter-sweet cinnamon tears.  The minute he was dead the river vanished.  The doors slammed and the new wife fainted.  Never had she witnessed such a terrible event.  The magic of love had killed her husband and left her aching with desire.

The next morning the maids found them both naked and prostrate. The husband was dead with his eyes wide open and

glassy, his mouth in a circle. The new wife was also naked, but alive.

One hand rested caressingly on her breast and the other on her husband’s Penis.  It was still hard. She moaned.

The maid screamed and the sound pierced the windows of the North facing bedroom and penetrated the boundaries of time and space to the jilted lover’s house and shattered the South facing window of her bedroom.  The ex-lover’ eyes were dry and stiff.  She smiled with satisfaction and then she died with one hand on her Pubis, the other between her ruby-red lips.

That is why I like the concept of Magical Realism. I get to see what I write come alive. The trees the house, the furniture, they all come alive and I can interact with them.  I hope that I have pleased you some.