In 2012, I began anew, this journey of poetry, which I had abandoned to life: marriage, babies, and the daily grind we all face. Yet, somewhere tucked away in an old cosmetics case, stowed in our garage, was all the work I had labored at since my early years. In 2012, after twenty-one years, nearly twenty-two, I decided to take a leap and see if I could still do this thing called poetry. I will admit, I was terrified. I did not know whether I had anything in me or could write anything of value after such a long lapse.
Sifting through old journals, spiral notebooks, etc., I found so much that I could not identify with and that no longer reflected who I was. The work felt like someone else had written it, and many I could not even say what they were about. Out of all of it, nearly two hundred pieces, including short stories, screenplays, chapters of unfinished books (the novel has always escaped my ability, given that just the bulk of it is something I feel as I write, I am drowning in), I discovered seven poems that I could use. From those seven, emerged my first poetry book, Blood, Bone, and Stone.
The Dead is an excerpt from that book, and given the chaos we are all witnessing, I feel its sentiment is more than appropriate. Blood, Bone, and Stone was written in the style of free verse, mixed with rhyme, which I would employ for many years. It is my hope that, through this device, I can reach readers in both camps: the metricists and the free versers. I realize this is a tall order and not everyone will want to take the leap with me, but I am hopeful that many will. Like the Dead, I hear so many voices calling us, I hope you will listen, and join in too.
