Love Poetry and Love, Feelings

    My wife remarked that she was proud or grateful for some of the birthing marks that she has acquired in giving birth to and raising our children. I agree. I am proud, appreciative, and forever grateful for the contributions and sacrifices that she has submitted to in order to form and sustain our children.

    I remembered writing a poem along those lines after our first child. The scars were beatific, a stigmata in a way, of pain and love, sacrifice and devotion. I did not tell her that at the moment last night, but I reminded her of it this morning. Her reaction to it back then, well over twenty years ago, was "Wow, he really does love me!" 

    Yes, I really do. I did then and I do now. She has not stopped caring, giving, sharing, loving, sacrificing for our children. She does all that for me, too, her husband.

    I write poetry; it is not my main source of expression. I like prose, like this very entry, better. But song, lyric, and poetry can hit notes (pun intended), that mere words cannot touch or cover as well.

    Roses are red, violets are blue.

    All those things: emotions, sentiments, analysis, records, are represented in stories and the arts, through the media of film, literature, song, plays, poems, visual arts like paintings and sculptures.

    My lost poetry will be found. I have it scattered across books and journals, random pages and leaves of paper in at least three stories of my house. May they not burn in a fire, and forever be lost to the vagaries of time and woe.

    Might those words and sentiments be collected and gathered, re-shared and contemplated, perhaps relaying to the once and future me and you and us what might be achieved through searching heart and mind, soul and conscience. 

    What else is there? Work, achievement, love, war, battles, races, games, all the things that we film and photograph, document and record.

    Like this.

    Blog it.