Nobody reads poetry anymore

Nobody reads poetry anymore

various spring flowers planted in old chair
Nobody reads poetry anymore

Not really

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An assigned selection here

A referenced snippet there

Of story and

Truth and 

fantasy tellers

from years long

long

long

gone
Nobody reads poetry

anymore

Not really

which makes it 

so very tempting

and easy

and freeing

to pour everything out

line by 

line 

over time

A couplet here

A stanza there

Truth wrapped up in letters and

Unleashed in barely controlled torrents of telling riddles
It is safe to do

Safe to be

Allow

Place

Pour

Lie down

All the things

that would remain

unspoken

unclear

untended 
No one reads poetry anymore

Not really

Yet some

still 

Dream and 

wish and 

hope and

think and

write

it

anyway

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For the love 

For the love 

woman writing with a pen at a table with a cup of coffeeOnce upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a little girl who loved to write simply for the sheer joy of writing.

She began by scratching out simple words and phrases in crayon, then illustrated short stories and poems using small stubs of pencil, and eventually penned dramatic plays and lengthier essays and various works of fiction.

Highly praised and robustly encouraged by family and educators alike, she wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote.

One day, after the little girl had grown into a young woman, she realized that the joy of writing had completely disappeared. The thrill was gone. The love had died.

Whether because writing was now a compulsory prerequisite for educational advancement or whether she was distracted by other obligations and amusements, the bliss of writing for its own sake withered and faded like unharvested grapes at season’s end. 

And she stopped writing. Just like that.

It wasn’t until many years later, after many babies and many moves and at the insistent encouragement of someone who was an acquaintance at best, that the woman seriously considered putting her thoughts down in black and white again.

Could she still do it? Did she have anything to say? Would anyone care?

Ever so cautiously, she decided to give it a try. Slowly but surely, the words came out to play once more. And then they stopped for a spell, and then returned yet again. The desire and the energy and the time and the courage to write ebbed and flowed, but it seemed the initial spark of joy she experienced as a little girl had never been completely extinguished after all. 

The woman realized that she still had something worth saying, even after all those years of creative dormancy. And she further resolved that she would really, really strive to write for the greater glory of God rather than caring so much if anyone read or approved or encouraged or applauded.

And so … she wrote.

And so … she writes.

+++

For your reading enjoyment, from time to time, I’ll publish something in the spirit of that young girl. It’ll be tagged #forthelove if you care to follow along.

It likely won’t be fancy, nor groundbreaking, nor award-worthy, but it might just be … something. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, I want to know: 

What do you do for the love of it? What brings you joy? Is there something you used to do but gave up when life circumstances changed? Let me know what you like to do not because you have to but simply #forthelove. 

God bless y’all,


Photo via VisualHunt

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