I write a moderate amount of poetry. I write it when the fancy strikes me. Sitting on the couch with the pencil tapping against my bottom lip. I write because it was what I was born to do. It has always come naturally to me. Writing poetry is like breathing. It flows out of my fingertips without thinking. It is the essence of my emotions, my views, my sexuality. I don’t write to one specific genre. I have poems about trees, about sex, about my car Lothario…. They are born from what is stuck inside of me. Sometimes I might not even know what that is. Poetry is ever changing. You write a poem one day intending it to have one meaning and you come back the next day and it’s a completely different poem. They attatch themselves to our emotions. Any great poet’s poems have that effect. They grow little thorns that stick to your skin and irritate you until you have to pay attention to them. You may love my poems, or you may hate them. You may think they are terrible (believe me, I have written some duzzlily duds) or you may think they are eloquent. Whatever the opinion, they are designed to create a reaction. Read a few…I will put them as posts as well as a collection of them on the page Whisperings and leave your thoughts. I won’t be offended if you dislike them, pinky swear. Any poet likes to hear feedback about their work—why else publish them for the world to see. The difference between us is how we handle those comments. Me? I tuck them away in the black velvet bag nestled somewhere in the maze of my consciousness. There they wait like patient marbles in a forgotten closet for me to take them out, dust them off, and learn how to play a new game of jacks.