Myoriah

I don't remember when I first began writing poetry. I do however, remember as young as age six being in love with words and reading.

One of my fondest memories is when I was six years of age sitting out on the front steps with my dad reading words from a dictionary and asking for explanations of the words I didn't understand. I remember him taking the time to explain words to me. From that incident I learned that words were important and that words had power.

It would only be as an adult I would learn that my dad used to write poetry.I would have loved to have read some of his poetry as I think I would have seen another side of him. He never said why he quit writing poetry and I never thought to ask.

In third grade my favorite poet became Robert Louis Stevenson. My parents gave me the book "A Child's Garden Of Verses" with poems by him for Christmas that year. Seems like many of my favorite poets had the first name of Robert. Robert Frost was to become a favorite of mine and especially his "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening".

I've had many supportive people in my life. Among them my freshman English teacher who wrote in my autograph book encouraging me to continue writing. Thank you Mrs. Faulkner wherever you are.

My poems have been published in newspapers and newsletters. Even had some posters with my poems displayed on a couple of university campuses. Perhaps some day I'll have a book of my poems published but for now this website will work  J

Writing poetry for me is a way to express my feelings. A way to paint with words pictures that I'm unable to paint with paint and brushes. A way to use my vivid imagination. And it is something I have to do because a poem will sometimes get stuck in my head and not let go until it is put down on paper or in the computer. So that is why I write.

Poetry has become my passion as I continue to learn all I can about poetry and work on creating better poems.

Poetry, a window to a soul.
Poetry, music without the orchestra.
Poetry, art without the canvas, paint, and brushes.
Poetry, life would be colorless without it.

Myoriah

Where would you like to go from here?