In 1979, I was 8-years-old and a budding poet. I had no idea that I would one day become an author, but I had a burning need to put some words on paper. I wrote about the things most important to me. In those days, it was all about cats:

Cats have fur.

They often purr.

Cats will bite

And sometimes fight.

Yes, it gets worse after that. (Click HERE to read the entire poem from 1979) But I was proud of my poem. I decorated it with cut outs from old birthday cards and went running to show mom. Poor mom was doing laundry (and cleaning the house, making supper etc). She dutifully read my poem and told me I was wonderful.

I was wonderful. I felt it in my bones. I quickly wrote a whole book of poetry. Poems about dogs (even though they scared me a little), bunnies, bubbles and clouds. I’m lucky enough that my mother kept them for me and I can now bring them to schools to show children. Of course, this was the Flinstone age, long before computers and I never thought of showing my poems to anyone but Mom.

Now there are many publishers looking for poetry, fiction, non-fiction and art from kids. Check them out in the School House.

Genna wrote awesome poetry when she was five. We started keeping a journal even then. She painstakingly wrote out these words:

Horses

Green grass. Running.

Home.

It’s a poem. I hope kids never stop making poetry. Remember, a poem can be as simple as a wish or a feeling that tugs at your heart. Poems don’t have to rhyme. They can even be visual. Check out the Wordle I made for Rainbow Sheep. Poems can even be narrative.

No one has ever accused me of being a poet, but once in a while one leaks out. I leave you this week with a narrative poem that came to me in its entirety one night. You can see that I still write about what’s close to my heart.

Hidden Hieroglyph

My daughter’s foot has a delightful crease. A rough-hewn “t’ on her pink under-sole . It’s the Excalibur of babyhood, a perfect sword, unsheathed by innocence. I wonder, when will it disappear? After her first steps? Her first fall? When she learns to navigate the slippery, carpeted steps? When she kicks her first soccer ball? Skips a class? Treads on an unsuspecting heart? Stumbles on a rotten friendship?

She wants to walk, but even as I set her chubby feet on the ground, I know that hidden hieroglyph will disappear with every step.