The Origin of Poems

Sin Bucket, originally uploaded by Jeromie.

I've long found poetry a compelling way to express my feelings. I love prose, but when my heart is brimming with emotion verse often feels like a better conduit for releasing what is inside. I haven't written a lot (privately or publicly) of poetry, but I recognize it's power.

This latest round of verse had a definite beginning. Liz and I had a date weekend to celebrate our anniversary at the end of June. We went out to a nice restaurant we'd never been to before on Friday night and set Saturday aside for a day of fun. We went berry picking at a local u-pick berry farm, had a quiet lunch at a nice little café, trolled through a few antique stores for some interesting finds (we each brought home one item as an anniversary gift), and picked up some SweeTreats ice cream on the way home. (We got them to mix the berries we'd just picked into the ice cream. Delicious.)

Our time in the berry farm seemed ripe for poetry. The hot sun beating down on us, the feel of the plump berries under our fingers, and the sweet-or-tart taste of berries just plucked from the bushes all begged to be memorialized in verse. The entire experience was a feast for the senses, and I had the joy of sharing it with my best friend and beloved wife. Even a poem can't capture all the richness of the experience. But it's a start.

I walk with my beloved
along neat, orderly rows
where we press our hands
into wild, twisting branches
coming back with fresh scratches
and firm, black berries
that burst between white teeth
staining tongues purple.