The other day I read a quote that said, “The truth is like poetry, and everybody hates poetry.” I have to admit, I laughed. In all fairness, it’s probably more accurate to say, people just don’t get poetry. Most of us don’t want to work that hard to derive meaning from the written word. I found an old literature book from my teaching days in my bookcase. I’m probably confessing to theft. Not sure if I intentionally took it or it made it’s way home in my book bag without intention. Just because it has my favorite of all time story A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote in it doesn’t necessarily make me guilty. But even if I am guilty, I’m pretty sure I’m safe from prosecution. Anyway, I digress. Back to poetry. The literature book has a whole chapter on poetry. Poems from some of the greats, T.S. Eliot, Longfellow, and Robert Frost.  I read them. Don’t entirely get them, but enjoy the language! I’ll never be a poet and that’s ok. And since poetry, in my opinion, only really needs to make sense to the poet, here goes mine:


I’m A Contradiction in Terms

I am an introvert, and at times the loudest voice in the room

Strong in my convictions, yet reluctant in decision-making

I’m a cook, never a chef

I’m your best friend, and the thorn in your side

Hello forest which I see, where are your trees?

I’m blonde whose roots are as muddy as a riverbed

I’m in shape with two hip replacements

I’m a reader who’d rather write

A fierce competitor who capitulates

Lover of nature, detester of wind

Adore summer, resent humidity

Spend my days consuming healthy foods, forage at night for carbs

Always in a hurry to be somewhere I’m not

I’m a restless spirit and a frequent meditator

I am kind with flashes of anger

I am me, a contradiction in terms. Or not