So Deep, Like Dirty Water

There was a time when I would have considered myself a poet. From the ages of 10 to 22 (or so), I filled notebooks with my poems. I'd get on a roll, writing several in one day, and then I'd go through dry spells, going weeks or even months without writing one word.

One of my most-prolific periods was my junior year of high school where my teacher, a writer and advisor for the school's literary magazine, had us keep journals throughout the year. We were given a certain number of assignments and quotes to ruminate on, but also a lot of freedom to just create. In this class, I experimented with style and flow and formatting and phrasing. I felt like I found my voice.

I also wrote short stories and worked on the school paper. Being a writer gave me an outlet and an identity. People knew me as a writer. They'd ask to read my stuff. I enjoyed getting praise from my teachers and friends.

I didn't take enough chances as a writer, though. Despite being encouraged by my junior year English teacher, I never submitted anything to the school literary magazine. I never took a creative writing class. In my life, I've entered maybe two writing contests (the most-recent of which was last year with Esquire magazine).

As an adult, I get paid to write, though not creatively. I had a professor in college who knew I was a journalism major but encouraged me to stick with creative writing as well. I still remember her asking what I'd written lately. I wish I had that encouragement today because my creative writing muscles and my poetry muscles are getting weaker and weaker.

This morning, I wrote a poem. I can't remember the last time I did but am pretty sure it's been years. It came pretty naturally, the first line and then the second and so on. It felt good to get it out, to have the words come to me, to have one line flow into the next. I don't know when it will happen again, but that it happened today at all gives me some hope.

And because I don't know what I'll do with this poem, or the hundreds of others I have stashed in notebooks and folders in my room and my storage bins, I'll post today's here for now.

I don't want you to grow old
Not really
Not truly
I admire the adult
The real man
Insightful
Respectful
Responsible
The student become the master
Shining a light for us all
"Follow me! I know a shortcut."
I take you at your word
I tread along your path
I crouch at your right side
Eager for the wisdom you dispense
Wisdom that only comes from life
     From experience
     From growing old
The lines deepen
The bones crack
The joints ache
You walk the path a little slower
Hold the light a little lower
Pass the time a little slower
I'll catch up
I'll keep going
I'll walk beside you a while
You'll rest as I charge ahead
Further and further I'll go
Then I'll turn back
I won't be able to see you
Walking the path you wore for us
I'll have to walk the rest alone
I don't want you to grow old