I've published a book of poems. I've been the poetry editor of a national literary journal. I've been nominated for the Pushcart Prize a couple of times. No Pulitzer. No Nobel. Yet. I suppose, if I could say something to my younger self, it would be, "Watch out for skunks!" (I have had a couple very close encounters with skunks that have cost me a good pair of running shoes and an expensive book bag.)
Saint Marty is still dreaming.
The Beginning of Speech
The child I was came to me
a strange face
He said nothing We walked
each of us glancing at the other in silence, our steps
a strange river running in between
We were brought together by good manners
and these sheets now flying in the wind
then we split,
a forest written by earth
watered by the seasons’ change.
Child who once was, come forth—
What brings us together now,and what do we have to say?