It was in high school that I made the decision to become a writer. My fascination with language was piqued, and I have not been deterred from the love affair since. It was during this time that I first started writing poetry, and I have kept a good bit of that material, most of which is terrible. In finite terms, I was largely concerned with insects and celestial bodies for some reason. I wrote about the soul frequently but rarely achieved any depth. Occasionally, however, an idea flowed from my teenage pen that is worth revisiting and remembering for posterity. Here’s one of them, an image piece, entitled “Those Tiny Fingers.”
Those tiny fingertips
make tiny fists in the air.
The tiny baby shrieks,
for his mother has gone.
I found a few other poems from back then that I still like, so I may post another one later after I’ve done some preliminary polishing.