#WorldPoetryDay #poetry #amwriting My first love was born within the heartbeat of a poem


#WorldPoetryDay #poetry #amwriting My first love was born within the heartbeat of a poem


My first love wasn’t the Disney fairytales. I didn’t worship those heroines who advocated “whistling while you work” or sang optimistic arias believing that “someday their prince would come” or awoke from a deep sleep by a princely kiss.

My first love was born within the heartbeat of a poem.

I read alot of poetry as a child. From William Shakespeare to Emily Dickinson to Robert Barrett Browning to Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Robert Frost and a slew of others, my unquestioned devotion to poetry defined my youth. My mind and heart were fed by the lyrical beauty of the words formed by poets who viewed their world through the lens of verse.

I wrote alot of poetry too. In 1972, when I was 7 years old, I envisioned that I would grow up to become a poet laureate. While this long held dream failed to materialize, 45 years later, I still write poetry.

I write between 6 &10 poems every day, 365 days a year. While I share alot of my poetry, there is a great deal of my words that I don’t share. The wonderful thing about poetry that I discovered over the years is that the words are free to various interpretations & emotional responses. Poetry is what your heart needs for it to be in that moment in time when you need it the most.

Poetry is about compassion. Poetry is about uniqueness. Poetry means different things to different people. Poetry is about celebration. Poetry is about reflection. Poetry is about hope. Poetry is about giving a piece of your heart. Poetry is about discovering your voice. Poetry is about life.
Poetry is about everything and anything you want it to be. Why?
Because a poem lives.

I wrote this poem months ago. It is one of my favorites.

#amwriting #poetry Who says that a poem isn’t alive? by Tracy Diane Miller

A heartbeat
Can you hear it, a rhythm echoing against the still of night;
An intense gaze, where its eyes shine so truthful a light.
Arms to hold you; then hands to wipe away your tears
With a proud gait to carry you
Through your deepest fears.

Who says that a poem isn’t alive?
If you can feel the words
If you can hear its heartbeat
If you can feel the intense gaze
If your soul is touched

Then a poem lives.

A poem lives
A poem expects nothing back in return
A poem lives
A poem is compassion, as you will learn

That heartbeat of a poem, with your own heartbeat perfectly in sync
Those words voiced from the lips of a poem
Should make you think
You can feel it, can’t you?
Isn’t that why you cry?

A poem lives
A poem is ageless

And long after you die
And your body is turned to dust
A poem lives, for that you can trust

A poem written as a tribute to you
Will remember you

For that heartbeat of a poem that will continue to thrive
For the strength of its words will always survive

The eyes and the arms, they will still reach
A poem lives
Compassion, it will still teach


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