Dad always called my daughter, Natalie, an “old soul.” Maybe because she’d listen to his old Julie London and Frank Sinatra records and knew those lyrics better than most of the contemporary music or because she read the poetry he liked, could recite Donald Hall and Pablo Neruda (in Spanish), and even wrote her own poetry that was spellbinding in its ability to discern truth and display a keen knowledge of nature. Continue reading
Written for Monday night’s haibun at dVerse.
Regarding poetry writing, I am a late bloomer. Fiction ruled my heart and mind although I loved words and rhythm and sound. Poetry was like a mystical voice, too enigmatic to undertake until I found poetry by Neruda, Mary Oliver, and Jane Kenyon, such different voices whispering to me, yet each echoing a love of words. Beautiful, hungry words. Continue reading