Ode to Ya Authors

They say you spend forever…

Your whole life

Rewriting the first poem you’ve ever loved.


Maybe that’s why we all become…

Our parents.


Hear me out.

Because their love—

Great Love—

Or lack…

Great lack!

Is really the ink

That designs our lives.

From the start, we watched.

We guide our hands

We push our Life Pens

(We choose him

We choose her

We love him

We leave her)

But as we write our stories…

What’s this?

What’s this appearing on my soul?

A word… so familiar.

A quality… I know.

A sentence… I would have sworn I invented.

And yet, I recall!
I’ve heard this twinge expressed by…


Oh, my mother.


Because from the start, we watched.

Those noted gestures—sonnets, silent.

The quick kisses—rhymes, unheard.

The wicked tensions— lines, invisibly broken.

Body poetry that our infant eyes soaked!

And we were marinating in an art

No one knowing

The parent dance

Or lack of

Was being absorbed.

An essence so human

So deep

We skip trying to use words altogether

But practice the ink in our lives

Trying the poetry at our stories

All our days spent

(Loving him

Loving her

Hurting him

Missing her)

….With a pen


As we try to guide our pens

With that eternal lullaby

Of our favorite poem

Our first poem.

Their story.

Our parents

Or lack of.


Always writing,

Always living,

Always watching…

for our first poem.

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