I don’t consider myself a poet, but every once in a while I get an urge to write a poem. Or two. Take, for instance, my entry in the Spring 2011 literary journal my university produces:

Economy of Wounds

I’ll show you my scars

If you reveal yours

Silent reminders

Of many past wars

My own revolutions

Against being me

You’d call me a fraud

If you could see

I’ll show you my scars

If you reveal yours

Some self inflicted

To gain cheap rewards

My own revolutions

They aren’t all me

I need them for status

Nobody is free

This “inexplicable” urge, however, is actually explainable. And I really like the explanation. My great, great grandmother was a poet. She wrote haiku, free-verse, structured poems, and more. Every so often I rediscover the one book of hers I have. I never met her, but every time I read her poems I feel connected to her–and my crazy, writerly ways are a little bit more explainable.

Here is a poem she wrote:


The language, I admit, I abuse it

And frequently misuse it

With forethought quite malicious.

Now come on and admit you peruse it,

And thoughtfully chews it

With distaste quite delicious. –Kelly

Yep…I think we’re related.


  1. I have 3 books that Great Grandma Kelly and many of her children, including Grandma Iris had writings in. Someday you will have to visit so you can read them… :D. (Aunt Mary)

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