Two Years of Words Much Like Poetry
Amazingly, for me, the two year anniversary of Words Much Like Poetry is a few short weeks away. Laughably, at the time I began this blog, I knew nothing of blogging and were it not for my cousin, I would likely still be ignorant of it. So, with her guidance and encouragement Words Much Like Poetry came into being.
Self-evolution is a wholly necessary, unavoidable fact of life and as I evolved the blog evolved—where I'm concerned the evolution was a marked moving from hiding behind the pseudonym Gladys Moore to the use of my real name, moving from the simplistic introspection of a five year long relationship gone bad into far more riotous concepts and imagery, to conceiving the true course I wish to chart for Words Much Like Poetry. However, I'll be keeping mum about what my goal is for the blog. There are a great many things that need to be done to accomplish that goal and regrettably I'm the superstitious sort. I believe it entirely possible to jinx a thing by speaking of it before it is fully realized. :)
In the coming weeks, reader, expect to see some of my and Antony's favorite poems being re-posted within article-like entries (I know how hard it can be to read through an ever growing list of posts and there are some poems that I feel shouldn't be overlooked).
Also, as the year itself draws towards its close, I would like to say a resounding "Thank you and happy holidays!" to all of our readers and followers. As well, I'd like to say thank you to Antony for agreeing to co-author this blog with me. Words Much Like Poetry would not be what it is now without you. Last, but certainly not least, thank you to our guest authors. I am honored that you chose us as a forum for your work.
Blessings,
Mũhu
P.S. We have a new writer on our team. I give you the Merovingian.
"Someone may have stolen your dream when it was young and fresh and you were innocent. Anger is natural. Grief is appropriate. Healing is mandatory. Restoration is possible." ~ Jane Rubietta
I stole away my own dreams with the mistakes that I made, but I am not uncommon in that respect.
The majority of the women in my circle of friends are single moms, like myself, and I'm sure the world over knows the trials and tribulations of women as us very well.
Forgive my anger, but what right does that then give a stranger to disparage me? I've done the best that I could with the resources available to me, longing for more, but never asking for it. Poverty is not an easy thing to overcome, though, and I tire of the struggle of redefining my station.
I wish I could turn away from the world at times, bury myself in the hot sand and bask in that ceaseless warmth, but I can't. Who would take care of my children if I did? What a saving grace they are, little human forms wrapped in justification and renewal. But they can only heal a portion of my fractured spirit. The rest... Only Providence can say.
Image: Michael Lukas Leopold Willman, Landscape with the Dream of Jacob, 1691
I stole away my own dreams with the mistakes that I made, but I am not uncommon in that respect.
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