The weird truth about me that may or may not be genetic: I cannot hear meter. I cannot hear stressed syllables. Neither can my dad. Inherited? I don’t know, but I do know that all I can write is blank verse (or is it free verse? I’m forever confusing the two.)

Here’s a stab I took at poetry in my late teens or early twenties:

Torn and weathered
Through the desert storms
’Til he was as rough and scaled
Like a carpenter’s hand.
But he was not as tough outside
As he was deep within.

‘Twas a moonless Friday,
A dull and dreary Friday,
When he buried her
In a deep, deep grave
And it was as dull without
As it was within.

Dust raked the desert,
Biting into his weary eyes;
The wolves howled
And the mountains cried.
But he was unmoved,
For he killed her on Friday

Somethin’ about money,
A baby, a house–
Too much to take as he
Loaded his Luger . . .
Too much without,
Not enough within.

Nice and cozy, no? …Not. That was a darker time for me, and my writing sure reflected that. But I wouldn’t want to send you off with dark feelings, so here’s a fun, fluffy limerick for the road:

Frickety, nickety pickle
Bread for just two nickels
It’s dry and sweet,
A tasty treat,
But going down it tickles!

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