The one-sentence poem was taught to me by a wonderful poetry workshop leader named Peggy Miller. For years I’d written poetry without justification, study or credentials, barely able to even label the writing as poetry. Peggy taught me that not only did my writing fall within the realm of poetry, the words crafted fell into beauty and insight and passion and emotion. She showed me forms of poetry I did not know existed, case in point the one-sentence poem where you simply write without a period and create a flow. My first poem written as such was Golden Strand Smile which I remember with fondness whenever I’ve reread the piece, I get a strong sense of beauty and accomplishment. As a writer, you seldom know creation’s worth immediately upon completion, yet you possess a euphoria about the writing and a desire to show the world what you built. Sometimes this is good, sometimes not so much, yet the passion in the crafting of the piece is unmistakable. Poetry, as in all creative writing, becomes a purge of the soul if you allow it. Fortunately, this is one aspect of my life, my writing life as well, which escapes the vagaries of life and actually strengthens as the days progress forward.
In truth, she invited herself in, a petite, curvy, molded, fluid damsel, princess in waiting, looking for love and finding adoration in spades with someone mired in poverty not only of goods and income but ransacked of hope and positivity and confidence and assertion, yet she discovered a goldmine of caring and giving of everything he possessed but throughout the years, instead of nurturing what could have been a treasure trove of a lifelong relationship, she sought to pillage, one item at a time, all the stores he built, all the good, all the love, all the passon, all the empathy, all the concern, all the willingness to give, all the confidence he grew, careful not to show a scorched-earth landscape, but walls and halls filled with pilfered dreams, hopes stolen in silence, confidence raked cruelly by calculated withdrawal, then, as the end wended its way ever closer, trumped up lies and charges sprinkled to key allies so that she could maintain a clean, untarnished exit, she played her cards as a dish served frozen, revenge for whatever demons haunt her soul, and when the man would not die after his ultimate act of allegiance to her, she pursued his death post mortal blow having raided everything good he had to offer, building a self-fueled anger and bitterness to wage an unsightly war, unnecessary for the caring, but preimmenently critical to her claims of victimhood when it was she who prospered during their years together and he was left with hollowed heart, dreams dashed, and hope a smoldering pile of lies and deceit, the only material remaining for him to rebuild his world, rebuild the shell of his life, rebuild the once giddy and flourishing story of a man who loved with his entire heart, his entire soul, his proverbial shirt off his back despite his poverty, and within that smoldering pile of hope, he picked up one peice at a time, searching for clues and answers as to what led to such cruelty, from a princess who prospered with him, who owned his affection which kept concern for her well-being above his own, with one of the examined articles of hope, glittering in the harsh analysis of day being her statements even in hateful destruction that the years with him had been the best of her life, not enough to assuage the onslaught which only accelerated with more frozen vigor, yet this tiny shard of hope, brushed and polished, showed no damage as all other hopes did, they, all tattered and shattered and burnt and melted into a dark crystalline heap of despair from which he must rebuild a life and find that, being alone needs not be lonely although all he sees within him screams this perspective as truth, just as in the truth of her inviting herself in, he also welcomed her to himself in total honesty of love and affection and an open emotional storehouse, his truest wealth beyond measure, which she raided beyond simply just stealing his best, she came back after her detonation, searching for anything left lying around of value, then continued her onslaught of dirision and cold-witch cackling lies to help fuel an anger she lost the ability to identify decades before him, when it first blossomed in her core, in the end, no facade princess remains, only a cold, heartless, gold-digging, walking, talking body devoid of soul, who one day will see herself and likely not shed one tear for the damage she dealt others, because she, on her last breath, will not see past her own self-interest, ego, and greed while he discovers scattered slivers of his love in corners and dark places and as he places them with his one glittering truth, the one she tossed aside, the one that even in her darkest destructive decisive blow she could not break or damage, he begins the arduous, painstaking work of revival, knowing full well he will likely never, ever, ever love anyone so deeply, so truely, so completely, because he will never overlook nor tolerate again a woman so selfish and shortsighted.