Belated

Another poem today from the collection I am curating, and have titled The Burning Archive. This one seems strangely prescient of the decision to write openly, if as always with a few masks at hand, and freely on the rich, open plains of the internet It speaks to me of this never-too-late journey of creative recovery that I now will never turn my back on again.

Belated

I am a belated one

At 47 at last a room of my own

Now I wear long shirts over

the scars of mother’s tears

The words have always waited for me

Deep within my guts

Now they come, resurgent and bold

Too known to care

For publishers’ judgments.

 

Jeff Rich 2016

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