I was tempted to put up poem in honor of National poetry month. But the truth is no one really wants to be subjected to that. Oh I’ve tried my hand at poetry. Even come up with a few, that in my humble opinion, wouldn’t make a reader want to gauge their eyes out with boredom, but it isn’t my forte.

Reading the good ones takes a ton of effort and for the most part reading is my escape from a world filled with effort. And reading something is the only way to begin getting good at writing it in my opinion.

I do have a few favorite poets. I fell in love with Sylvia Plath in high school. I know, little depressed artist girl loves Sylvia Plath…it isn’t exactly a shocker. And I’ve always had a thing for Shel Silverstein (a passion I can share with my three year old.) I also love William Faulkner. Now I do know that technically he isn’t classified as poetry. But his books read like poetry for me. Every word matters, and certain sections of the books read with such purposeful rhythm that they could practically be song. So I’m going to just own up to the fact I group him with poets in my mind.

But there is one other poet, one who actually made me try and write poetry for a while, one whose never been published but if he had tried he could have been. My brother. He wrote a zombie/society critique poem that I loved so much I keep it in a folder with all of my work. Even though I didn’t write it…maybe I think that by putting talented work next to my own it will rub off on me.

Anywho … (yes I mean who) since I can’t write poetry or property critique it, this has been my tribute. Bravo to those who can. There are those of us out there who appreciate your skill, finesse and subtlety.