Sunday, November 04, 2007

A Hall of Fame Poet

At the end of the day, what I really am as a writer is a poet. I don't always acknowledge that or honor it as I probably should. I aspire to other genres, have had some successes in those endeavors, but the real rewards, the true revelation of what dwells within my writer's soul manifests itself most undeniably through my poetry.

I ran across a link from Wild Poetry Forum in which it listed several poems I'd written while I was very active there that received recognition in their Hall of Fame. Since it has been a few years, I had actually forgotten those achievements.

Wow, I thought, when I took a moment to review what I found. This is no small feat. Some of the most admired and touted comtemporary poets spring from the Wild Poetry Forum and a few of the other wonderful poetry forum and workshops that make up the IBPC (Inter Board Poetry Community)!

I also realized there have been few thrills greater than on those rare occasions when I've awakened to check which poems have been selected from the normally awesome selection of poems submitted on one of the forums such as Wild Poetry Forum or Critical Poets to see that one of mine has been included as an Honorary Mention, Poem of the Week, Hall of Fame Poem, or, as happened a few times, chosen as a particular forums entry into the IBPC Monthly competition.

I haven't been focusing much on my poetry recently, but stumbling upon this link recharged my desire to return as much as possible to that first love. Here's the Wild Poetry Forum link I found with its list of my poems that made its Hall of Fame:

Peggy Eldridge-Love - Wild Poetry Forum Hall of Fame

Here is one of those poems entitled "Habit". I hope you enjoy it.


It probably won't get
any higher than 60 today.
The imperfect orange sweater,
knitted her last summer, bears a hint
of moth ball odor,
but it fits snug, it's warm,
it's comforting.

I'll lean back and rock a while
on the porch
in the old wicker chair;
it won't be long now
before we take it in for the winter

and at some point,
lost in thoughts of her,
I know I'll reach
for them like we used to do
as we rocked and traded tales,

and the sublime frustration
of reconciling their absence too
will feel as familiar as my grief.

I'll probably think for a moment
I miss them
until I remember it was them
that took her --
puff by puff by puff.

Copyright 2005 Peggy Eldridge-Love All Rights Reserved

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