The process for writing my poem was hellish. Poetry is not my forte, and I spent the better part of my days since the assignment was handed to us writing, revising, rewriting, and scribbling in frustration. =) The hardest part was just finding the words to use. I wanted it to rhyme, but it was not going to work. This is freestyle I suppose, and I am still not 100% happy with it.
When The Flowers BloomThe morning dew collected on the grass,
moisture seeped into white canvas shoes;
but the old man never did mind.
My bare feet followed in his footsteps,
young eyes observing every action,
the delicate handling of tomatoes,
slight turns of each new bud.
Those early mornings in the garden with Grandpa are memories I cherish most.
Just my hero and me,
and all the flowers in bloom.
How any one man could find such peace is beyond me,
but while in the garden Joe was a monk.
For all his struggles, and all his pain,
He created his own haven;
a place away from all the torments of life.
Grandpa Joe passed on a warm Summer day,
and the last time I saw him he wore a smile on his face.
Had I known that in a few short hours he would be gone
I would have told my hero just how much he met to me.
Now days, when I am lonely,
And grief sneaks up on me,
and it does so often,
I travel to locations where flowers bloom,
and know that he is where with me.
The profile that really pulled me in, so far, was Robert Shields. Since I still sort of keep a journal I could not help but feel great admiration for Shields. The dedication he has put into his journal is just amazing. Yet I felt sorry. He claimed he was in control of the journal, but it really appeared that the journal was controlling Shields. He says so himself, really. When asked, "Do you feel like the diary controls you?" Shields responds with, "I feel like I'm in control. I could stop it at any time." Yet, right after, when asked "What would it do to you if you stopped?" the man replies with, "It would be like turning my life off."