We are all made from dust and to dust we shall return,
the only secret is landing on the part of the desk
that doesn't get cleaned often.

Forgotten dust
isn’t enough
I want my name
etched in that desk
no one will forget me
I write poetry in pen because
it’s a more permanent
form of temporary.
each word spoken floating off to a mystery
mister please, listen to me
See :
In 10th grade
I discovered
no really discovered
poetry.
Mrs. Pomerantz
forced me to memorize
Molly Peacock
and the lines
jumped off the page
to change me
rearrange me
I was lucky
to escape
school yard convictions
that poetry is agony.
Formulaically, like a language,
passionless poetry
taught emotionlessly
but she taught differently
feeding my addiction to diction
I learned that
poetry is full of motion.
Now
Linguistic fluency
moves me
to movement
and when a poet finishes spitting
I exhale the breath
I didn’t know I was holding...

I have this dream
I’ll write something
that reaches someone
and when they read it
I’ll be the rose,
the sunrise,
the smile,
the beauty that makes people stop
When times restarts
its will be with that breath
exhale
poetic rhythm and
consider ourselves blessed.

I write poetry in pen because
it’s a more permanent
form of temporary.
each word spoken floating off to a mystery
mister please, listen to me
See :
poetry for me
is a foreign language
I never really know
the right word
I just go with what feels right
hoping native speakers will understand
because I’m a
stranger in a strange land
and the harsh conditions
with which to contend
aren’t
the climate, heat, cold or wind,
but mixed metaphors, lack of clarity, and imprecise imagery.

learning my ABC’s
but I can’t roll my R’s quite right.
I’m seeking
to alliterate all my lines
building blank verse
coupling couplet rhymes
figuring out phrases
Repeating,
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.”
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.”
“Tyger Tyger burning bright.”
“Tyger Tyger burning bright.”
counting syllables
diagramming sentences
conjugating, and conjugating
and conjugating.

We’re all visitors to life,
I’m done being a spectator
to poetry.
I don’t tour
slams like visitor centers
I’m an immigrant to the land of
words and rhymes
Poets have been an inspiration
but I can’t resist the temptation
Its time
to stumble and mumble
on the mic
learning through immersion
hoping to attain fluency
because language is beautiful
and poetry is beautiful.
and I want to be beautiful.
talk of masterful pieces
I want a masterpiece.
so I can master peace.
searching for my voice
to be heard, if only I could learn
to speak… poetically.

One day
with effortless, articulate grace,
my woven words will
speak globally,
universal communication
transcending translation
one day my notebooks will be heirlooms
one day my notebook will be artifacts
displayed in glass cases
no exploding off pages
so in 20 years
some 10th grader
can memorize my emotions
to recite for an assignment and think
“Woah, Wendy Low.”