My name is Lisa Larson and I was born and raised in CT. I started writing in 7th or 8th grade. My first story was Professor Peanut and Charlie the talking telephone. This is before cell phones.
It seems I've been writing most of my life. Eventually I shared some of my poems with a friend. She was angry with me for not pursuing my writing seriously. She is the one who has pushed me to share and be proud of my writing. Thank you, Wendy.
What does poetry mean to you?
Poetry, to me, is a descriptive form of writing. The challenge for me is to create a picture inside of the reader's mind with my words.
I like to call poetry Word Art for the mind and ear.
What inspires your poetry?
Everything inspires my poetry. The world and it's struggles and joys.
The beauty I find outside of my window. The pain and sadness I sense in someone.
For me I find inspiration in life.
Which are most important to you: (1) joy, (2) peace, (3) patience, (4) kindness, (5) self-control, (6) faithfulness, (7) gentleness, (8) love, or (9) goodness? If you can, explain why.
They are all important to me. I feel if we as a people took just an extra minute or two and practiced each one we could gain an understanding of ourselves as humans.
BTW this question inspired me to write. I'm not sure it would be classified as a poem.
What sort of things are you looking forward to improving this year?
My understanding of the world around me and my interaction with people. My writing.
What is one big dream you have?
To make a living through my writing. To see my book published.
Her star was glowing, she could feel it.
Slowly it became brighter and brighter.
Soon it was shining so bright all could see
Her writings were good, they said.
She never dreamt of being a poet.
One day she re-reads her poems.
She was angry and hurt.
Why had everyone lied to her?
They were awful.
None of them even rhymed.
Weren’t poems supposed to rhyme?
The glow that had shone
brilliantly before, began to dim.
Fading like a spent candle.
Flickering before it dies.
Soon her glow would fade, flickering out of sight.
Why did the ones she let read her poems lie?
Was her new found star real or imagined?
She spent months writing, dreaming, all for this?
Why did they lie?
She admitted some were good she supposed.
Was she foolish to hope; to dream?
Why had they lied? None of them even rhymed.
She was going to destroy everything, all of it.
She read them again.
Maybe they hadn’t lied.
Grouped together in a pleasing manner or not.
They were her words.
She could destroy them not.
The star that shone so brilliantly
only days ago flickered.
Little by little it came back to life.
Dimmer than before.
Smaller than before but stronger steadier.
Would she be published?
She didn’t know.
But the writing must continue; you know?