So began Stormchild, my first poem of any substance. Unstructured and passionate verse that came to me as a bolt out of the heavens on an inspired night in 1991. Then silence. My logical brain dominated for the next three decades and there was no room for artistic expression in words. Maybe it was a one hit wonder.

But then, everything changed. There has been so much change for me over the last few years, more than my whole life before put together. I’m finding myself again. My real self this time, not a façade.

Amongst all of that, there’s room for art in my life now. Woodcraft is a huge part of that. I love bringing visions to life in beautiful timber creations. When it’s just me, a tool and some timber, I can be in the zone and my hands seem to have a mind of their own. But never in my dreams did I expect to be writing poetry (or prose for that matter, but that’s another story yet to be told). Writing just wasn’t my thing.

Out of nowhere, a creative flame flickered briefly, twice, once a gift for another and once a gift to myself. But that died as fast as it arose.

Then early last year, something happened. My brain started throwing words at me, lines of verse. Sometimes in the shower, but more often in bed at night. (I’ve got used to yelling “Hey Siri, take a note” while standing under the shower head 😆.)

I can’t force it, the thoughts and words just come when they come. Sometimes I have to tweak them a little, to fit a rhyme or cadence. But once the compulsion takes hold, it’s got me firmly in grip until a poem emerges. Although, not always in the one take. I have three poems in progress, half completed for several months now. When I try to work on them, I get nowhere. Inspiration has run dry. One day, that’ll flow like a river uncorked and, in the blink of an eye, they’ll be finished.

Meanwhile, my nights are regularly sidelined by unexpected verse emerging elsewhere.

I have no idea what’s driving any of this, I’m just along for the ride, a willing agent of my own mind, typing or writing down what’s emerging from it. And it’s fulfilling. It’s emotional release, processing, a therapy of sorts I guess. In any case, writing brings me joy that I could never have anticipated in previous times. Life has thrown me a real curve ball here.

Impostor syndrome is real, I’m not qualified to be a writer. But somebody once advised me to enjoy what you do, and do what you enjoy. Right now, I’m enjoying this. It’s fuel for some turbulent times in my life. Where this road takes me is unclear but I’m keen to keep exploring that while the inspiration flows.

I do hope you enjoy my efforts here, as humble as they may be.