©2016 Vernon Miles Kerr
As a writer, I agonize over stories.
What shall I write about?
How shall I make it engaging,
I dig deep into the dustbin of my mind,
Unraveling old wadded up balls of memory,
Looking for the right story.
There are multitudes in there, some I didn’t write
But have read—works of other writers.
There are stories told to me by my parents,
My siblings, my friends my mentors, the Bible,
Movies—good and bad—and finally,
The prejudicial and agenda-driven media.
Come to think of it,
Whether or not of my own authorship,
Or even acquiescence,
All these stories define me;
They rule me.
They dictate my attitudes,
My beliefs about the unseen,
My hopes—and my despair.
But without them I am not human:
I am as the animals, whose stories, at best,
Are the sequential memories of events in their own lives,
Silently locked in their minds,
Never to be related to others.
I obsess about relating it all—about contributing.
But will my stories enrich that shared river
Of human experience—or pollute it?
Even if the latter, the obsession is not mitigated.
I forge on,
Scattering my crumbs along the forest path
To prove that someone once passed by.