I have always considered myself a fashioner of things; a sort of smith, actually. Much of what I do springs from love of music, rhythm and dance. When I make something, there is a constant dance between my eyes and my hands; between my vision, however unformed, and the part of me that says, "Move it over a little bit, that doesn't feel right yet."
The first stroke of the brush, the first move -- in whatever medium -- sets up limitations that need resolution, demand further and further choices; until, in the end, there are no further choices to make and my eye is satisfied. What this satisfaction is I cannot say, but once committed (and Lord knows, I'm a procrastinator) to that first mark, I'm compelled to follow the process to the end. Maybe "compelled" is the wrong word. It's more like trying to solve a mystery or learning the steps to a new dance.
Between the moves toward resolution of the piece and the striving to be non-judgmental about choices, there is created the field of action where a fine thing, worthy of other peoples' attention, might, Might be created.
I write to share stories, impressions and ideas. I write poetry because I love the music of language, the cadencies of blank verse and the satisfaction of happy couplets. Poetry of personal pain has no interest for me; neither do I seek to be obscure. That ship sailed long ago. My wish is that anyone reading my voice will feel that something of positive value has been received. To touch another human heart is a big thing.