Kelly Lock

When I Lived on

Old Amazonia Road

 

Kelly Lock is an eighth grade Communication Arts teacher and Instructional Coach for the St. Joseph School District. She has been published in several journals, including North American Review, Alaska Quarterly Review and Margie: The American Journal of Poetry.
 

Advice to writers:

The best advice I can give a burgeoning writer is read, write, and revise continually. Read established poets, journals and books about the craft of writing. Schedule time in your day, even if it is ten minutes, and write, write, write. The final point is revision. Young writers are often hesitant to revise because they feel their work is good the first time. Part of this stems from the fact that the words on the page are often very emotional and tied to the writer�s thoughts and feelings and as such they are happy with the way the words feel on the page. Remember, if your audience is anyone other than yourself, then the poem probably isn't the best it can be on the first or even third draft. Before revising, separate yourself from the poem. Let it sit for a week or month, then come back to it with a critical eye. Find a writing group, reach out to established writers and/or teachers and ask for feedback. The more feedback the easier it is to revise. The more you read, write and revise, the better you'll become.

    Saturday mornings in May
    cling to me like chunks of horsehair

    caught on the barbed-wire fence.
    In the garden, Mom slices dirt

    with the hoe’s sharp corner.
    Dad grooms the horse, the heavy

    bristled brush in one hand,
    the other offering comforting pats.

    My brother and I watch five-line skinks
    climbing from the window wells

    along the basement wall to sun themselves
    on rocks and logs in the flowerbed.

    Slowly scraping our shins across
    the warm sidewalk, hands outstretched,

    poised to pinch our fingers
    just behind the base of their heads.

    We pounce, miss our target,
    grab the bright blue of their tails

    left flipping in our hands, their bodies
    scurrying into the weeds.

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