Five years ago, I set out on a journey—and made a personal commitment—to self-publish one book of poetry each year for ten consecutive years. This year marks the midpoint. Along the way, I have learned a great deal about the art itself. I like to believe I have evolved, that my writing has grown stronger and more assured with time. Above all, my conviction that poetry is serious work has only deepened.

There is far more to a poem than the initial spark that gives birth to something beautiful in the poet’s mind. That first ignition merely signals a beginning. Its allure, its pull, and the moment of breakthrough are only invitations to continue. The finish line lies many drafts away, like a traveler who must endure a long journey before arriving home—only to discover that, even then, another journey begins.

A poem is more like a wedding than a destination. The bride must choose her groom by following her heart, certain of her love. What follows are long days and nights of careful planning. At the center stands the newly married couple, celebrating love and stepping into a shared future. There is food, drink, and music. Friends gather—bridesmaids, best men, honored guests—each dressed in their finest, each contributing, even subtly, to the occasion. There are hopeful singles scanning the room. There is the tipsy uncle who ignores the carefully rehearsed script. If we are lucky, the best man reveals a secret or two in a rambling speech after one drink too many.

And then there is the mother. Her tireless, heroic effort to make the day perfect deserves special notice. She sheds a few tears when the cake is cut, still uncertain whether the groom is truly worthy of caring for her beloved child. I recognize myself in her. I feel the same protective doubt toward the poet in me.

I look ahead to the next five years with hope, trusting they may bring gifts still unimagined. Until then, I leave you with these poems. Please be gentle when you encounter them.