Biography of Lorene Kinsey
I have been writing since I was in the 4th grade. I hated to write, but there I was, scratching my pencil across the pages one, two, ten. Only two required and yet I could not stop myself. It was not the writing I hated, but the editing, rewriting, by hand each of my words then melting them into sentences again. This uncontrollable writing started at 9.
During summers, I would begin writing as my family filled their beds and I would sit at my entertainment center which was large and move the t.v. elsewhere so I would have a 'desk' to write. My room had no windows so I would lose the night and find myself resting as my aunt would wake for the day. I was 11 and 12 and 13, and now at 28, I find myself reading, writing and editing away hour after hour then collapsing into bed only a few before I would rise again for another day of insurance, my career.
I am a writer. Not because I am the next Teasdale or Emerson, but because this thing lives in me so wildly that it has a life of its own. It is not my stolen innocence, mundane sounding career or the love I have for my precious daughters that defines me, but mostly this love of words. This love I have for them is the one constant and large thing that has been in my life the last two decades, almost as long as I have learned to write at all.
My little is now 7 1/2 and I pray that of all the gifts I have to offer from my telling blue eyes and large smile, tender heart, crazy curls and kindness, my love for words is the one I pray that she will inherit the most. With the support I did not have, I pray that I can give her wings to use this gift to take her to other worlds anytime she needs to go.
Lorene Kinsey's Works:
No books. I published a few poems in anthologies since I was a kid (mostly when I was in middle and high school) , but nothing much in recent years.
Lorene Kinsey Poems
A fragment of my past drops in
Makes her random visit
To shake my once fragile world,
Upon the girl who weeps
Life as known changing fast
Cannot escape in dreams.
Another wonderful year has passed
Bigger now than the one before
Learning everyday more and more.
Stumbled into my past of pain
Looked for the words that stained the walls
And the homemade faces Aunt Rose made for dolls
My curls falling over the page as the blue ink
Bleeds my thoughts, envisions them blond, soft
Today he is wrong. Turn my ring back to the light,
I remember how she used to tell me what to do,
Always pushing me to choose what is right and proper
Bored me with her saintly ways when all I wanted
Was to lean in for one more kiss, for the feeling to
Take me “too far”, get “caught up in the moment”,
Explore wildly what was not mine, how I wanted
To pretend that I could possess it, rather than properly
Planting pouted lips upon his, pulling back questioning
When I should have been running wet hands through his hair