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
“i Still Think About You Every Day”
The words haunting, comforting, A fragment of my past drops in Makes her random visit To shake my once fragile world,
Showers down like broken glass Upon the girl who weeps Life as known changing fast Cannot escape in dreams.
Leaves of green are turning fast Another wonderful year has passed Bigger now than the one before Learning everyday more and more.
The Old House On Hickory Grove Road
On a trip down memory lane Stumbled into my past of pain Looked for the words that stained the walls And the homemade faces Aunt Rose made for dolls
Sense his eyes peering over my words, imagining 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,
Speaks of her, the mother of his children, The team cheerleader, the only woman Foolish enough to ever love and leave him With such disrespect and ill intent
Marking Our Memories
Had a minute to jot this down mark our evening together. Like to write a poem before or after memorable occassions
Pressed Flowers Or Pressed Fairies
Pressed flowers or pressed fairies, it’s all the same to me, a dream inside the pages of a book, screaming to bring back a memory.
My Husband’s Second Date
Burned my eyes like shredded onions Scavenging through my car Searching for a napkin or cloth To hide my shattered heart.
I Think Daily Of Making Love To You
I think daily of making love to you embracing, fingers wrapped in yours, heart races at the thought of your smile can’t believe I have been so long without
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
Wrestled as most buddies do Grunting, elbowing and head butting too All of us were taking turns And I was winning as often he
Slip into my office for a moment to close my day Slipped carefully off pink high heels To give my pigs a break.
Older than me, innocent, put myself in your way wishing you wouldn't leave,
a tower of curves and laughter'
Silenced, so well that I am
almost certain she is dead.
No more trouble to
you, me, herself.
Pounded into silence by hurt, chaos,