Paul Seay

Rookie - 257 Points (9/14/1972)

Biography of Paul Seay

I was born in the 1970's of September, on what my father remembered as " the most windy of days" .
We were native Virginians whom loved the simplicity of a rural lifestyle.
Being very much the youngest of five children, I quickly discovered how to occupy my time alone,
and embrace my surroundings with open arms, imagination without a closed mind, and the need to share it
with a yearning heart.

For Myself writing was not a mere love or passion.
It was within me, it was all of me, the pen was held of my soul.
My environment and one with nature were a monumental inspiration, as summer nights were filled
by the sweet chorus of crickets, and if you listened ever so close, the chime of tree frogs could
be heard softly in the distance.

The days consisted of walking in tall grass, and keeping the company of a brilliantly white goat that I
named " snowflake" . I found her as a boy no older than eight years, there was a faded sign hanging
in an old country store that read " Goat for sale $35" . After pleading with my parents over hours, they
would finally agree to expand our family, and make her a member.

She soon emerged from a simple little goat that would cost thirty five dollars, to one of the dearest
friends I ever knew, remaining priceless throughout my memories. Together, we went fishing on what seemed a
daily basis, accompanied by a large black and tan Doberman Pincer (we were all great friends) and thus came
great inspiration. With hopes that a large fish would arise, often times waiting, I began writing poetry
in the sand with a small tree branch or finger. To the sound of river water pushed gently by a southerly
breeze, and Snowflake munching on the crisp green grass, I wrote my words while the large dog " Duke" watched
beside me.

I always included a trusty Polaroid camera on our adventure to capture a prized fish,
but more often, it was used for taking a photo of what was written in the sand,
only to transfer it to paper upon arriving home. I remember vividly approaching my house
to the smell of fresh cut grass, and hot apple pie with a hint of cinnamon not long removed
from the oven. My mom had a talent for making life taste a little sweeter, and was instrumental
in shaping my deep love of writing.

As a very young child she read me to sleep with fairytales and nursery rhymes.
They sparked a grand fascination inside me, afterward, I was overcome with imagination.
Before being old enough to attend grade school I learned to read and write, and began
composing my own poems and stories. After entering kindergarten, teachers seemed impressed
by my young literary abilities, and would encourage me to pursue my passion for writing
throughout the entirety of my school years. I owe her many thanks for planting that seed
on the surface of my mind, that has grown so deeply within the borders of my heart.

Which carries over to present day into adulthood. Being fortunate enough to live many years
of my life in the historical city of Petersbrg, where Edgar Allan Poe himself walked many of the same
cobblestone roads, and perhaps shared some common influences. I feel as if I'm overcome
by the beauty of all things natural, and the romance in objects of the past. All these
experiences have molded my soul as a poet, and shapened the words from a heart that needs to share.

My great love and admiration for older structers and landmarks came to me at a ripe young age.
I learned through my father that an uncle of mine from genertions past, was the architect of
" Central State Mental Hospital" - which was the first asylum specifically for African Americans
in the United States. Upon visiting the long since abandoned building - which was home for many
in the late 19th and early 20th century - soon I realized my fascination with its appearance, how
it seemed so forgotten and lonesome. Nature began to claim once again what was rightfully hers.
Tall leafy trees had grown atop the flat rooftops, the ginger colored bricks were scattered
about with moss and deep green vines. Doors and windows were tightly boarded with white weather
beaten lumber. There was however, an opening within the courtyard corridor large enough to see between
the rusty brown iron bars that ran from top to bottom. I recall my wonderment as the day was sunny and warm,
then I extended my hand and face through the opening, to my great surprise it was noticeably cool and damp inside.
The only thing in view, were two large rusty light blue metal doors on opposite ends, and an old wooden chair
that had lost its sturdiness and color to time. I felt an immense need to hear the stories of those whom walked
within the long forgotten walls, and could only imagine what life must have been like in those confines.
This is but one of many ways how a relic of the past has shown me that stories are sacred.
I love to hear them, I love to write them.

PoemHunter.com Updates

My Shinning Pome

I reached a shining pome in company of cloves

To ripen its taste by the shade of the grove

How then it lingered my buds so bittersweet

I had its heart for mine, but still my own to keep

Placing it to earth — for my love to be grown

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