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Yellowed Pages and Musty Old Notebooks

Lisa and I played barbies growing up. We've known each other since 1974 and are still friends, talking weekly, but see each other only a couple of times a year.

She came over about a week ago and I pulled out a taped up box I had had since high school and college and hadn't looked out for 20 years or more. I knew there were some letters and school notes passed in class that she and I had written. We went through the box of memories, laughing and laughing.

I saved most of my creative writing from H.S. and college. Man, was I a tortured soul then as I am today. And I knew then I wanted to be "a writer".... 'cept I was discouraged by most adults because writers are poor and sad, so I followed more practical college majors and career paths.

I will pull out and share tidbits from this box of musty old stuff.... things that seem fun or relevant. Here's a poem from 1983 I wrote....

The Hand
by Doreen Egbert, 1983

The hand that tends to a seed
which becomes a beautiful rose
is the hand of love and tenderness

The hand that designs great buildings
which become monuments and castles
is the hand of productive work

But the hand that tends to life
and the hand of productive work
is the same hand that destroys
because it produces and tends to war



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