Smiling State

I have been writing the lines I hear since visiting San Miguel de Allende, Mexico in 1995. Poetry was the first thing for which I earnestly prayed to my Higher Power to receive in my second life-my spiritual life begun at Betty Ford Family Program in February of 1995. The travel accounts were going well, utilizing good training in English grammar, confidence instilled by great teachers at Polytechnic School in Pasadena, and a secondary "passion" teacher in the form of travel friend, Jimmy Murphy-who always told me to "go for more" while writing post cards, and to always bring a journal while traveling. But no inspired poetry... I could write something from my head and make stuff rhyme, but nothing inspired was coming-nothing like writing prose accounts of female bullfighter, Cristina Sanchez, touring through Mexico, flashing bulls her open vest, taunting them with her proud womanhood. Then one morning the poetry came; in answer to my prayers, and not given until I stretched my experience out from San Miguel to the poorer, more humbler areas to the north, including historic Dolores Hidalgo-birthplace of Mexican independence from Spain... I had smelled poverty in burning trash, played "futbol" with local boys on church steps, the biggest, fastest boy stealing the ball I had bought for all the kids, in the end. *** And the poetry came that next morning-in English and in Spanish, alternating lines, rhyming, fun, true-healing. I jotted everything I heard and saw down from atop the hill, and so... Here for you to start things off, is a collection meant to compete for and hopefully win your interest and hearts. Smiling State was called "Paradise Found" until I realized that title was already used in publication. "Paradise Found" remains the title of this book's most important poem, in my opinion-and "Smiling State" won out as backup title, as for me those two words (as seen in the "Paradise Found" poem) most accurately define paradise for me. The rest of the work is a mix of new and older stuff from me, some of it published on my own exciting website: www.travelingpoet.net. It should paint the picture of a forty-three year old man who was born with a silver spoon in his rear-end, one dipped in bourbon. The status quo almost killed me, and after overdosing twice, I lived thirteen sober years to recover enough to get this volume to the finish line.