What's your genre?

Be careful of the labels you wear. I learned this lesson Sunday night. I read at a new and wonderful open mic venue, Hartford Coffee House. I read six of my poems. During the break, people came up to me and said, "I thought you wrote humorous and inspirational Chicken Soup essays. Wow! That was great. I didn't know you write poetry."

That is my fault, not theirs. That indicates to me that I need to visit more poetry reading venues to get my name out there. Establishing a platform doesn't have to mean niche writing. Podium, platform, table, wherever you can be heard, create a platform for your multi-genre writing. I have read at senior citizen meetings, bars, coffee houses. Have you considered reading at open mic events? At first it's unnerving, but after awhile your hands stop shaking and your papers stop vibrating :)

Matthew Freeman, local poet and anthologist hosted the event and sold his latest and greatest book,Flood Stage, an Anthology of Saint Louis Poets, by Walrus Publishing. No, my work isn't included among the well-known, because I have restricted my reading to mostly prose and hung the label, "essayist" on myself. Those in attendance now know I can write poetry. So maybe, just maybe, I will have a shot at the next anthology. Following is one of the poems I read.

Linda O’Connell
10/07 published in Sacred Fool’s Press

WANDERLUST

Spring intoxicates me with memories of a bygone era
When every day was a childish adventure for Dad,
and he ran with wanderlust
when the winds spoke to his Native American soul.
I was along for the ride.

Snake-like Route 66 hummed under my body.
In the back of Dad’s old panel truck
I lay on bare, blue and white ticking,
mattress buttons and little brother
poking my bony ribs.

Tallied white lines
and Guernsey’s grazing in pastures
as we headed nowhere, somewhere, anywhere
Dad’s rambling soul would take us.

With a dollar in his pocket and a dream in his heart,
the four winds tugged him hither and yon,
cast us into unknown towns where temporary day jobs, thrift stores
and restrooms with cold water sinks provided vacation basics.

Dad didn’t have a dollar to spare
or a dime’s worth of sense.
We lodged on the run;
my mattress a communal bed.

Mom wrapped herself in a comma
around Dad’s exclamation point limbs.
I snuggled in a fetal question mark,
my brother scrunched in a period at my feet.

Nowadays, when cherry blossoms blanket the ground,
Old Route 66 wraps me up in asphalt arms
snakes me down winding roads that lead to long ago.
I feel the hum and I must
Go.

What labels do you wear proudly?