Richard Blanco- two Maine writing blog posts

A Franco-American writers symposium and retreat, hosted by the University of Maine Franco-American Center, held at the Darling Marine Center in Walpole Maine, introduced me to a blogosphere colleague.  

During the program's individual reading segments, Laurie Meunier Graves read an entry from her blog "Notes from the Hinterland". It was about the opportunity when she enjoyed meeting and listening to the poet Richard Blanco, when he visted her "hinterland" in Winthrop, Maine.

Richard Blanco read his poetry during a visit to Winthrop, Maine, when Laurie Meunier Graves posted in her blog "Notes from the Hinterland".

Ironically, my blog about Mr. Blanco, a post I entered into OneTurkeyRun blogspot "Maine Writer", blog in 2014, had been receiving some dedicated views, so I offered to link her blog with mine in this "Let's Write", joint posting.

This is a metaphoric example of a "waltz of the bloggers". When one "post" meets another in cyberspace, while unexpectedly connecting on a personal level, at an enriching writers symposium. 
It's like finding a beloved lost relative, at a family reunion.

Richard Blanco's poem, "When I Was a Little Cuban Boy" has obviously enjoyed a creative cyber life, beyond the words he blended when he published on paper.

"Take Heart: A Conversation in Poetry",  published the poem. 
Richard Blanco is an American poet, public speaker, author and civil engineer. He is the fifth poet to read at a United States presidential inauguration, having read for Barack Obama's second inauguration. He was born on February 15, 1968, in Madrid Spain. When I was a Little Cuban Boy by Richard Blanco

O Jose can you see…that’s how I sang it, when I was a cubanito in Miami, and America was some country in the glossy pages of my history book, someplace way north, everyone white, cold, perfect. This Land is my Land, so why didn’t I live there, in a brick house with a fireplace, a chimney with curlicues of smoke. I wanted to wear breeches and stockings to my chins, those black pilgrim shoes with shiny gold buckles. I wanted to eat yams with the Indians, shake hands with los negros, and dash through snow I’d never seen in a one-horse hope-n-say? I wanted to speak in British, say really smart stuff like fours core and seven years ago or one country under God, in the visible. I wanted to see that land with no palm trees, only the strange sounds of flowers like petunias, peonies, impatience, waiting to walk through a door someday, somewhere in God Bless America and say, Lucy, I’m home, honey. I’m home.

(Indeed, I love this poem- Gracia!)- thanks Laurie!