I have spent much of my life in geography and cartography.
Maps, to me, have always been more than tools.

They hold direction.
They hold memory.

In our own lives, we carry maps of a different kind—
the route to somewhere familiar,
the pull of a place we haven’t returned to,
the outline of a moment that never quite left.

Some of these maps were never drawn.
Still, they guide us.

When people hear the word poet, an image forms.
That image is rarely the same twice.
Mine was shaped early—
through Robert Frost,
through Geoffrey Chaucer and William Shakespeare,
through the voice of Jim Morrison,
and somewhere along the way, through Dead Poets Society—
where words felt less like language, and more like something lived.

Over time, those influences became something quieter.
Less about definition.
More about noticing.

This space is part map, part mirror.
A place for stories, symbols, fragments, and questions—
offered without instruction,
but with the hope they might meet you where you are.

Not everything here will be explained.
Some things are meant to be felt.

I tend to follow both the familiar and the strange.
I intend to share both.

Welcome to The Mapping Poet.