Robert Frost said...

 

"Poetry is when an emotion has found
its thought and the thought has found the words."

Don't be afraid...

to tell me what you think of my
dark and not very laugh-out-loud
little poems.
You won't hurt my feelings.

I need to read more Frost...

 

original poem from 2011...

 

time flies...

hello,
Where have you been?
so much time passed
again.
since then life has changed
in ways, yet, somehow
stayed the same.
Everyone is older
rarely wiser from what's seen.
history repeats,
mankind weeps
and looks away.

Where is the poetry?...

slid right out the door
nasty skid marks on the floor.

Sippican Cottage and Walking Man...

Mark finished the third
book of poetry in his
trilogy.

















Sippican has published a book of
37 of his short stories.





They're two of the
good guys who happen
to be talented writers.

Click on the images
to get the full dope
on how to buy
their books.

oh, darn...

don't know you.
do know them.
you remind me of them.
too bad, since
I'm not at all
fond of them.

Slow rain...

Three days like this. slow rain.
blanket gray sky. still air.
dull light.
and slow rain.

you must look for it on purpose.
no announcing rumble or
flashing light blades. only slow rain.

slow rain does not fall in drops, it seems.
but a veil of wet that lays itself
silently, softly across the outside world then gathers
tiny pellets that roll, slide
and dangle off all edges

slipping to the ground below.
slow drip...slow drip...slow drip.

all day. through the night.
slow rain.

featherpillowland...

dream
in dreams

in dreams
float
float

eyes
closed seeing

hushed
muffled echoes

tiny
slipping on and on
dark

dark
ice pellet stars
roll

roll, return
morning.

Writing contests...

Do you know Susan? Go here, please.
To read the poem I entered, go here.

There's another writing contest at Jason's.
He's accepting entries until January 13.

Carpenter Poets...

Poetry is life. Life is poetry.












I found this at one of the permanent fixtures
on my blog roll: Sippican Cottage. Another life artist.

Art is in all of us. It makes life beautiful.
Explore your life. Find your beauty and celebrate.

Click either photo to read about Carpenter Poets.

I should be ashamed...

I should be ashamed
having read so little
of so few poets
and nothing at all
of so many more.
they've spent their lives
writing words just for
the likes of me
and I barely know
but a few.
I should be ashamed
to do what I do like
I'm the only one
who has ever done it
when it's mostly been done
already and better and oftener before.
I should be ashamed
and burn my notebooks and
break my pencils and read
what's already been written and
what's being written now.
But I am reading what's being
written now this minute by me
and some others here and
there when I can and
when I want.
I should be ashamed
of thinking about quitting.
someone somewhere might
someday read what
I wrote yesterday or today
and think about writing
what they have to say
in their own way
and another link gets
added to the chain and
another chapter is added
to the story.
I should be ashamed
for doing so little.
But I'm not.


(after reading some Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

You remind me of someone else...

Sometimes, I am asked "Where do your poems come from?
How do you do that?"
It can be difficult to explain and often I simply shrug
my shoulders and reply "I dunno. Just happens."

The process can be different each time but, one constant
is that I keep a notebook and pen with me, always.
I never know when the urge to write will appear. Often,
it may only be a word or phrase that catches my attention.
I never know when they might come together in one piece.

It isn't uncommon for something noted days or even
months ago turns out to be a needed title, last line or the
inspiration seed that grows into a complete idea.

For example, the poem I'm posting here...
the title was written as two lines, out of the blue, several
days ago. Last night I was flipping through my notebook,
saw those lines, and started thinking thoughts with words
in them. They were insistent, demanding to be written.
This is what the muse was dictating :

You remind me of someone else...

too much time feeling
bound to do, be, say
aroused rebellion
resulting in not much good
for another batch
of too much time.
lost then found
now is when
not then.
savor self
and spend self
being true
to you.
love always honest
and much
now.