The day came and went without poetry.
The pencil wrote “365 reasons to live”
on paper, but they never made it
to the computer. They weren’t uploaded
to a cloud of poems drifting by.
— H.L. Mencken
Clicking manual keys one at a time,
thoughts slow down, words appear more solidly.
The reward of a chime at the end of a line.
Love lines in one black font folded
into the mailbox slot to be hand-delivered.
Half-eaten acorns dropped on the picnic table
as I write by candlelight tonight outside
in this suburban darkness and outdoor lighting
from neighboring backyards, and the cool breeze
turns pages of my late summer book.
Poetry repairs. Lines cracked with the strain
of too much meaning, brittle with age.
New words, brightly-colored ideas, cutting away decay,
fresh-cut stanzas smelling of the pine air
over my head. A sky full of stars.
Writing late at night, alone in darkness
that is more than absence of light,
I drop into asleep at the keyboard -
awakened by sounds of coffee being made,
sunlight, soft breeze, birds and church bells.
The past few days my post on Signs in Nature of Winter to Come has been one of the most read articles. That is odd. It’s still summer for almost two more months. Then there is still the wonderful autumn.
Are people already thinking about winter?
Maybe it has been hot where they are sitting at their computer and the thought of a crisp winter day sounds appealing. I will admit that I had that…
”The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof shit detector.” -Ernest Hemingway
and then there is
"All that I know about my life, it seems, I have learned in books." -Jean-Paul Sartre
"i have woven a parachute out of everything broken." - William Stafford
Kurt Vonnegut draws for you the Shapes of Stories.
Still need help? Okay, then here is how to write a short story.
— Linda Pastan
No, writing poetry is more like carving
wood and taking away, finding the heart
hidden inside, paring, using point and blade.
The danger comes from the dull knife.
The soft inside will be thrown away.