As I read and think through works of others who have written
poetry I often find myself feeling as if I missed some
understanding about this task. My thinking at those times
seemed shallow and unsophisticated as I fell into the rhythm
and beauty of the words and lines. I thought that perhaps I
had need to polish my words, strengthen my structure, allow
my thinking to reach higher realms, expand to more distant
horizons... yet, no peace, completeness of creating was
So, as I sought my own "arena" of expression I was able to
settle into what and who I am as I write, allowing my dreams
and wonderings to fall upon the paper. I realized that I can
only be myself. I can only follow the "point of my quill",
to follow where my spirit leads, and my God blesses.
This has bothered me as much when I talk with others who
express an inability to write. I have tried to help these
folk to understand that writings are, or should be none
other than our own thoughts laid down on the page. Although
one cannot be taught to write poetry, I even assembled a
"Workbook" for anybody who wanted to try, but had never been
able to give themselves permission to take the first step.
It seems quite simple to try, but I have found that one must
still believe that the "possibility" exists somewhere
inside. Then, allow oneself the luxury of not needing the
feeling of being 'polished', certainly not in the
beginning... any more than being able to "rhyme". These
things come when they need to come... and, not a second
before! For me, 'polish' should be the least of one's
concern. Some of the greatest poets never sought rhyme.
Setting one's honest thoughts on the page is paramount!
Writing, whether prose, poetry or song is one of the most
beautiful experiences I know. Whether it looks like, feels
like the thing one hoped for, or not... it is a thing of
one's own creation. I think that is the most beautiful part
of it all.
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I remember many things about my dad,
But, it's the things I forget that bother me.
Like, he'd never quit 'til the work was done.
He was there as long as there was light to see.
If be wanted to learn something... be just did!
No matter that it was from the ground, up.
Sometimes I'm ready to quit before I've started,
I don't bother to wait 'til the going gets tough.
I forget the pride he took in doing things right,
Of the sanding and polishing every grain,
The book racks, radio cabinets, oh, so many things...
And a finish with a beautiful, sparkling stain!
I forget the good times under the big oak tree,
Cookouts on the patio that we laid!
His teaching me to never ride the saw down,
Music over the PA system he made.
Perhaps I just think I forget these things, and more,
Because I don't think of them so much.
But, obviously, they've not left my mind far...
They're close enough for my heart to touch.
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I remember a lot of things about my dad.
Things like big smile, and his laugh.
Things like the words and the phrases...
But, mostly... He didn't think in 'halves'!
I remember the stories of early times,
Stories of little money and hard tears,
Tales of leaving school and going to work. ..
But, mostly… love that filled my years.
I remember the examples he gave of life,
Acknowledging his journey along that road,
Of how it was during his time in life's span...
But, mostly... No one carried his load.
I remember his tears hurting for us,
His labor that we'd never be apart,
His kind hand, even in discipline, was there...
But, mostly .. " I remember... my daddy's heart!
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