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Showing posts from March, 2013

A Poet's Practice of the Art

Poetry uses words, ideas, images, sounds, and forms to create a pleasing, pleasurable, sometimes passionate product for the poet and the reader. Poet's must practice the art of poetry for both themselves and their audience.  I've penned a few poems over the past few weeks in response to posts in Google+ Communities. Someone's words or something posted inspired in me in some way. I'd like to share them with you here. These are today's offerings to those that would read. I had in mind a poet's role and his audience's role. This is what I wrote. A poet likes, to take his time, write in meter, sometimes rhyme. Some readers like to, readtoofast, Never... ...let the... ...poem... last... © 2013 ajwrites57 This poem was written in response to a post where someone rudely expressed his opinion about poetry. Rudely, I admit with red-face, I replied with this poem. There once was a man, who thought poems

Poem's Inspiration

Poem's Inspiration A friend I have met on Google+,  +Rebecca Colabot  and I were discussing how we found inspiration for our poetry. She asked me a question about whether or not my poetry comes from what I feel or from my creative imagination. I'd like to share with you what I wrote in answer to her inquiry and some additional thoughts about writing poetry. All my poems come from what I feel. But I believe imagination is an important part of poetry writing and prose, for that matter. We are all a product of the things we have read. The imagination takes hold of the thoughts and feelings and we creatively write about it. So, to answer your question, I believe it takes both feelings and creative imagination to write a poem. I think inspiration can come from any source. It may come from a memory. It can be a painful memory, something that maybe we have never discussed with someone, yet a poem may allow us in some anonymous way, to reveal the dept of the pain. The m

How I Like to Read

How I Like to Read “No man can be called friendless who has God and the companionship of good books.” Elizabeth Barrett Browning Ever since I was a child, I have had a passion for reading. I’m not sure how it began. Maybe mother encouraged me, maybe it was a teacher. I do remember as soon as I was allowed to get a library card, I’d go to the library by myself. It was several blocks from my home (yes, a child could do that safely, at one time). I’d spend several hours in the children’s section, carefully making my selections, under the watchful eye of the librarian. I’d check out as many books as could carry back to my home. Right away, I‘d begin reading. The following Saturday, I’d be back to the library, early in the morning, one of the first standing at the door to get in. This is how it began… I like to read sitting in an over stuffed chair with a good light over my shoulder preferably the sun. The cushions soft and set firm against my back with my feet up on a

Life Without Color

Someone asked, "What would your life be without color?"  I answered,  "My life would be pallid and pale without color.  Each day would be drab, dreary and dismal.  There'd be no primary colors, no rainbows,  no yellow sunshine, no red-blue-yellow sunsets  and no white clouds. No white snow or black storm clouds.  I'd walk in an indistinct and neutral existence.  No green  trees, no green  grass, no blue seas, no blue skies,  would leave me cheerless and dry. My face would not turn red  with anger or embarrassment. My face would not turn white  with fear or pain. I'd not grow green with envy.  Nothing would be just black and white.  My life would be full of motionless emotion,  if there were no color. © 2013 ajwrites57 Image URI:  http://mrg.bz/fwDYZp Image URI:  http://mrg.bz/g6haeq By  Hairysuncold Please find my other writings on Hubpages,

Last of July

Last of July Last of July, summer slippin’ away. Past the middle of my Life; today feels that way. Tomorrow’s yesterday. More is left behind, than what lies ahead. Losing count of the days. The day is hot, sun setting; cool breeze on the rise. Feel the sting of lost days, burning my eyes. The past has passed, is past. Hope is far away, hope has gone to stay. Last of July, summer slippin’ away. Sun goin’ down, Tomorrow soon today. © 2013 ajwrites57 Image URI:  http://mrg.bz/FiQoBd By  frankybaby If you enjoyed this poem, read my other work on  Hubpages.