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 Mar 2017 Emily B
Jonathan Witte
The air is warmer
at the river’s edge.

The insects cloud
around your head,

and the white cottage,
the one your wife’s
father built by hand,

seems to be burning
in the afternoon sun.

The hammock strung
between two dogwood
trees twists in the wind.

There should be no shame
in recollecting the songs
she sang when the children

were young and unpredictable,
how they splashed in shallow
water, catching minnows.

Why not close your eyes
and imagine you hear her
calling from the other side?

The slap of a fish jumping
is like a palm to your cheek.

Out there, in the middle of it all,
silver scales flash in clear water—

a contorted shadow swims below,
hooked to impossible brightness.
 Mar 2017 Emily B
Graff1980
Untitled
 Mar 2017 Emily B
Graff1980
They are multinational mongrels,
entities who feel entitled to
***** and grab all public interests
with their Atlas hands;
Claiming they hold the world
bearing the burden of heavy clouds.
With the hunger of Galactus
they gobble up our well-earned income
demolishing what little capitol we have left.
These creatures of mythic proportions
should find themselves opaque, existing in a state
of enforced transparency
so they cannot encroach upon
Our so-called democratic liberty.
But those corporations wear
the wrong long dark robes.
Instead of transparency
we found them enshrouded in
cloaks of offshore invisibility
concealing their ill-conceived crimes
from the eyes of our world wide
human community.
 Mar 2017 Emily B
Mike Essig
I am often asked this question in comments, private notes and emails.

The short answer is: I don’t know.

I don’t know if there is an answer or if I’m the man to even try.

First, there are probably as many ways to write poetry as there are poets. I can’t imagine any one size fits all template. That is too horrible to contemplate.

Second, my method is actually a non-method. I will describe it, but I doubt it will be useful or transferable.

I have been a fanatical reader all my life. I still am. I probably read an average of three books per week. This has been going on for decades.

I have been reading poetry seriously for perhaps 43 years, including being taught how to read closely by some brilliant professors as an undergraduate and graduate student.

This has deposited an enormous mishmash of poems, sentences, images, phrases and fragments in my brain. Add to that mishmash decades of reading across disciplines, especially history, philosophy, religion and novels. Imagine that mishmash slowly marinading and fermenting.

From that random accumulation, without provocation on my part, poems emerge. There is no order to this and not much effort. I just channel what shows up. I do some retouching, but little serious rewriting.

And there you have it: my non-method. It should be obvious why I doubt it will be of much help to anyone else.

I can give a bit of advice, but only based on my experience.

Love words. Love to learn them. Love to play with them. Delight in them.

Read as much poetry as you possibly can. I doubt anyone can become a poet without doing this.

Be patient. It takes a while for the marinade to work. I’m 65 and I only began writing seriously eight years ago.

Find your own method and your own voice. You’ll know when that voice is authentic.

And then, sing out.
 Mar 2017 Emily B
Polar
Such Stuff
 Mar 2017 Emily B
Polar
We start from nothing
And spring from dreams
Reaching through dimensions
And time.
I stand like a rock
Rooted to the earth beneath my feet
Know this place
Own this space
Whilst possessing nothing at all
Still I fly
Pondering reality
Dreaming with clarity
Knowing only
Love survives all.
 Mar 2017 Emily B
Gidgette
Undreamt
 Mar 2017 Emily B
Gidgette
I live,
In the lucidity of dreams
Undreamt

Eternally naked,
In front of a crowd
Yet, dwelling
In a trench coat style
I'll bare you my soul,
Yet hide my face
I prefer my words, on the wind
Felt,
Never heard
A fading voice
In the chamber of
Never Unlocked
In the realm of things touched
I remain untouched
Unkown
Reality holds no fascination for my eyes
I went blind when the hopscotch grid got washed away by the rain

I live
In the lucidity,
Of dreams
Undreamt
She led me to bed
and
in the Moonlight,
she said,

'we're old friends'
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