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 May 2017 Sam Temple
Mary-Eliz
She breaks open the sky
to set free the stars,
her supporting cast.

Bursting onto the stage
with no apology,
no regret,

confident the spotlight is hers,
she shimmers boldly
till a passing cloud
covers her

after it moves on

she calmly returns
for another curtain call.
 Apr 2017 Sam Temple
Mary-Eliz
A poem is but a skeleton
waiting
for mind
and
imagination
to fill the open

spaces

between the ribs

mind
and
imagination
to flesh it out

mind
and
imagination
to make it whole

for one,
full
and
sated,
it may dance
and
delight
in abundance

while another sees
embers
glowing
through
the spaces
warm
and
peaceful
yet
still
mysterious

for another
more questions
than
answers
are created
leading
down
a deep
path
of wandering
of wondering

seeking
the meaning
the light

through

the spaces
between
the bones
Fly high aerial sailors , imploring the news of Spring b'side
morning flowers and grassy knolls , windamere mornings across the diamond studded snapping shoals , from the knothole of a hardwood tree , from a schooner in brilliant blue seas , from the golden edge of a garden periphery , from the starlit bridge across all eternity*
Busy bluebird perched on my farm bell
Sing of stories only you can tell
Sunny days along seedling pastures
Tales of love and pure rapture
...
Copyright March 16 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
 Mar 2017 Sam Temple
Colleen Mary
i feel like the second *** of coffee that you brewed thinking you wanted more, however you quickly changed your mind about ever liking the taste in the first place.
while making my second *** of coffee this morning I was contemplating whether or not I really needed more (of course I did!) and this poem just came to me in that moment.
Anticipation hovers in the gentle light of dawn
With birdsong chorused to night
Where satin striates to prismatic effect
Radiating gold sunbeams alight.
A mirrored reflection from lake front to reed
Through tumbled refraction to trees
And cattle in pasture are lowing with joy
As green clover extends to the knees.
Autumn erupts with her jubilant song
And the colours turn russet and gold
As she flings her skirt with seductive allure
Letting feeling, now reeling, take hold.
Alive and wondrous, skip we two lovers,
In laneways of tangerine leaves
And the magic of moment overflows in a foment
Of happiness flung to the breeze.

M.
Glorious moments of Autumn in the downs of Taranaki, New Zealand.
2 March 2017
You try to mask your given voice
  in what’s perverse and then profane

But truth speaks only for itself,
  your costume tattered—seamstress blamed

This great parade, a grand charade,
  your song a flattened chord

Its final line to seal your fate,
—perdition now assured

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
 Mar 2017 Sam Temple
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.
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