A CURIOSITY THAT CLAWS
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inspiration isn’t grand~
no thunderclap or blinding light,
just a persistent drip.
it is the chipped teacup
holding the ghost of chamomile,
a forgotten kindness or a whispered word.
it is the stubborn green shoot
pushing through cracked concrete,
the resilience of dandelions in a world paved over.
it is a voice that will not be quieted,
a hunger that gnaws, a curiosity that claws
to which I surrender.
I let the words fall, unpolished and raw,
a clumsy offering to the altar of living,
to the boundless beauty of creating.
(“The Interworld” 2018, original encaustic)
The beauty of prose is many things can be said
In great detail,
Stories and tales, histories and philosophies.
The beauty of poetry is that when we read it or write it
We put on the poet’s hat
View through the poet’s lens
And search for layers of meaning.
In this way poetry honors and respects
The listener’s participation,
And in the doing, in immersion below surfaces,
We awaken the imaginal.
And when we awaken so
We step out of time
So the continuity of our life,
From childhood to adolescence, in growth
To sickness, old age and death,
Is made whole.
Here in the metaphor is our whole life
Made holy. Again.
(9/19/25)
Absence craves answers
in a hollow solitude
pulling us nearer
driven by the aching void
which cannot stay left unfilled
Expectation swells
in the pause between two breaths
drawing strings tighter
to capture what thought had missed
in expelling the longing
Silence sends alarm
as loud as a siren's cry
something is coming
it presses the heart to hear
what listening ears have missed
The longer the wait
the more the ears turn inward
to fantasies spun
to fill the gaping silence
that refuses to be still
Silence grows restless
to unlock forgotten doors
that expectation
swore were already waiting
in the wings for their prompt cue
PERHAPS, A POEM
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Pondering in silence before the ink descends
Outward expressions of creative soul
Evocative whispers on pages reside
Monument to human condition chiseled with words, line by line
LOST AND FOUND
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When all words have been written,
the pen feels heavy, leaden weight
in my weary hand.
Inspiration, a silent bird, takes flight,
a flash of iridescent wings
disappearing beyond the horizon.
Imagination, a child lost in a funhouse,
caught in a repetitious loop of familiar shapes,
trapped in distorted, mirrored halls.
Then, a door appears, not one of wood or metal,
but one of starlight and whispers,
polished smooth by yearning and passion.
I open it, and the world explodes
with colors unseen and sounds unheard,
with endless possibilities.
My senses ignite; every cell comes alive;
and inspiration, no longer silent,
MOONLIGHT ON MY LAPTOP
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in twilight's hallowed hour
the world outside recedes.
glowing screen, a window wide.
virtual realm opens.
moonbeams dance upon
reflections of code and thought.
I soar, a bird on outstretched wings
through skies of endless blue.
laptop’s keys play a symphony~
my inner voice, a creative song.
the laptop's shining face
a mirror to my soul, a gateway
to hidden depths, a sacred place.
in dawn’s approaching hour,
screen’s embers fade
flickering flames of creativity
their embers will soon turn cold.
SEEDLINGS*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
new dreams grow from seeds
each one a future blossom
delicate yet strong
nestled in mind’s fertile soil
creativity enhances
*Note: This poem was originally written for and published at WriterMonk for its Poesy and Poise contest: Dreams are Seeds of Inspiration, June 28, 2025. This is my original poem.
SOLITARY RUN
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That morning, I set out for a solitary run noticing the clear blue sky with only a few wispy clouds floating by. The grass stood silent, the multi-colored leaves barely moving, looking as if they had been painted there. A faint touch upon my skin made me wonder, ‘Should a person be able to feel the beating of the birds’ wings?’ Time stopped, stretching endlessly in the quiet stillness.
silent, empty space
thoughts like seeds begin to sprout.
a voiceless whisper
births words upon the still air~
creativity takes flight
Creation…brings aggravation,
what I’m plinking…can’t match what I’m thinking.
It’s this way…since our early days,
sad to say; but I’ll keep going.
What I see…lives only in me,
can’t come out…wants to, but not allowed,
hear it plain…what I make to play,
ain’t the same; but I’ll keep going.
The details…I try to no avail,
share what’s clear…make it all appear,
always fails…what I write down seems pale,
gnash and wail; but I’ll keep going.
His image…our work just a scrimmage,
not the game…that’s well beyond our brains,
has to be…full force we can’t see,
beyond me; but I’ll keep going.
And I bet…most folks will forget,
roll their eyes…he thinks he’s worth our time,
or they blast…it seems a thankless task,
makes you crash; but I’ll keep going.
What is true…we can’t do it for you,
always there…can drive some to despair,
never ends…something now comes again,
cannot mend, if I don’t keep going…
To the till, oh you people!
That your barns may be filled with staple
To keep our ever-dynamic world growing
We must roll up our sleeves and set our hands to sowing
"Ask not what your country can do for you, But what you can do for your country,"
This charge from the great Kennedy
We must our consciousness renew
Heed the call for duty and creative breakthrough
And at the end of each work day
With gratitude to God our Creator we pray
Thanking Him for the progress and lessons made
That on the morrow, at the till, we’ll be wiser and on course to be paid!
CREATIVITY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
quiet mind
ideas like clouds drift
gazing out the window
thoughts blend between the lines
creativity
A human writer needs,
to think and many times rewrite their work.
We put our heart,
creativity and imagination into each piece we write.
AI has stolen,
the creativity and imagination from writers.
The human writer is the true creator,
creator from their human heart.
AI is the great copier,
because they have No heart to write with.
I write for the reader,
I am a human poet all the way.
What is risk if not an invitation
to break through our existing stagnation.
We have given up our precious freedom
and invited in a life of boredom.
Could coincidences in life be clues?
Are they hints, the direction we should choose?
Should we unleash the habits of our past?
Should we break them like chains, take risks at last?
Our fear has imprisoned us in the known,
stealing from us rewards of the unknown.
The known is comfort and security.
Unknowns’ reward is creativity.
Go to where creativity exists.
There’s no reward without taking the risk.
playful progeny of my creativity
the product of my muse ~
I gave it my all
AP: 1st place 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
"AI has stolen the imagination from writers. The human writer is the true creator from their heart. AI is the great copier because they have No heart to write with." By Poet
Writers imaginations like to play,
with creativity and words each day.
Only with a writers big human heart,
a writer gets their pen in hand to start.
Keeping your imagination alive,
then our readers can give a big high-five.
Tell me ~ will AI really survive,
or could robots be just a lot of jive?
Bringing my muse and pen will always stay,
I am a human poet all the way.
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