All Categories - Neo-Victorian Poetry

One man who changed my world ...

11/1/2018

Eugene Wesley Roddenberry, television screenwriter, and producer of the TV series Star Trek, gave us an imaginary blueprint for much of the technology that my generation later brought into being.

Doors that open automatically upon approach, cell phones, food replicators, (3D food printers), the use of voice commands with a computer, (Siri, Google Now), jet- injection hyposprays and more.

Along with all these neat new gizmos, Gene Roddenberry gave 60’s science geeks, like myself, a vision of the future that was innovative, exciting, and set in outer space, and he encouraged us to dream.

I turned my bedroom into a lab; I hung star charts all over my walls, experimented with a Gilbert chemistry set, studied samples with my Lionel microscope, and gazed at the sky through my telescope.

My poetry included an ode about piercing the virgin sky with rockets, and another poem proposing that humans residing on Earth were once escapees from a planet inhabited by deranged humanoids.

The scope of my world, and of my writing, was forever enhanced by Gene Roddenberry, who said, “I hope that I helped to build a fierce pride in what we are and what we can do if we set our minds to it.”

And, this is where I say, “Well done, sir.”

Image: delamagente.wordpress.com

No more bumps in the night ...

10/22/2018

I grew up in a haunted house in a middle class neighborhood. It may have been that the Ouija board I unfortunately played with as a kid that attracted “something,” or maybe the murderer next door.

Something was not quite right with our house. An unaccountable voice calling for “Maria” from our vacant side yard, and a baby crying in the night in our neighbor's home though they had no baby.

It was not until I inherited an old full-length mirror from my grandmother that strange things became obvious soon after it was hung in my bedroom, and were witnessed by many other people.

Years later, my husband and I moved into a converted attic apartment. It wasn’t just the green goo on the floor of our closet that was odd. We experienced many, eerie, unexplainable things there.

Even so, I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe that my grandmother came through that mirror to terrorize me every night. I do, however, believe that there are unseen, unknown forces at work.

British actor Timothy Spall, who played Peter Pettigrew in the Harry Potter movies said, “I've never seen a poltergeist, but I do believe there is more than what we see, that there is more than just this.”

Then, during our second overnight stay in the Queen Mary Hotel I discovered something wonderful. I could turn off my sensitivity to the eerie happenings that had plagued me there already.

I’ve written about my many bizarre encounters over the years, which were published in a now defunct British blog, and this is the very last time I plan to write about this subject. It creeps me out.

So, as is my habit this time of year, I deck the house in Autumn hues, burn pumpkin scented candles, and am relish in all of the lovely seasonal aspects of Fall, but not Halloween. It’s my sore spot.

Happy Autumn!

Image: https://www.silversurfers.com

My favorite cozy blanket is ...

10/11/2018

I grew up in a home full of readers. In our “back room” there were shelves and shelves brimming with all sorts of books from floor to ceiling. We never called it The Library. It was the “back room.”

My dad was an avid reader even though he’d left school in the sixth grade. I have no idea where he got all of those books, but I could pick any book anytime to read, and I ingested poetry.

I, too, have a room full of books, all sorts of books. Once or twice my husband has suggested that we might have too many volumes on our many shelves, and I cringed and I was like “no way!”

And then one day it hit me; my favorite cozy blanket is a room full of books. I suppose that they are my security blanket, for without them a room is just a room no matter its use, its size or its decor.

Marcus Tullius Cicero, a Roman statesman, orator, lawyer and philosopher, who lived between 106 BC and 43 BC, had a profound influence on Prose, the Latin language, and later European languages.

It was Cicero who said that, “A room without books is like a body without a soul.” I heartily agree, and I am delighted that such a man as Cicero so eloquently and succinctly spoke my very thoughts.



Image:  https://www.pinterest.com

"Autumn's the mellow Time" ...

9/17/2018

Earthy Autumn is my favorite time of year, when daylight hours begin to wither, the nights grow deeper, the temperatures sink to chilling lows, and I can bathe in the pleasant glow of my fireplace.

Though I am a Summer baby by birth, my muse is better nourished by gloomy skies, the thick aroma of fallen leaves, by comfy oversize sweaters and aromatic tea … by all the elements of Fall.

“Autumn's the mellow time.” So wrote poet, diarist, editor, and scholar, William Allingham, who greatly influenced other poets of his day, including Y.B.Yeats, John Hewitt, and Walter de la Mare.
As all the world lies down to rest, that is when I like it best. When I was a city dweller the signs of Autumn were very evident in sweetly spiced coffee and cocoa, and pumpkin-flavored everything.

Now we live in what I fondly call “the boonies.” All of those urban Autumn treats are attainable, but just a bit farther away. Here, the natural elements of Fall consume my senses and bid me to write.

My muse is ever near
Yet now she whispers in my ear
“Come, let us play with wisps, and dream
Of lovely rhyming schemes.”

And all of this is but to say that I wish you a very Happy Autumn.

Image: wallpapersthebest.blogspot.com

The many works of Anonymous ...

9/14/2018

Perhaps as far back as the onset of human speech pithy phrases have been uttered by ... well, who knows? And so we have, to date, a plethora of works by those known only as Anonymous.

For instance:

“Anonymous is really just a name for someone who had something great to say, but was not famous enough for anyone to remember their real name.” Anonymous

“The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits.” Anonymous

“Write a wise saying and your name will live forever.” Anonymous

I’ve known some who got a quiet giggle from hearing their own brilliant, uncredited witticism spoken casually by others, but I suspect that most of us wouldn’t mind being credited for an axiom.

Once, while in a creative writing class in college where we shared and discussed our own poetry, and I asked my professor to keep my poems anonymous so I could hear unbiased critiques.

He allowed this to go on for several weeks, but at which point he pointed out how unfair my little experiment was to the other students in that class. I sighed, but acquiesced, because he was right.

The following week he read one of my new poems and then said, “Would the writer like to say a word of two?” Heads spun around, searching, but there were only my fellow students and I present.

Slowly, I began to speak. Suddenly, there were gasps and shocked expressions everywhere. All had assumed that my works were anonymously published, so I’d gotten their honest opinions.

Still, mine had been the only unavowed poems shared that entire term, and it was rather dishonest, but it certainly goes to show that occasionally one can actually benefit from being anonymous.

Image: CU Family Medicine

Navigating the writer's mind ...

9/7/2018

Edgar Lawrence Doctorow, an American professor, editor, and author of the historical fiction novel, Billy Bathgate, said, “Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.”

I’ve often liken my method of writing to an interactive conversation with my muse. Occasionally, it feels as if I’m merely taking dictation from someone who knows just what to say in a given line.

When I’ve managed to extricate a poem from a corner I’d written it into, I wonder, “Did I come up with that saving word or phrase, or do I credit my muse?” Writing is a curious collaboration, indeed.

Half for fun of writing lies in not knowing exactly where I’m going, even when I begin a piece with a roadmap of an idea only to find that the layout of my intended thoughts diverge along the way.

It can take a great deal of patience, on the part of my muse and myself, to allow a poem to get to where it is intended to go. The alternative to this would be to chisel rhyme out of unwilling stone.

This journey through the landscape of words, ideas, and nuance is akin to my lucid dreams wherein I have a certain measure of control; when I see a nightmare looming I can alter its course.

How does one avert a dream while dreaming? I learned, long ago, to keep my eyes closed as I began to wake up from a bad dream, relax into the lingering sleepiness, and imagine a better ending.

I did this every time I encountered a nightmare, and now it’s second nature to me … most of the time. I do not actually recommend this obscure dream exercise. I only know that it works for me.

And I note it here to make the point that, as with lucid dreaming, writing involves a measure of allowing, of investigation, of discovery, some inspiring surprises, and always a bit of editorial control.

With regards to this blog, and with some of my poetry, I’m in total agreement with E. L. Doctorow … starting with nothing and learning as I go.

Image: learning-mind.com

A longing for melancholy skies ...

8/30/2018

English singer, songwriter, bassist, and actor Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, known famously as Sting, has said that “Melancholy is no bad thing.” This poet happily agrees with him.

Personally, I liken Melancholy to how one might slowly and quietly allow their body’s muscles, ligaments, and bones to gently melt into a comforting yoga pose; a soft subtle acquiescence of self.

Depression, on the other hand, is a pervasive, glutinous monster. I have personally stared into the rapacious eye of that ever consuming vortex that is depression, and it did own me for a while.

Yet, Melancholy has a soothing aspect to it, much like being emotionally and mentally swaddled in a soft, warm blanket on a chilly, stormy night in a comfy room with a steaming cup of tea.

It is a sweet sort of sadness, really, and it bears me kindly away when dark clouds dim sky, when leaves turn to rusty hues, and the alluring scent of rain begins to permeate the thickening air.

My muse has an appetite for Melancholy, and so I find myself longing for Autumn’s moody elements, and even for the somber depths of Winter. I gladly acquiesce to that which suits her best.

Image: hdwallsource.com

From my side of the mirror ...

8/16/2018

Of late I have been much more involved in poetry and author events of various sorts. And, alas, I feel as if I have been shanghaied by the very thing I’ve been aspiring for; a bit of recognition for my work.

I love engaging with readers in these settings, and elsewhere, and sharing my passion for poetry with them. I no longer view the idea of self-promotion as awkwardly self serving, as I once did.

Indeed, how else would anyone encounter this self-published writer’s work if I didn’t personally present it to them, with my books right there, ready to sign and sell? But can be an exhausting exercise.

American novelist Thomas Eugene "Tom" Robbins, author of Even Cowboys Get The Blues, wrote that “A writer needs a life of introspection.” … which is why agents are hired to do the leg work.

Having no agent, it’s been up to me to establish myself and my work in my current location and, to date, my books are all available in public libraries, local bookstores and a popular coffee shop.

I am presently working to fend off an erroneous assumption that I lack the time and the freedom to gaze inwardly with my muse. I am not, in fact, overtaxed with myriad events, but I feel as if I am.

Hence, I have written no poetry, not even a blog post, for quite a while. Jotting down ideas and phrases continues unabated, but they are disjointed things and refuse to coalesce into anything tangible.

Even so, a second volume of my poetry is ever so slowly taking shape and needs, for the most part, a bit of editing, a new cover design, and such. Hopefully, that it will be done and published soon.

Image: mindauthor.com

No so long ago ...

6/22/2018

Jules Henri Poincare, a French mathematician, theoretical physicist, engineer, and philosopher of science, is noted to have said, "Ideas rose in the clouds; I felt them collide until pairs interlocked, so to speak, making a stable combination." I hear you, sir, as it is to with me.

I used to live in a semi-arid region where it rarely rained between May and November. It was a vapid and dusty existence for this poet who literally feeds on inclement weather. So much so that I was compelled to write my poem, Pluviophile, to express my earnest yearning for the rain.

At long last, unforeseen circumstances conspired together which compelled my family and I to move. In answer to my unspoken prayers we now reside where clouds loom large, overcast skies abound, and where it rains more often than not … and I find myself in a poet’s paradise.

I say “unspoken” because I didn’t realize that I needed this, exactly this, until we got here. We also didn’t know that we would require an all terrain vehicle when we purchased it before leaving those evenly paved city streets behind. But here we are, blessed beyond blessed.

When my husband and I retired we immediately knew that we could no longer afford our beautiful, upscale apartment, or being surrounded by every possible convenience. What could have been a tragic experience became an adventure as we felt ourselves being nudged along.

There is much to be said with going with the flow, which is also what I do when I’m writing. As with Henri Poincare, I have the luxury of allowing thoughts, images, and ideas to flit and swoop loosely under my control as they aviate in the direction of the stormy sky beyond my windows.

And so I present to you my rather desperate longings of not so long ago:

Pluviophile

I pull the curtains back
From windows clear and wide
In earnest, hopeful stance
To search the open sky
For merest wisp of cloud
In arcing ever blue
Until I burst aloud,
”The rain is long past due!”

Where is that swollen scent
When seabirds fill the air
And moisture not yet spent
Is lurking everywhere.
Why do they stay away,
This season’s will defy?
Oh how I miss those days
When all the sky would cry.

Image: Janice T

Could it be ... genetic memory...?

6/15/2018

American poet and writer Margaret Walker, once said, “The poetry of a people comes from the deep recess of the unconscious, the irrational and the collective body of our ancestral memories.

When I was in my teens my mother opened up our old family Bible to a small piece of paper and a poem. It had been written by one of our ancestors while crossing the plains in a covered wagon.

As I read it she remarked, “This looks a lot like what you’re writing.” Indeed, its style and voice were very similar to my work at that time. I was rather stunned, but I also felt a deep kinship with that poet.

Back then, my mother wrote a weekly column for a local newspaper, as well as various news articles. My own daughter, Emily Thompson, is the author of the Clockwork Twist adventure series.

Emily has also inherited the artistic talents of her father, and of his father, and of his father’s mother. Not only has she written fifteen novels, to date, but she designs the covers for her books and of mine.

"In psychology, genetic memory is a memory present at birth that exists in the absence of sensory experience, and is incorporated into the genome over long spans of time." Wikipedia

Who know what else was written into our DNA, but these observable effects are quite striking. It tends to temper the ego knowing that one is, apparently, predestined to certain traits, and very humbling.

Marcus Tullius Cicero, Roman politician, lawyer, and poet, born in 106 BC, is quoted to have said, “The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” Fairly morose, Cicero, but point taken.

Image: adriboschmagazine.wordpress.com

Sometimes, just a little nudge will do ...

6/7/2018

Being involved in poetry events is a great motivator for me, it turns out. I sort of knew this, and when I recently stepped in as temporary moderator of a local poetry group I felt motivated once again.

I had been invited to emcee this group at its inauguration, but soon afterwards I had to lay low because of my hip surgery. And so, this creative group of poets continued on while I recuperated.

Somehow, I became aware that the moderators of this group would be elsewhere for the next several months leaving no one to moderate it. Now, well on the mend, I volunteered to stand in for them.

Now, seemingly out of nowhere, I’m reviving old poems, composing new ones, and even working on my blog. Huzzah! That wee bit of a nudge was all it took to launch me off and running.

About a week later I was invited to return to my author table during the upcoming local Art Walk, which would mark my third appearance at this a yearly event. Fortunately, my books and I were available.

Emily Thompson, author of the Clockwork Twist adventure series, and I share that table from which we introduce ourselves, catch up with the locals who know us now, and sign and sell our books.

One such local had previously acquired our books and placed them in the high school library. As we chatted before our table, he asked me if I would like to do a poetry presentation at the school.

My heart was screaming, “Yes, please!” though my reply to him was a tad less dramatic. And so it seems to go in a cyclic fashion season by season, from languid idleness to creative involvement.

H. Jackson Brown Jr, author of Life’s Little Instruction Book, is noted to have said, "Opportunity dances with those already on the dance floor." Indeed so, Mr Brown! This poet is glad for the dance.

Image: dailymail.co.uk

Tending to my Poe garden ... or not ...

2/23/2018

I used to advise people against giving me houseplants and, as evidence, would show them my Poe garden of dead little things with bare, shriveled claws for branches and overly withered roots.

Mitch Hedberg, one of my very favorite comedians, had a bit in his standup routine that went like this: "My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”

I do love plants. I love their their beauty, their fragrance and the healthy ambiance they exude, but plants in my home have to be extra, extra hardy, or come with a full-time long-term gardener in tow.

And so it is with my approach to writing poetry. If an idea is steadfast and substantial enough, I will eventually work it into a piece. If not, if it is but a wisp of a thought I will, regrettably, forget about it.

The care and feeding of my poetry requires that I read poetry, and only the very best poems available to me. Shakespeare, Blake, Coleridge, Millay, Wordsworth, Browning, and Riley are but a few.

Admittedly, absorbing and feeding on the works of these, my mentors, is a luxury that I don’t afford myself often enough, but when I do indulge in truly great poetry my muse responds ravenously.

Now, well past in their initial tutoring, I am able to compose without merely mimicking them, yet, their mark is indelibly upon me. This was true of Rembrandt, Raphael, or any schooled apprentice.

My work lies in a lesser strata than that of my mentors, and it is unlikely that I will ever achieve to their level, but their poems continue to encourage me to to attain to the very best that I am capable of.

As to our houseplants, my husband is very good with living things. His tender care of them yields beautiful, bounteous results. So, I leave them to him, for the most part, and simply enjoy them.

Image: commons.wikimedia.org

While I was away ...

1/28/2018

It's been a while since my last post here. Now, a few months post-surgery, the brain fog has long since evaporated, the pain of recovery greatly lessened, and still I’ve waited to type here anew.

To be honest, there is something of a mindset involved in blog writing which involves the words, the will, and the intent to compose a post, and mine has been set elsewhere. Apologies for my absence.

There is yet, however, a fog that lingers, hovering over my will to write even one poem. I have had gentle nudges and hints of prospective verse, but none have given me urge enough to follow.

So, I am where I have been many, many times before; floundering with my boat and oars on the arid dunes of disuse. But, hang on! Here I am writing again with this simple act of laying down words.

Finally come the riverlets of inspiration groping through the sand. Slowly my dingy begins to float. Soon my paddles have something tangible to work with, and I begin to propel myself into deeper water.

Free for the time being of those wasteful dunes, I can venture to say that I am back! Lesson learned, again: get these oars moving and continue to row anticipating that more fresh water is on its way.

That is, until the next dry spell. Such has been the recurring lament of this poet. At this point, some 55 years into writing, I should be able to recognize such wastelands for what they are: the restlands.

I’ve been wondering whether that exhilarating fever of being enthralled with my muse and producing substantial work as a constant wouldn’t actually harm me, permanently burn me out.

One shouldn’t suffer countless bouts amid the sorrow of the doldrums and glee atop the crests of creativity with a victim mentality. Better to make peace with the tides and accept them.

It’s all out of my hands, anyway. Why not make peace, practice patience and respect that the boat will rise again. In the meanwhile, I choose to hang out with the greats in my field wherever they are.

So apologies again for the dry spells: they’re just part of the paradigm.

Image: craveonline.ca

I had intended to say ...

11/26/2017

Denial is a fickle beast ...

A week or so before going in for surgery I weighed out my post-operation options. I realized that I wouldn't be 100%, but surely I should be able to sit at my PC, and type, and ruminate on my blog.

I honestly thought I’d be back at my desk a lot sooner that this. It didn’t register in my brain that I might be in the hospital a full five days, for one thing, and otherwise “absent” for yet another five days.

Now at two weeks post-op, (and two posts late), I realize that my personal road map to recovery had failed to include other obstacles, such as the wonkiness that comes with being on pain medications.

Apologies for not saying so much earlier, but I guess I’m gonna be out of commission for a while. I’ll type ya later ...

Image: thindifference.com

Another critic in the crowd ...

11/1/2017

During the recent Steamposium convention, I was confronted by someone who marched boldly up to my table and demanded to know why in the world I would deign to write rhyming, metered verse.

I answered, "Because I can."

I went on to mention that I have spent decades honing my craft. However, no matter what I said, her disdain for my work in verse continued unabated; work which she has never even read.

Although I am rather hypersensitive, meaning that I painfully care far too much and far too deeply about what other people think of me, I’ve managed to handle such harsh criticism, for the most part.

Fortunately, I have developed a sort of shield against these verbal assaults. I understand my craft, and I believe in what I’m doing. Whatever anyone says, I know that I stand on firm ground.

Poetry began to turn a corner in the 1880’s, and by the end of World War One, Avant Garde writers were finally accepted in the art the world, a world that became utterly, globally depressed.

That is when rhyming metered verse was pushed aside in favor of prose and free verse, as was fine art in favor of Impressionism, as was Romantic orchestral music in favor of ragtime and jazz.

I find it acutely ironic that prose and free verse are now well over one hundred year old, and yet rhyming poetry alone suffers from the perception that it is antiquated. Even this truth would not sway my critic.

Elbert Green Hubbard, a turn of the century American writer, publisher, artist, and philosopher ... and coiner of many remarkable sayings, said "To avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing."

But I dare to study the masters, to work my craft, to strive within this most unforgiving rhyming metered form, to grope for depth, while striving to making it all appear effortless. So, there will be criticism.

Image: http://charlesstone.com

Introducing The Clockmaker tea blend!

10/23/2017

Sometime ago I wrote about my friend, Friday Elliott, citing that she has a condition called Synesthesia. Again, Synesthesia is a condition in which one sense, say sight, is simultaneously perceived by another sense, such as taste.

In Friday's case, she has been able to create the most delicious tea blends based solely on her synesthetic experiences, such as reading Harry Potter, and developing a tea blend which has the aroma and the taste of Hufflepuff.

I recently asked Friday whether she would mind creating a tea based on Twist, the main character in Emily Thompson's adventure novel series, Clockwork Twist. Emily excitedly sent her a copy of Book One, Waking.

Friday soon produced a green and black tea blend with orange peel and rose; toasty and medium-bodied with light floral overtones and hints of dark, smoky undertones. She named this delicious blend The Clockmaker.

Imagine relaxing in your cozy easy chair, absorbed in an imaginative and exciting steampunk adventure novel while sipping the very tea which exemplifies that story. Well, now you can, thanks to Emily and Friday.

If you'd like to purchase a copy of Clockwork Twist, Waking, or any of the novels in Emily's series, along with a tin of The Clockmaker, I invite you to attend Steamposium 2017, where you can also sample this lovely new blend.

These will all be available in the Merchant Hall during Steamposium 2017.

To purchase the Clockwork Twist novels, please click here.
To purchase Clockmaker Tea, please click here.

Image: http://seattle-steamposium.com/

Data? What data ... ?

10/5/2017

I lost an entire book today. Well, sort of. When I tried to load a saved file of A Compilation of Echoes, I discovered that the folder it was in didn't exist anymore. Fortunately, I'd already published it!

I can reconstruct the entire book file by copying and pasting all of the poems in my series of smaller Echoes files, but I'm a tad frustrated that I would even have to. Such is the fate of this Cyberphobe.

According to William Arthur Ward, poet and author of often quoted inspirational maxims: "The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails."

Perhaps backing up my files with multiple devices might help. Ah, but I did that once. The data on my computer disappeared, and my backup device turned out to be corrupted. So, here I am again.

It’s almost enough to make me revert to keeping everything in my old Poetry box rather than trusting in digital media. Almost. As with this, my Weebly blog site, I’ve had to adjust my sails, so to speak.

I often feel an impulse to blurt out, “I’m a poet, not a techno nerd!” ala Bones in Star Trek I just want to get my thoughts out in front of me in some tangible form, so either I become a leadite, and revert to pencil and paper.

Or, I can go through the tedium of focusing on my backed-up files, making sure that everything is as it should be. For me, dealing with computers is like some reckless game of chance. Oh, what to do?

Well, tedium it is, I suppose. Better that than stop my writing, or opt for a lesser alternative. Were this a boat I would be doing all three: complain, expect it to change, and adjust my sails as need be.

Image: itp.net

Writing from my own experience ...

9/27/2017

Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde, popularly known as Oscar Wilde, who wrote plays, fiction, essays, and beautifully rich poetry, reportedly said, "Experience is one thing you cannot get for nothing.

Decades and decades ago, I purchased a full-dress drum set from an neighbor ... once he'd finally lowered the price substantially. I immediately set myself to learn all I could about playing drums.

I took an ever so brief introductory lesson from someone in a local shop that sold drums, and set about applying what he had shown me when I got home. Eventually, I was able to actually play them.

At some point, my technique became more or less automatic and I was able to let my hands and feet do the drumming more or less on their own while I sat there immersed within the syncopated rhythm.

That's when I got up and walked. My entire purpose in buying and learning to play my drum set was to experience that immersion so that I could write a poem about sitting there within the beats.

I applied this approach to learning to simultaneously play the piano and sing along with a tune, as well. Then I turned my attention to my guitar and did likewise. I did this mainly for those experiences.

Along the way, I developed a much deeper appreciation for music, and especially so for classical Music after I learned to play some short, simplified pieces. I was even able to compose a bit of music.

I had never actually intended to master any of these instruments, (this poet is more explorer than perfectionist), but I paid for these experiences with patience, time and a bit of ready cash, for poetry.

Image: vincentmars.com

A new opportunity for reading poetry ...

9/22/2017

I am pleased to announce that I have been invited as the Featured Author to help kick off the very first Poetry, Wine and Cheese event in Klipsan Beach on the Long Beach Peninsula in Washington.

Following a brief introduction, I will be reading some of my poetry, sharing a deeper understanding of my work, as well as relating the background of my involvement in rhyming metered verse.

Everyone in attendance is also invited to share and discuss their own work, or the work of their favorite writer. This open forum is intended as an ongoing arena for sharing and discussing poetry.

So, if you happen to be on the Long Beach Peninsula on September 27th, you are cordially welcome to join us for a glass of wine and a bit of cheese while we peruse some poetic works together.

Image: David Rigs

Running on empty here ...

9/16/2017

I started working on this post several days ago with a promising first line, followed by a fairly able second line, soon followed by my entire wave of thought dissolving into foam on the beach of my intent.

No matter what I did to regroup and begin again my words just kept falling like tatters of exhausted cloth into a bottomless shadow on the floor. Apparently, my muse decided, apologetically, not to play.

So, here I am with nothing to post. So be it. No big. I merely thought I'd mention it, save the page, post it and move on. Perhaps my muse will be more willing to work with me next week.

Although I keep a list of blog ideas on hand, many worked out to some degree and others merely noted, none of then were enough to entice even the whisper of interest to that which I call "my muse."

So, tata for now, See you next time.