So, You Want to be a Writer!

Like countless others,
You have imperial dreams
Of someday seeing
Your words in print,
Of the rest of the world
Suddenly waking up
To who you are
And what you have to say.
Well, if you want
To be a writer,
The secret, if there is one,
Is to write, write
And write some more.
Write about anything
And everything.
Experiment with language.
Try a different style,
Maybe a subject
You never previously considered.
Let people see
What you have written.
Let them criticize
And bleed all over it,
Then pick yourself up
By your boot straps
And write again.
Writing serves as
Food for thought,
So the more you write,
The more there is to write.
You need not fear
Ever running out of topics.
Take notice of what
Catches your eye,
And ask yourself why.
Also observe
How much of life
You tend to miss.
Notice the people
Around you,
Every one of them
Has a story
They're dying to tell.
Many of them
Have two or three
Good tales,
And aren't even sure
Which ones are true.
Learn to laugh with them
And at yourself.
Go where people talk,
And listen for the gold.
Capture what it is
To be human,
Taking in the good,
As well as the bad,
The beautiful,
As well as the ugly.
Have compassion
For those around you
As well as for yourself.
Explore life, love
And happiness,
Then take note of
The part that sorrow
Plays in life.
Observe the meaning
You give to things.
Learn what it is
To be fully alive,
And alert to life,
For only then
Will you have
A story worth telling.

Getting Published

I, who have
The gumption
And the arrogance
To believe
My thoughts
And observations
Are worth writing,
And that the world
Will want to read
What I have written,
Struggle with
Getting my words
Into print.
I have tried
Everything I could think of
For the last three years
To find a publisher
Who would be willing
To take on my work,
But to no avail.
I had a literary agent,
But that did me
No good either.
I have endured
And continued editing
And writing my books
And in the process,
Have exhausted
All my financial resources,
Yet calling it quits
Is out of the question.
It is painfully obvious
That the books won’t ever
Be published
Unless I give up
Trying to do it alone
And enroll others
In making them happen.

Why Poetry?

I write poetry because I can
And because I believe
That I have something to say
Worth saying.
Poetry allows me
To express myself,
To share my thoughts and ideas,
To clarify my thinking,
To play with language,
To examine my pretensions
To contemplate the meanings
I have assigned to things,
To reflect on the life I have lived
And to notice how
Time changes my view of things.
Poetry allows me
To search for nuggets of gold
Buried in my past
And to reveal
Whatever kernels of wisdom
I might have gained along the way.
It allows me to point out
The beauty I see,
To say what is so for me,
And to get at the essence
Of what it is to be human.

Artistic Insight

Whether I am a painter,
A writer, or a photographer,
All I’m really doing
Is capturing the beauty I see
In a way it can be shared
With the rest of the world.
My medium could be
Words, paint or pictures,
For any of them
Can be used
To portray the human condition,
And to acknowledge
That which I see as
Intrinsically beautiful.
It’s more than just style,
Or the colors I use,
That lend character
The work I do,
For my work is a window
To my soul,
And reflects as much of me
As it does
Whatever I am focused on.

Poetry for Me

I suppose there are
Countless purposes
For writing poetry
But just for the record
And maybe only for this moment
Here are mine.

I feel that I have something to say
Worth saying
And poetry is the way to do it
Using words
Of wit and wisdom
Colored by my passion.

My poetry is designed
To point out the simplicity of life
The principles by which I live
The values I hold,
The little things that make up my day
And the beauty of being alive.

Most of my poems come
From conversations I had,
And in each conversation
There was a distinction made,
The essence of which
I try to encapsulate in a poem.

My poems may be a reflection of the past
My recollection of the way things were
A bit of nostalgia,
A search for meaning,
A trip down memory lane,
Or a tale of poignant adventure.

There is a beauty I see
In the life I have lived
That I didn't necessarily see
When the events actually happened.
Through poetry my interpretation of events
Has become subject to change.

My poetry is an attempt
To clarify my thoughts,
To examine my pretensions,
As well as
My understanding
Of what it is to be human.

As a poet
I am committed to share
My vision of life
In such a way
That others can see
That life is the same for them too!

If I have done my job well
Then each poem will
Unquestionably come straight from the heart
Expressing a love for life
With simple words
To which anyone can relate.

The Power of Poetry

There is a piece of me
In each of my poems,
And if you receive enough of them
Then there I’ll be.

The poems come from the heart,
Addressing the common things,
At least common to me,
To which most can relate.

The comments I’ve heard
Have spurred me on
Encouraging me to share,
With everyone I meet.

There was a young girl
From the Philippines who wished
That her father would write
Some poetry too.

All that girl wanted
Was for her father to show
The love that was in his heart
And that is what poetry can do.

I think the response that touched me most
Came from a girl from the Middle East
Whose father died when she was young,
Who asked if she could be my daughter too.

Poetry has the power to bridge the gap
Of age, sex, race or creed
And gives each of us
A sense of our humanity.

The Ultimate Compliment

I always enjoy being appreciated
For the work I do,
And perhaps the greatest compliment
That anyone could pay me
As an aspiring writer,
Is to read and obviously enjoy
The narratives I have written.
At a New Years Party
Of an old friend,
I met a sharp old fellow
In his seventies
Who expressed an interest
In seeing some of my work.
He sat there in rapt attention
Reading that book
Cover to cover
Practically all night long.
I found myself checking in regularly
Seeing which piece he was on
And catching his reminisces
About some of our common experiences.
It is incidences like that
That provide the encouragement
I need to keep going,
To keep writing,
To believe in myself
When I begin to doubt,
To know that someday
My work will be enormously popular.
All I want is for people
To enjoy the things I have written.
There is no finer compliment!

Mental Archeology

Getting Started

There is a sense of adventure
Each time I pick up a new book
Someone recommended
And settle in for the story.

I like the mystery of not knowing
How the story will end
Or what circuitous route
It will take to get there.

My favorite books
Allow me to see the world
Through the author’s eyes
And to know what they felt.

If the book is really good
It will rivet my attention,
Keeping me enthralled,
Not allowing me to put it down.

I will read such a book voraciously,
Devouring every word,
Often into the wee hours of the morning,
Sometimes forgetting to sleep.

Some people may read this book that way,
But it can also be read
In bits and pieces in random order,
And still tell a good story.

The Essence of Life

I find my life
Can be dissected
Into bite size segments
Consisting of simple episodes
And morsels of conversation.
If I am able to suitably
Refine and purify
Those bits and pieces,
I might get to
To the essence of life.
In sharing that,
I would likely show
How much of life
We all have in common.

The Real Writer's Cramp

To be a writer
Is to explore
The blending
Of words,
And subtleties
Of language.
Sometimes
In the process,
We inadvertently
Bend the laws
Of grammar
Or spelling.
All too often,
Those errors
Will embarrass us
By passing
Undetected through
A gauntlet
Of proof readers
Only to get stuck
In the craw
Of someone
Who is all too glad
To points out
Our verbal
Shortcomings
After the work
Has gone to press.

Taming the Sadness

Sometimes a feeling
Of profound sadness
Will come over me,
And linger for a while
Seemingly without reason.
I will get to thinking
About the people I miss,
The ones I care about,
And the distance
That separates us.
Occasionally vivid images
Will come flooding back
Of places I have been,
Situations I encountered,
Or opportunities I missed.
I used to struggle with
Those melancholy feelings,
Imagining them
To be my enemy,
And the more I resisted them,
The more they persisted.
Then I noticed something
Rather interesting,
When I was writing,
The melancholy feelings
Tended to add
A certain romantic quality
To my words,
And I liked the effect.
Those feelings soon became
One of my most powerful tools,
A friend I could call on at will.

Pitfalls of Proofreading

I, like most writers,
Am a perfectionist.
I take pride in what I write.
I read each narrative
Over and over again,
Searching for elusive errors,
Improper changes of tense,
More effective ways
Of saying what I want to say,
Yet time and time again
I overlook the obvious.
Some silly mistake
Will show up
After the work
Has been submitted
Or sent out
For the world to see.
I am selectively blind,
Reading what I intended
And not what is on the page.
I find it absolutely essential
To have someone else
Proof my work.
Even then
Mistakes still creep through,
Reviewers also tend to
Get used to my style,
Reading what I meant
Instead of what I actually wrote.
A good reviewer
Is worth his or her
Weight in gold.

Closet Poets

I fear there are
Far more people
Who write poetry
Than who read it.
I have run across
Vast numbers
Of the closet poets
Who either
Write prolifically now
Or did so in the past.
Most never bother
To show their work
To the world,
Or if they did,
The world didn’t
Seem interested,
And they surrendered
Without a fight.
It takes persistence
And dedication
To the art form
To become good
Enough to be known,
And very few
Can survive
On the pay.

The Turning Point

In retrospect,
It was a major
Pivotal point
In my life.
I had been mostly
Drifting along
With the current,
Trying to keep
My head above water,
When I encountered
An irresistible crosscurrent
That swept me
In a totally unexpected
Direction.
It occurred for me
At a poetry reading
Over in Ojai, California.
It was there
That I first experienced
Poetry unencumbered
By the necessity of rhyme,
And was inspired
To try my hand
At the poetic vices.
Once unleashed,
I could not stop.
I found myself
Attending numerous
Other poetry events
Around the area,
And began doing
Volunteer readings
In some of the local
Retirement homes.
From that point forward,
My life became about
Refining my work
And getting it published.

The Reflecting Pond

Writing was my way
Of wading through
And dealing with
The emotional carnage
And melancholy feelings
Left over from
The death of my first wife.
It enabled me
To reflect on
The life I have lived,
To note in retrospect,
The things
I took for granted,
And the ones
That really mattered.
As I sorted through
The memories,
I started noticing
Aspects I had missed
At the time,
And I began to savor
The flavor of life
More than ever before.
The deeper I looked
Into the reflecting pond,
The more
Awestruck I became
By the beauty
Of the world around me.
It was as if
I had stopped to smell
The roses
For the very first time,
And couldn’t
Get over the fragrance.
Writing became
My means of sharing
The aroma of life.

Poetic Constipation

I sometimes fear
That the poetic artery
Which I tapped into
Will someday dry up
And I will have
Nothing left to say.
There is an even
Greater fear
That if I stopped writing
For more than
A moment or two,
The magic might vanish
And never be found again.
I suppose the poetic urge
Waxes and wanes,
But for a while
My narratives had been
Few and far between
And it had me concerned.
It turned out to be
A bad case of
Poetic constipation.
The ideas were accumulating
In my head,
Building up pressure
To be released,
But I held them in
Until I could hold
No longer,
Then suddenly,
As natural as passing wind,
They gushed out
In an explosive torrent
That littered the floor
With pages spent,
Relieving the tension
That had nourished
My insecurity.

Writer's Block

A lot of people ask me
Whether or not
I ever get writer’s block
Or simply run out
Of things to say.
Inspiration
Is everywhere I look,
And writing narratives,
At least the way I do it,
Is a matter
Of being present to life.
All I have to do
Is open my eyes,
And notice what I see.
As for writer’s block,
It has never happened.
I have learned to live
With that apprehension
And use it constructively
To motivate me.
It’s an irrational fear
I have nurtured,
And it appears
To serve me well.

Verbal Photographer

I manage to find
A natural poetry
That lends itself
To narratives
In almost every
Aspect of life.
It’s in the people
I encounter,
The situations I face,
The places I go,
And most vividly,
In my imaginings.
In a sense,
I’m merely
A verbal photographer
Using words
To capture life
As I experience it.
The subtle art to it all
Is massaging
And refining
Those words
Until sensual clarity
Is achieved.

The Writer's Path

It’s a grueling process
Writers go through
To get their works
Into print.
It demands extreme
Tenacity and sacrifice,
And maybe a little luck
Along the way.
It can be an exercise
In frustration
And daunting humility,
For we lay bare
Our souls and minds
With our words
And present them
To an often harsh
And jaundiced world
To judge.
It takes an element
Of courage
To face that challenge,
For only a select few
Will become recognizably
Successful
With their work.
We often curse,
Rant and rave
At the tedium
Of the process
Even while
It forces us
To improve.