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January, 2008

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Early Riders

By  James Strecker

The sky decided for radiance one day
in that journey of ours, and it seemed
a confession of honest unending light,
a penance perhaps, although night would
hold firm that eventual death was the
answer we might, in dying, desire.

We entered and departed the castle in what
seemed a single day, but it was a thousand
years we slept and this single day of coming
and going. We walked our horses slowly into
lingering memories of you as we rode both
east and west in one motion of time. That day
we found ourselves beside a temptress sea. We
stood aside where morning sun made penetrations
of light and the sea rolled her gentle heavings
toward the shore and the sky.

But it was the grail of your presence we desired.
Maybe here, where castle towers fight like
celestial gods for men to adore.
Maybe here, where you first divided us
and sent us wandering together,
my own flesh and I. We needed to dream as
your dream or was it so that we who made
shadows were also forever your dream? You
made two hopeless wanderers of us in one
direction, yet flesh divided as we awoke each
morning to seek you. We spoke no words and
even our eyes held silent as we devoured, alone,
each thought of you.

Then our horses grew bored and weary
and there seemed no finale to this passion
of ours that made new distance its home. Had we
been here before? Had we tried to turn around
and go back while the waves beside us mocked our
obsession like your sighs? We hungered still for
trance of you, my lady of these towers.

You gave yourself like this empty boat that takes
a sailor, drowning in you, and drowns him in the
But you left us not to be sailors nor other men,
knights of postured solitude. We made fires of
everything for you, and still this morning sky,
no reason, burns new. I shall ask the other ladies
this castle home how they ride and sleep all
beside early riders, and then I shall tell them of

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James Strecker can be reached at :
Early Riders painting (c) 2003, Andy Simmons, used with permission.

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© Freelance Writing Organization - International 1999-2049

IN This Issue
The Long Life Of Poetry
Marketplaces For Your Poetry
Haiku: Highest Art
What Am I Doing Wrong?
Lyrically Speaking
Writing Poems
The Mind Of A Poet
A Poem Is A Little Path
Seeing Like A Poet
Speaking In Tongues (Excerpt)

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Whose Books Are Turning Into Movies?
Bald Ego
Mouse Over To Pause

Writer’s Block
The path to inspiration starts
Upon the trails we’ve known;
Each writer’s block is not a rock,
But just a stepping stone.

Poetry Is Not
Penned to the page
Waiting for us to admire.
It is only a lonely thought
Caught by tears on fire.

Silent Echoes
A quiet rhyme upon a page
Is what a poet gives;
Some gentle words whispered in trust
To see if memory lives.

Bard From Deadlines
What makes a poem finally work
Is not the time it takes;
It’s how the poet used the muse
To prophet from mistakes.

Be Mused
The art and craft of poetry
Are not so far apart;
The craft comes from the cunning,
The rest comes from the heart.

Fine Vintage
Don’t plant your poem on the page
As though you’re hanging drapes;
It’s shape and flow should come and grow
Like wild summer grapes.

Getting It Write
Writers write what they know best,
Their passions, fears, and dreams;
Writers rarely write about
What other call their “themes.”

Double Vision
A writer’s life is paradox,
It’s more than what it seems;
We write of our reality,
The one inside our dreams.

The echo of a promise,
The thunder of a sigh,
The music of a memory,
A child asking why.

Letter Perfect
Twenty six symbols arranged on a page
Can send a soul to heaven or torment it with rage,
Can free a fragile world or hold it in its net--
The power and the magic of the mighty alphabet.

The Write of Passage
The jump from writing just for fun
To getting paid for it
Begins when you first realize
You know you’ll never quit.

It is not the magic of his wings
That sets us free from our bond.
It is the muse within ourselves
That lets our words lift us beyond.

Photo Poet
Consider your mind the darkroom,
Consider your life the lens,
Consider your eye the camera
On whose focus the poem depends.

Rising Moon
A poem is a rising moon
Shining on the sea,
An afterglow of all we know,
Of all we hope to be.

Star Light
Writing a poem,
Reaching a star,
In making good art
We find who we are.

Spider Web
A poem is a spider web
Spun with words of wonder,
Woven lace held in place
By whispers made of thunder.

The final draft upon the screen,
At last my poem’s through;
A verse of only four short lines--
I rewrote twenty-two!

Read All Of Charles Ghigna's Poetry at

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