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Created and produced by Robert Denton, Daryl Jung and Rowdy Rhodes. Each month we will bring you a new and amusing look at our world through the eyes of The Bard.
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.
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.
The art and craft of poetry
Are not so far apart;
The craft comes from the cunning,
The rest comes from the heart.
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.”
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.
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.
Consider your mind the darkroom,
Consider your life the lens,
Consider your eye the camera
On whose focus the poem depends.
A poem is a rising moon
Shining on the sea,
An afterglow of all we know,
Of all we hope to be.
Writing a poem,
Reaching a star,
In making good art
We find who we are.
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!