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January, 2008

Father Goose

Painting The Sky
Poetry like wine
By  Bryan D. Carlile

Distill your thoughts and express them. Refine them, and then share them.
I knew there was something inside me to share. I just couldn't find the words. The trouble wasn't the words, actually. I've always had an internal dialogue. The trouble was my expression of that soft, still voice. I recall the "Eureka!" moment vividly. I was ten, in fifth grade, learning about poetry. I had written some free-verse. Then the teacher came over and had me erase the last word. I don't recall the poem, nor even the word. But, that one word began it all. It taught me to say what I can as succinctly as possible.

Now, twenty-six years, many a poetry contest, and an award or two later, I am honed. As with any blade, you must sharpen between uses. A college Creative Writing course exploded my voice from within. A Journalism class taught me the axiom, "If you find an adverb, kill it." Armed with new ammunition and a burning quest to hunt down adverbs, I began.

The first years of poetry are rather rudimentary. I call it the "Roses are red, violets are blue" phase. When everything you write must contain iambic pentameter. It must rhyme. It must find basic, simple logic. After twenty-six years, the roses are no longer red. Rather, they exude idiomatic fragrance like paint brushes of light, casting bold reflection against a pale hue of violet sunrise.

In my teens, poetry shot from my hands like a daemon. It awoke me from a dead sleep. It beckoned me write every word to flow from brain to pen. I submitted. What else could I do? I'd heard the axiom, "If you don't use it, you lose it." So I wrote frantically. I knew I had to just get it down. I could always edit later. So, I have. You should see my originals with editing scratch all over them. No longer fearful of losing my gift, I've learned it is more a gradual forgetting than the gods stealing it away.

In my youth, I shot-gunned every line. As long as I hit something, I was happy. I've grown more accomplished with my skill. I now use a sniper rifle to target the subject and make a clean kill.

I read voraciously. I write, daily. I even get in a good poem or two. But they are subjects that haunt my soul. Not the daemon any longer, but a weathered sage whose wisdom simply needs to be heard.

How do you find this daemon? Read. Dream. Love. Poetry is the honest expression of your soul. Forget what others say of its worth. Your feelings are valid. Submit to poetry contests. They teach. From them I learned to trim ten page ballads into sixteen powerful lines. In fact, the first award of achievement I received was from a four-line poem. My advice, write. Then, write some more. When you think you are finished, edit. I have often found my best work through detached editing. In this, I can see the words for what they are. I can feel the emotion the writer sought to convey. Then I return to writer mode, and make it sing.

My inspiration has mellowed with age, as a fine wine.

I first gather the grapes (words) at their peak. I then press them (write) to extract the best liquid. I then mix them with the proper agents (editing), put them in a cask (rough draft), and let them ferment. I taste them in sips (re-writes). Then I bottle (submit) them. I open the bottle, and let it breathe (publish). At last, I drink the velvet smooth flavour of passion exuding from my pen. But wine is best when shared. So I encourage you to send a bottle or two of your finest to friends, family, publishers, whomever will appreciate the robust nature of a word well aged.

Here, I share one with you:

Silent Stone

Words, like whispers, gather
in the hollow of my hand
a vocal verbiage army
under my command.
Thoughts as soft as snowflakes
fall upon my soul
chilling to the depth of me
a quiet song of snow.
But oft, when I'm distracted
and sometimes when I'm not,
I lose a subtle part of me
to dreams that Time forgot.
For dreamers Ode to dreamers
as angels to the snow
gathered into monuments
beyond my vague control.
Yet, I'm not one to languish
in things best left alone
so gather soft, still waters
and cast me silent stone.
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Dr. Bryan Carlile has written poetry for more than 15 years. He numbers his works at over 2,000 poems. He writes non-fiction, and fiction works as well. His current project is a fictional account of the Egyptian dynasties. He lives with his wife and daughter in Oklahoma.

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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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Bald Ego
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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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