It is with great trepidation that I begin taking baby steps--no, not even crawling--helpless in the crib--mewling out into the 21st century my blog. Having erased my first blog accidentally into the ether, I feel even more humble coming to you. Maybe you will watch me grow up. I have heard it said that poetry is only read by English scholars or friends of the poet. Here I come, dearest friends.
Poetry should be read out loud. The reader recreates the poem and brings his reality and feelings to the verse. It becomes your poem and hopefully touches universal human feelings, or brings you to new awareness of yourself or the world we live in. I don't want to be a bully and say this is what I meant ex cathedra. Poetry is a road to discovery and sharing human thought and philosophy--you might disagree with my words--good!
I do not use punctuation in my verse because sometimes a pause at the end of a line or a pause running into the middle of the next line can change the meaning so that I have said two things. Sometimes, your comments/feedback can make me say, "Wow, I didn't know I said that!" The poetry police might not agree, but I have been an anarchist most of my life.
The poems in this blog will be fresh into print or experiences of my 63 years. They will tell my secrets, lies, greatest joys, deepest depressions, and always obsessions. Let the musings begin!
This first poem explains why we call our home Sacred Ground--a home we bled for. Ask me the story.
Oh holy ground oh sacred ground
Your life blood is in my veins
Crushed deep with mortar and pestle
To fine crumbly soil
It fills my soul
Then you rain oh mother life
I woke up living on this rich mantle of earth
I cannot kiss or embrace you more
You fill out my bones
You give my body reason
Escaping Bach to the Simpler
What could be wrong with a simpler melody
There would be only several drummed ripples on the water
Dimples lost if you were not watching
Them vanishing like they were never there
Getting crazy once more
The bumble bees dancing crescendo
To tell the place of honey
We follow out of breath
Then there is death
Not an at hand wish
But someday thankful for a quiet rest