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Even with music being such a personal experience, the desire to make one’s appreciation public is undeniable at times. (Leonard Bernstein’s “Age of Anxiety” is truly a work of exceptional art.)

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All of my productions will be full of imperfections. I know I have to work on many things such as punctuation. I write solely to get out my thoughts that get cramped in my head often, causing headaches. This is why I often have grammatical and punctuation errors. I do the best I can to revise, but my depression allows me to focus on so much at a time. Bare with me if you'd like. Hope you enjoy my perspective.

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Entrances and exits come in many forms, some tangible, some ethereal.

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Accepting we create our own reality is often a slow lifelong revelation.

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A story of my parents' relationship of love and caring, dependence and independence. (Again, the formatting problems; this time some of the poem appears to be in couplets, not my design, and sometimes four-line stanzas. Anyway, it does read okay, I think.)

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Self examination comes in many forms.

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In some recent comments on a couple of my poems one of my favorite readers made some philosophical observations that were intriguing. This poem comes from that exchange. Comments welcome.

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I'm so glad I see in color! This poem was written after thinking about someone who couldn't.

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This is a poem so unlike my others. Still, it speaks to me. Would love to know if it says something to you.

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With camera in hand, burial grounds of youthful symbols will always remain nostalgic.

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Interesting how some of history’s roads of suffering convert into modern delusion.

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I can not get away from Starry Night. I may have to compile a collection. I see and feel something different every time I look at it. I give up and give into it's power to inspire. So, this is not the last poem about this painting, but the latest.

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Hey, youngin's, there is no end, only other beginnings.

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this poem was inspired by hearing another poet read his work on the radio. I was enchanted. my question is, does it stand alone or need familiarity with G. Murray Thomas' work? (available on line) any feedback is welcome! thank you for stopping by.

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This was written after my mother passed away in 2001. Since it's Mother's Day today, I figured it was the time to post it. Why is it only in looking back, we realize how much someone means to us? Guess that's the question I have for this. Of course, I love my mother, but for some reason I took her for granted most of the time while she was still here. Any other comments are appreciated as well. Thank You! (BTW - I did see a shooting star the night my mother died.)

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Such a different type of "mother" poem. This has a special meaning for me and is all about my spiritual awakening. Comments?

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As fingers alert the keyboard, so too does the keyboard arrest the disquiet of the mind.

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I was speaking with a friend and she mentioned something about her mother. It made me catch my breath. This poem has been formulating since.

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Lest we forget.

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This is another poem I've been putting in and taking out of the work-in-progress file. Comments are welcome.

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I am frustrated by the loss of formatting when I post my poetry. I apologize for the weird spacing. I fixed a lot of it, but was unable to remove all the stanza breaks that are unintended. About Aunt Altie: She was made destitute by the death of her husband in the 1930's. She came to live with my family when I was about five. She was a self-taught couture seamstress, and influenced me and my siblings with her work ethic. The story told in this poem is true.

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Many believe that one cannot know joy having not experienced pain.

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Another short poem to share with you. I'm wondering what your thoughts are as you read this. Also, I've debated whether "native" is the right word in this. What do you think? Thx.

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This is a kind of stream of consciousness poem that was prompted by one word. After the initial writing I did go back and do a little restructuring before posting. Comments are welcome.

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Imagining possibilities portends endless beginnings. (Reworked)

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A simple poem. Too simple?

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Earlier this week, a fellow TNBW writer suggested that I should try writing poetry, something I haven't ever done. Almost at the same time, I had the opportunity to walk a nice garden by the sea with a dear friend. He had to leave, and I stood behind, sitting on a bench in the said garden, longing for his company. Inspiration came and this poem formed to my mind. I'm not sure which sort of feedback I'm looking for. By poetical standars, there may be a zillion opportunity areas in terms of rhyme and prosody, so it makes little sense to point all of them. I think I only wish to know whether you enjoyed this little poem and whether any thought came to your mind when reading it. Kiss, Gacela.

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Even after some tweaks on the original posting, I remain perplexed. How aware are we of the ubiquitous mental affliction that is yet to be included in the DSM?

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Is death the end? Or is it just the beginning?

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Hindsight being 20/20 . . .

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Here's a short poem for you. Very disturbing in a way and very different from other poems I've written. Must've been upset about "something" when I wrote it. Can we really write about nothing? What do you think?

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An exercise in what life is all about. Taking it in and then letting it go. Thoughts? Comments?

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Originally posted as a piece of flash fiction "Screenplay Pitch," it appears that video poems are coming into the forefront online, so...adding a few tweaks, why not?

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I've been in some discussions about sentimentality in poetry lately and in connection with those chats I recently read a poem by Barbara Guest that seemed to deal with related questions. All of that prompted this poem. Comments welcome.

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Being an urban dreamer, I took a break from immersing myself in a novel of 19th century European hardship and contemplated what it might have been like.

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grandparents day at the charter school--Nathan exhibits his Greek sword, made by hand--ever had an experience like that?

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you know the way it is when it just seems a former lover still lingers in your dreams..

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I know what this means to me, but does it mean anything to you? Any comments or suggestions are appreciated.

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Below, no more far fetched than Kafka’s deliberation on guilt and justice in “The Trial,” a consideration that altered many a reader’s sense of consciousness.

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Social commentary isn't something I do very often. This poem has been in the works since Sandy Hook and it seemed like it was time to put it on the site. Comments always welcomed.

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Notations on a used laundry list under a palm tree

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From munder my wet and soggy palm tree.

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Walking through our woods today, these words echoes.. They explain themselves in many ways. On a visit last summer my son and grandson carved out a campsite.. my grandson Luli or as he prefers to be called now.. Luther.. decided the camp needed a name.. He and his dad fashioned a sign at the camp's entryway.. made with limbs as an archway.. the sign still reads.. Camp Renard Deau in English .. Little Fox. I miss them as don't get to see them often.. the woods echo.. calling them back.

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I succumbed to the Diamante urge (and challenge) and submit for your criticism this poem. Comments welcome.

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Brevity best expressed in brevity.

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So busy reviewing but you know me, have to have something to write about and Haiku is something that doesn't require a lot of time so here is one about a child and the magic of summer/sand/imagination Any and all suggestions/ comments welcome

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Have you ever felt sort of ignored? Like you're not really part of the VIP set? That's what prompted this poem, came to me in the middle of the night.

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Promise, I will never again sully the exalted word poetry with my pathetic efforts, but I owe it to Cyeote, after his generous gift of reviewing credits, to try just this once. I had to change this because I stupidly relied on Wikipedia for the form. I liked my original version better but, I guess, I have to follow the rules.

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Still trying to find my creative spark. Help editing really appreciated.

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