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Rainer Maria Rilke: Letters to a Young Poet
Rilke’s words often feel like an invitation to delve deeply into the mysteries of life, urging us to seek meaning and beauty even in life’s uncertainties.
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Appleby
Mrs. Gay, a widowed philosopher and shepherd owned the largest flock of sheep in Grimm’s countryside. It was twice the size of the 2nd largest, tended by Appleby Jacks, a known brigand and philanderer. Appleby wanted Mrs. Gay in the worst way and often tried to woo her to the best of his abilities. But Mrs. Gay wouldn’t give Appleby the time of day. She went about her business tending sheep and laying by the babbling brook whenever she could, reading books by Nietzsche, Humethe, Kierkegaard and Aristotle, and wondering why Appleby was such a thorn in her side. One day, after failing miserably to woo Mrs. Gay yet again,…
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Dragon of Libya
“There is a book,” whispered the old man, “hidden in the deserts of Libya. You know the one, it sings of riches and timeless beauty you could only imagine. Some say you need only read those passages for all that glory to materialize right in front of you.” He pauses, looking off, seeming to remember a time long ago, “No one has laid eyes on that book in centuries. No one dare for fear of being devoured. You see, it is guarded by a fierce dragon. And its name is known only to an even more ferocious beast whom it calls the bird master.” The old man slowly turns in…
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La Belle Annabel
I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o’er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils; And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.She was a child and I was a child,In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love-I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me. And this is why I sojourn here,Alone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is withered from the lake,And no birds sing. Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn…
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The Age of A.I. and Writing
When I think of AI, a couple of movie series comes to mind. Does the “Terminator” or the “Matrix” ring any bells? Whether we will go that far or not is debatable. While AI may not yet be that advanced, is it possible some form of AI could take over in the future? How do we control the creation/use of AI from getting into the wrong hands? Or is it already there? Who knows. The only sure thing we know is that Artificial intelligence (AI) has evolved exponentially over the past few years. There is a huge push on using AI in all businesses… predictive texting, curating lists, generating images,…
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October
It’s mid October. Days and nights grow steadily cooler. The early morn sees more and more leaves laying sleepily on the ground, with low-lying fog in yonder fields, like a blanket of warmth. It’s somehow sad to see, and yet, I know it’s part of the cycle of rebirth every year. I love this time of year. Magical, mystical and ethereal. Looking for inspiration, I came across a lesser known author/poet whose story is quite interesting. And yes, inspiring. Elizabeth Orpha Hoyt. She was an American philosopher, author and poet who grew up in Athens, Ohio and who had such a thirst for knowledge. She was thought of as a…
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Faceless
I wrote this poem toward the end of 2020, when the “Covid-19 pandemic” was in full swing and many theories about the whole situation flourished. What was certainly true about that time was the heartbreak of loss, loneliness, fear, anxiety and anger it caused. Her smile was like a beacon of hope in a faceless crowdWhere a strange arctic atmosphere spread like oxygen-ignited fireDagger eyes and cutting words give chaseGod forbid she expose her glowing rosy cheeks and lips ! What fragile state we have become where the sight of exposed skin triggers rageAnd the slightest touch elicits a cascade of horror and outrageWhere men, women, and children sit in…
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The Drifter
Revenge doesn’t pay. Not even in the wild west. My intention was to write a sliver of life from the wild west, focusing on setting the mood and attitudes through descriptors and limited speech, and reflecting that period of time. This is a minimalistic approach to poetic story-telling. Similar to the method in which I wrote Revelations and Still, The Waters Call. 1: The Stage The day stretched as long as a hangman’s noose stifling in its sincerity as a spring dayLazy day shadows crept ever deeper A slow, melodic picking of a guitar set the toneWeather-worn fingers strum across a gut string tunerLeathered face under the wide brim…
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Leprechaun
I awake in my small bed one misty mornOn the old Callahan homesteadAnd who did I find but a LeprechaunPerched upon my threadbare bedspread. Did it startle me? Oh yes!My heart leapt into my throatHow did I get into this mess, I thoughtWasn’t this a stroke! My weary bones froze in placeLike a lamb before the slaughterTerror written all over my faceWhere was that holy water? “Who are you?” I cautiously whisperAnd it smiles and bares its teeth“I’m the tooth fairy” it says, then snickers“To see what’s underneath.” It pulls down the cover, claw by jagged clawPurring all the while — it was mad!My terror escalates as it shouts, “Hurrah!”Can…
