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Ink of My Soul Part II

Poetry is

Words of color painted on a canvas of paper.

The brush is imagery belonging to the artist alone,

A painting to be created with as much or little skill,

and care as the artist wishes to put forth.


Poetry is For me

Words that come tumbling into my head,

Scribbled on scraps or furiously typed,

Then lovingly cared for until they say what I mean,

And mean what I say, for there is a perfect word.


Spelling, punctuation, and grammar because

without them there is little clarity to my words.

Through them I show repect for myself, my work,

and those who take their time to read my thoughts.


Poetry is for Some Like the Art of Painting


The "Old Masters": a cherished tradition, craftsmanship learned and passed down through the ages.

The "Impressionists": traditional artists who expanded into a new way expressing themselves.

The "Abstracts": those who took it the next step further but still understood the basics of creativity.

The "Pretenders": ones who climbed the ladder to poured buckets of paint on a canvas below without skill or thought and called themselves artists.


What an author calls his work or how he chooses to define himself is of little importance. It is either worth my time to read it or it is not. Sometimes a poem carries an essense that gives it enough value enough to be read, but there is always a sadness when the writer lets it down, especially with the information available at our fingertips. It's always special when you read a WOW!

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