Poets Inspiration

Indulge in the abstract

The fantastically artificial
Compete with the moment
See where it gets you

Artistic Mistakes

“There are no mistakes in art…at least that’s what the instructor told me.” They had been bantering for a while now about some wine tasting and painting evening one of the waitresses had gone on over the weekend. I was eavesdropping. Enjoying their conversation while I sat at the diner bar, waiting for my food quietly. 

“There are no mistakes in art.” 

I pondered that statement as I stuffed my face with my bacon cheeseburger and fries. Was it true? Were there mistakes or just “happy accidents” like Bob Ross would say? Would he even say that? Am I thinking of “happy trees?” My thoughts digressed as I stuffed my face. 

Revisiting the thought again, I looked back on my own experience with design. Each project had a driving force behind it that couldn’t be deviated from. Our artistry had a purpose. It had an end in mind. To deviate from that end, or to have a weak end was a mistake. That’s why we did group critiques. To help weed out the bad from the good. To improve the work. To move us forward in a stronger direction. Yes. We made mistakes. Glorious mistakes. Beautiful mistakes. But, we did not fret because of them. They did not harm us or weaken us if we chose to learn from them. 

But does that relate to art? What is the goal of art alone? Works that have no objective but to exist or let the artist create are not the same as designs that demand particular results. Were there mistakes in artistry? 

I think back again to commissioned portraits. They had a goal as well. To depict a persons likeness in beauty. To adorn walls as a reminder of who possesses the estate those walls belonged to. They were masterpieces. Critically acclaimed or not, they were works of the Renaissance. Work of the Romantic. The kind of pieces that now adorn museums with placards. Revolutions on canvas. Those were also pieces where mistakes could not be afforded. Much like architecture is artistry that can be dealt if they fail, those works were deadly to the reputation of the artists if they held mistakes. They were costly in time as well as money. Those pieces perhaps had no mistakes, because they could not be afforded. But were mistakes made on them during the process!

No artist in their right mind would admit it. 

I have no answers. Perhaps it is a question that doesn’t need answering? Situations differ. People creat art for different reasons. I might be over thinking it, as I often do. It was merely a statement that my curiosity had to run with. 


Great joy they had said.

Great joy chanted

The goodly crowd of messenger. 

“Great joy” they proclaimed to 

The the edges of the sky.

“Great joy” they promised

But we are here

Suspended between the heights above

And the depths below

We only hear those quiet echoes.

We never saw their lips release them.

We never heard the messengers call. 

Great joy? 


Where is this great joy? 

Betwixt the eve and morn? 

Beyond the edge of the sea? 

Is it beyond the sky’s hems? 

“Great joy.”

It is heard quietly

Within the questioning.

The heart whispers it.

With each beat we hear it. 

“Great joy.” 

The echo resounds

Meek and subtle

Within the cage of our own chests. 

Lovers of Antiquity

Lovelier than one can ever see

Are the pages of their own story.

Beautiful they are with regret.

Mysterious they are with doubt.

There is power in those passages of memory

Where living and dead can walk together.

It is the weight of it all that presses

Like a lovers embrace.

It is the way an introduction to the past

Is forged within an intellectual capital.

It is where ones mind can be both clear and clouded 

In the spires of its mysterious architecture.

No mind is given to what is beyond those places. 

In this place they find solace. 

While they are away

In that central city of self

They disregard what is slipping away

Beyond the walls of hindsight clarity. 

They remain there still now.

Recalling those past ages again.

Reliving them.

As though they might change them by sheer will power.

Yet the future wafts farther and farther away

Leaving them caught in their own antiquity. 


“You were born because you are going to be important to someone.”


I was born because I am important. 

My importance is not intrinsic on another human beings relationship to me. 

Taking a Break

Our conversation this evening, had started over how he was having a hard time remembering that we were no longer a couple. Something that I had felt for the first 3 days or so, but now had finally come to terms with. We were no longer together. It was real. I had to keep moving forward.

“You know…if you need some time and don’t want to talk to me for a while until you get used to things I wont be offended. To be honest us talking as much as we have been so recently afterward really is a bit too soon for me personally.”

I felt like a total bitch saying it, but it was the truth. I’m not a person who usually stays friends with my exes. This is the first relationship I ended that didn’t end so painfully and tragically. I feel like we could get along as friends. Unfortunately he is transitioning to friends immediately. Leaving little to no time in between for closure or healing. He wants to get the friendship rolling while we still weren’t over each other. I can’t do it that way. I need to be ready or close to moving on to be talking to him. Maybe not that far into the future, but I need to be more okay with my decision to break things off before I can really have a healthy friendship with this man.

I can’t help but feel a little upset by the notion that he keeps forgetting that we are no longer together too. I feel like he is trying to cling to things. To claim me. I feel a little weirded out by the fact that he feel so incline to inform me that he keeps forgetting to forget me. Like he is trying too hard to stay on my radar or to keep himself in my life so I can’t move on. I’m being paranoid. He has potential to the tendency of manipulative, but this is a case where I cannot be manipulated. Besides, when I told him it was too soon, he said he was okay with it. He said if I needed him he was there, but never pressured me to reconsider not talking to each other for a while. He seems to get it, so I can only take his word for it.

In other news, my WordPress app on my iPad is giving me trouble. It will not load at all no matter how strong my internet connection, so it has been rendered useless. Makes this therapy thing a little more difficult and less convenient, because my laptop isn’t exactly the most fast piece of technology in the world either. It will have to do for now. It actually forces me to sit down at my desk and write, which I have not done in forever. It’s kind of nice….if it weren’t for how short my desk chair is in comparison to this desk, but alas, this is all I have. It is better than nothing.


I bought hair bleach today along with some Manic Panic Hot Hot Pink hair color. Not sure when I’m going to use it, but I do plan to use it soon.

I suppose I felt it was time for a change. Just this afternoon, I took a shaver to my head because I couldn’t stand how long my hair was getting on the side as. For those of you who don’t know, I have a particular hair cut that is long at the top of my skull and fairly short around the bottom of my head. Here is a selfie to give you an idea:


(Not the best picture, but I didn’t want to subject you all to the poorer quality selfies I have taken.)

Now, the sides are much shorter. Down to a quarter inch with the to still at a steady 12 inches long curled and about 15inches long straight. Not much of a change I know, but enough to calm my restlessness. Many women often do things to their hair as a coping mechanism. I often do when things are stressful. With the death of a good friend and a recent breakup I felt the need for something different. The cut was only the beginning. I want something a bit more drastic.

I always wanted to bleach my whole head. When I was in college I was only brave enough to do a single streak in the front. That was when I had my hair cut in a cutesy curly asymmetrical bob. The first time I had my hair shorter than shoulder length in almost a decade. My senior year of college I decided one late night during finals week to do a half shave and dye my hair a dark purple. A few months ago I did the same purple again, and it has since faded to a deeper brown as seen in the image above. Alas, I’m ready for a more fun replacement to act as a manifestation of this new stage of life.

I got this Prism Lites stuff in Violet to help get rid of the red tones in my hair along with a 30 volume stabilizing formula. It was recommended by the professional, so I assume it must be correct. If it doesn’t work out I can try dying it close to my natural color. If my hair is too damaged, then I will just have to cut it really short. It’s just hair. It’s just something to do to give me a sense of change. Something fun to play with artistically. Something I can control for now.


A young poet had posted a question on one of the poetry boards I follow, asking how people find inspiration for their poetry. I though it an odd question and began looking at the comments below, because I too have often wondered how some people decided to come up with the things they did. Was it life experience? An inner darkness? Did they pick a topic out of nowhere? As I read I found myself disappointed at some of the comments, others I realized had a great deal of depth, but most of them agreed it was usually something involving empathy. Emphasizing with a person or with themselves.

I didn’t realize so many people had methods to focus their poetry. It made my methods seem chaotic and annoying. Often I just feel it happen. I narrate my life in my own head considerably, and often not down ideas for poems or verses and run with them. Other times, I find books at rummage sales and thrift stores that seem really intellectual or boring, then I use them to make blackout poetry. I can’t tell you how many hours I spend pouring over phrases and tracking the ones that work together with different kinds of pencil marks. Sometimes they just become heir own poems when I take one line and run with the basic idea of that phrase. Other times, I can make a small poem out of a page or two of text.

Of course, I avoid using poetry books. It’s too easy. Usually I find romance novel paper backs, old text books, informational books you know are outdated beyond reason. Occasionally a magazine article can provide a humorous context for a poem, since most articles are witty and humorous, seething in sarcasm and cunning as most writers tend to lean. Political commentaries have become a wonderful challenge to creat poetry from, and often give a sense of tension and anger when I use them for the exercise.

I have had a book since I was 13 that I have been giving black out poetry a try in. When I was young I began my own Altered Book. An altered book is a kind of scrap book of life, but it is terribly unorganized and random. Some people have really cool things they do with altered books, like creating entires art installments, but mine is just a bunch of collected pieces of paper, poetry, candy wrappers, ticket stubs, brochures, etc… Things that have represented events in my life.

Anyway, the book I have is called “Inside the U.S.A” by John Gunther published in 1947. I bought it at a library sale when my aunt was taking me to a Paper Source for a class on altered books. I enjoyed myself greatly at the class and I still keep trucking along on the book, though it is quite full now, and I haven’t used that many pages (starting to think I ought to start hollowing things out). But now I find myself trying to make poetry about the political climates it refers to. About the landscapes and agriculture it references. I often find myself wondering about the people and names described and keep them highlighted for character ideas were I to ever get around to writing more short stories.

This book poses many interesting challenges. The first being there is little to nothing poetic about this book. It’s blunt and informational. Telling of political corruptions. Faulty infrastructure. The over all climate of the Mormon culture and it’s politics. Things I don’t find relevant to my life, or much empathy for. But what I find fascinating about using his method is how out-of-the-box it makes you think about certain phrases. Phrases like “the climate changes” out of context can mean so much. Another, “political corruption” can become a metaphor for a broken relationship or some kind of disturbance in nature.

My method isn’t really as astounding as the methods of some, but it like how it feels. I like the research. I like the puzzle of finding the words that piece together. I like the tidbits of perspective I get from reading those paragraphs over and over. I like putting things down on paper and feeling them out.

Mostly, I just like to write.

Conspiracy Lost

There is still
A larger diversion planned
Fear of government
But in truth we have all
Been at each others throats
Without it
We have needed no help
In this “take and take” tale
When have we ever trusted anyone
When did we ever offer ourselves
To be used
When we knew others needed us
We never did
So it is not a conspiracy anymore
If everyone is in on it


They organized opposition
They asked
What he was doing
He was convinced
Powerful winds were blowing
Tall, lean, grey and grave
Has always been