My story is everyone’s poem.
My characters grow, evolve, roam
Just as we all do.
Emotions rising that finally flew
From the nest and took to the sky!
My story, my poem, my life is why…
I thrive and survive!
–Deborah A. Bowman
My Writer’s Life Story
Tag: inspiration
An Artist’s Eye and the Poet’s Voice
A photographer captures essence, substance, and texture
With an artist’s eye.
We gasp our breath and wonder why
We didn’t see it like this!
There’s so much beauty to miss
If we don’t crop out the boring distractions
With a lens which highlights only the attractions!
Frame the picture with surroundings that highlight
The image we want to project.
Center it or leave it askew to delight
The imagination and tease the senses
With unique balance and no defects.
It is perfect…
It calls out to all of us who neglect
The image and fill the page with words instead.
The photographer and poet with inner reflection
View art from a different perspective.
The artist’s eye and the wordsmith’s ear
Coming together to create
What many eyes never see
And many ears do not hear.
It is not from neglect.
It is a difference of expression.
It is perfection!
by Deborah A. Bowman
“Phoebe Snow – Poetry Man” — AMERICA ON COFFEE
Phoebe Snow (born Phoebe Ann Laub; July 17, 1950 – April 26, 2011 was an American singer, songwriter, and guitarist, best known for her 1975 song “Poetry Man”. She was described by The New York Times as a “contralto grounded in a bluesy growl and capable of sweeping over four octaves.” Professional life It was […]
via “Phoebe Snow – Poetry Man” — AMERICA ON COFFEE
Great research and blog on Phoebe Snow! Check it out!
Thank you, https://americaoncoffee.wordpress.com/2019/11/27/phoebe-snow-poetry-man/
Wednesday …
Midweek for those who seek
A time to catch their breath.
Maybe a day to stop and smell the flowers?
A day to reach into your inner depths
To find a way to reach towers
In the skies and heartfelt spiritualism.
We must take a moment to ritualize
Our feelings of destiny and oneness
With all things of the earth and heaven above.
We must grasp onto all that we love…
Blessed greetings to all God’s souls
On a Wednesday, as it unfolds.
Monday…
A serene rain drips from the sky
Washing the world clean in silent tears,
A soft beauty under full gray clouds.
Workers will dodge through sodden crowds
As the business week begins again…
Breathe in the crisp air.
Close the umbrella, if you dare.
Feel the chilled droplets of autumn
As rusty leaves slither to the ground.
by Deborah A. Bowman
Apocalypse fallen on the earth
What if? Will the flowers bloom again after the Apocalypse? A small piece of descriptive, deep imagery. We humans need to heed the warnings and save our earth. My two cents … bowmanauthor/bowmaneditor.
Check out the incredible writings by William Johnson, https://storiesoffantasy.com
The world was cracking apart, and breaking into two. It felt as if lighting came dashing over this world, and a shining light filled our eye site. The human kind were born to make this world better not to cause destruction. Ashes all round the place, the fire blazing and the screams of the people echoing back every time i take a step forward. The people deeply buried under the buildings and the fire is taking over us to handle this Earth better. But nobody knows what may happen to this world. What will happen after the humans are wiped out from this earth. What? Something humongous just raised out from the land like it is the almighty god and has always been there for us. The flowers blossomed again, the trees cherished. Beauty was rising from the ashes.
The Humanity of Words
A computer will never take the place of a human wordsmith/editor. Robots and artificial intelligence cannot duplicate the true emotion that lives in the connotative nuances of words. Only the heart and soul can breathe life into black-and-white ink splotches on a crumbled page which will become art, drama, perception, persuasion, and pre-cognition. It is our history, our current timeline, and our future. The human brain and Universal mind produces words that sing, inform, rejoice, or weep; sometimes, most often heard in the silent pauses between descriptive utterances of voice and breath.
Hence, the philosophy of one lone humble poet and writer, “bowmanauthor/bowmaneditor”.
Fickle Inspiration
I see the trinkets that surround me
But do I really see?
These are so precious to me
They inspire and capture my creativity
But not today
I have no words to say
But those that get in the way
My inspiration does not shine
In silence I seek the divine
And all will be well in time
My Annie doll will speak her mind
And tell me of her trip from Ireland
When she came alone to Ellis Island
The castle will sing its tune, the dancer spinning
And a new story will be beginning
To weave its way into my soul
The faerie pixie will rise and flow
Through ancient dreams and glowing scenes
Dancing on the sun’s rays, amidst the colors of the rainbow
The Kindle will light with fire: reds and yellows; golds and blues
I’ll slip on my glasses so I can see true
The beautiful forests and haunted hills
I’ll experience thrills and wills and chills
As a new world comes alive inside my brain
Some of you may think me insane
As the keyboard beckons and calls my name
Not all the words have gone up in flames
I just had to write them to know their game
Of hide and seek, catch me if you can, find me if you dare
The words will scatter unless you show them you care.
NOW THE STORY LOST IN TIME…
HAS RETURNED TO SPARKLE AND SHINE!
Deborah A. Bowman
Where Did I Go Wrong?
Okay, life is tough
Complicated, complex, rough
It’s supposed to be
How can we see
Where we lost our way
Unless we find out where we went wrong?
Here’s to finding life’s path; be strong!
Deborah A. Bowman
Winter Wonderland…
Snow nestled in silent hills
Silence in the frozen chill
Awake to the dawn of a wonderland
Beneath a sky painted by nature’s hand
Your whispered breath on the window pane
Mist of tears in your eyes gain
Momentum, then fall in heaves and sighs
You want to share the heightened emotion
But all that you see is your own devotion
He would have loved the snow
For he had no where to go
Now he dwells at heaven’s door
Asking nothing, feeling the cold no more
Deborah A. Bowman
