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 […]
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“Where You Write” is just as important as what you write and to whom, but must we always share?
Perhaps, perhaps; yet there are some words only meant for the crisp, clean page that holds the coveted position in a comfortable room, only for you–Dear Diary; Dear Journal, “Hi, there!”
My eyes drift shut for just a moment; dawn has not yet arrived…
I inhale all my other senses in a deep breath–a taste of energy in total silence, a hint of chill, the heady smell of fresh shellac, easily survived…
The scent of raw, lightly treated wood beams, an arched ceiling, floors with a dab of shiny gloss, immaculate…
It calms my mind and thrills my spirit because I know I can write anything here or even write nothing at all, but the dilemma … to share or retract?
Is everything set up in order on the familiar desk? Yes…
Do I lift the proverbial quill or pen, tap softly on muted keys or simply rest?
But where will the story go if I don’t rush, rush, rush to complete the piece?
Will another writer jot down these stories and give it release?
To spread the full wings of creativity
Where stories are possible; the paranormal in true believability…
To dwell for a brief moment in a time continuum…
Deep poignant thoughts are challenged or read in awe or disgust, hardly humdrum…
If I can see, feel, visualize, live so very much in my own mind
Is it my duty to share my words with all humankind?
A conundrum, ta’ be sure, giving and receiving inspiration
Through rigorous thought, tears, laughter, perspiration…
But do I dare? My Journal, a constant companion; My Diary, dear old friend…
Will people understand my thoughts and or even care in the end?
by Deborah A Bowman
Thursday is the little niggle
Of excitement, looking forward to the weekend.
“It is almost upon us,” you giggle…
Time for planning, invitations to send,
To do more than is possible, of course.
But it is light-hearted consideration,
Harming none and enjoying the sensation
Of looking forward with exhilaration
To Friday eve, Saturday, Sunday.
This is where the mind is at on Thursday… Enjoy!
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.
Some think that Tuesday is an uneventful day,
But the day is what you make it!
Save some interactive times, come what may,
In which to remember and organize your to-do list.
The week is set up; you’re back in the groove;
You can make things happen; you’re on the move!
Business is growing; ideas are flowing;
Your unique confidence and capability is showing.
Let the world see your true self … on Tuesday!
by Deborah A. Bowman
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
A rich day of sun and reflection
As early autumn sneaks into our lives.
The time of bountiful renewal is expected
As the orchards and harvest thrive,
Preparing for winter’s sleep.
But in saying goodbye to another season,
Do not linger in sorrow and weep.
All has come and gone for a reason
For tomorrow brings its own awe-inspiring scene.
In the bright colors of God’s paintbrush,
Sunday is perfect … silent, glowing, serene.
A whispered breath of glory; do not rush
Through a day of splendor!
by Deborah A. Bowman
Creature of the night
Caught in flight
Hunting among redwood trees
No one knows what those eyes see
In the faint moonlight in the breeze
Long, sharp talons extended
Reaching for small prey, life-ending
The balance of the hunted and Hunter
All must live and die in shrieks of thunder
Large flapping wings overhead
Filling small hearts with fear and dread
Nestled under the earth or scattered leaves
The tiny family grieves
As the owl takes to the skies
In the dark of night, eyes that hypnotize
In the glow of the moon, caught in flight
The owl with his nocturnal sight
Painting and Poem by Deborah A. Bowman