Words on Fire!

Words (Photo credit: sirwiseowl)


Words on Fire


When my muse comes around to inspire


My words dance with fire


Building castles everywhere


Out of dreams and thin air


Blending new romance with raw desire.




With each tale that demands to be told


Real stories become bold


Allowing characters to act


Mixing fantasy with fact


Grabbing audiences with claws that hold.




Because these words coax and seduce


Strong feelings they produce


Stirring embers deep inside


Where feelings cannot hide


Boiling hearts with their own juice.




My words are powerful on a page


Or when spoken on life’s stage


Gathering no moss as they flow


Becoming stronger as they go


Carrying the discovered wisdom of an age.




My words are restless and never tire


As they pull others from the mire


But they carry a deadly sting


If venom is permitted its full swing


Therefore cautiously I write with fire.











Thanksgiving at the Trolls
Thanksgiving at the Trolls (Photo credit: martha_chapa95)




This holiday season I salute all writers, artists, musicians, actors, etc. Your blogs, poems, and stories inspire me when I struggle and need encouragement.  I hope that sometimes my posts provide a springboard for your endeavors also.


As I jump from first person, second person, and third person pronouns, remember I’m really talking to and about you.


To me, Thanksgiving is not about the food I eat. My memories are about the friends I meet.  Since I started blogging three years ago I’ve met some incredible people. I haven’t seen them in person but I’ve felt their words and I’ve been allowed into their minds and hearts.  Thanks, friends, for being incredible.


Look around the internet. There are bloggers everywhere, established and great.   You are part of that growing list and I admire your efforts and the efforts of new writers who are appearing daily, their raw emotions burning the hearts of those who dare listen. Behind them are newer generations, magnificent and courageous, who will soon be emerging on the scene.  I expect to enjoy the works of all, for they bring fresh perspectives to my soul and let me breathe.


To my friends I say, Happy Thanksgiving.  To my friends I haven’t met yet, I say enjoy the day with friends and family.  Life is short.  Live it with gusto.  Then sit down and write about your actions and reactions.


1.  Writers use words of power and grace, To remove a falsehood, And put truth in its place.


2.   Give someone hope anew, When she gets writer’s block, Pull her through.


3.  This holiday season remember with kind deeds, Those who have needs.


Your actions form a story of compassion.  I’m looking forward to reading how you blessed others.


Thanks again for your kind words on my blogs.  Be patient with me.  I’m still growing.




I Am a Poet

Poetry Workshop by Pooja Nansi 3
Poetry Workshop by Pooja Nansi 3 (Photo credit: Steel Wool)

I Am a Poet

When I began writing poetry I tried to make one person happy…me. I read the poetry of others and discovered amazing blogs and posts and felt intimidated But I kept writing because I wanted to see how I could be.

I am an artist who paints with words,

Splashing color and feelings around,

I am a musician who saturates the air,

Strumming across hearts with sound.

I am a doctor who feels the wounds,

Stopping the bleeding of those in pain.

I am a teacher who educates a child,

Sharing wisdom like drops of rain.

I am a world citizen who lends a hand,

Giving a village a new chance.

I am someone who cares about others,

Challenging the world to dance.

If I could add a few golden words,

Changing frowns into glorious grins,

Then I would know I’ve done my job,

For a smile is where poetry begins.

Why I Write

"browned" gets a mention in the press!
“browned” gets a mention in the press! (Photo credit: mr brown)

“Uncle Dan, what did you want to be when you grew up?” My nephew’s words tore into me, reminding me of people who had stood in my way urging me to do sane sensible things. “Go out into the world and get a real job!” “Do something useful.” “Working for a living is honorable.” Not one of my friends or relatives told me to follow my heart or pursue my dreams. In fact, one of them scoffed when I said, “I want to write poetry and short stories. I want to describe the world.” “There’s no money in writing,” he said. “It’s a waste of time,” said another. “Who has time to read?” My nephew looked at me curiously. He was still waiting for an answer. What could I tell him? I began as I believed I should, honest and straight forward. “I always wanted to be a writer and I waited until now to begin.” In the early evening Cicadas were saturating the air with a steady din and it continued even after the stars began poking through the black velvet sky. I’d listen and try to imagine a far away planet where strange creatures buzzed about giant cities. As the animal kingdom came to life small animals in desperate flight raced to stay ahead of their pursuers. The chasers were relentless. A scream, then silence. Another hunter had made a kill. The actions were out of sight and sudden, but I could imagine even the smallest details. My thoughts would drift back to space where my other world existed. My imagination was rife with possibilities. Were larger animals chasing smaller prey just like the ones I knew about, or did the smaller animals control the larger ones? My dreams were filled with stars and planets and my travels were swift. After hours of dreams, I would wake early in the morning. I would bounce out of bed, get dressed, and go outside ready to be immersed in new adventures. But sometimes my dreams didn’t stop on time. “Danny, wake up! You’re wasting time. There are animals to feed and chores to do.” My brother’s voice stirred me to action. A few minutes later the cows were contented again, eating oats and hay. The pigs were fed and after scattering corn for the chickens I went inside and cleaned up for school. I could hardly wait to tell my friends about the sounds of night and my imaginary planets. As part of our seventh grade English class Miss Brown often let us decide what we wanted to write about. Then she looked directly at me. “Nothing about planets and stars or stories about aliens or animals. Write about things you do during the day.” I wanted to protest but I knew Miss Brown would stand her ground. Many times she had told me, “Write about the things you know, not the things you imagine. Start over, Danny, and this time please follow directions.” After many attempts at describing real things, Miss Brown and I finally agreed upon a compromise. If I wrote and satisfied her requirements, I could write sci-fi and fantasy stories. In order to get my needs met I had to write more. Although my production increased, the quality of my writing didn’t. “Your writing isn’t good enough,” Miss Brown told me. “Don’t quit your day job.” At conference time she told my parents I daydreamed too much. “I don’t think he can be good enough to become a successful writer. Guide him towards the trades. That’s where the money is.” Throughout high school my teachers reminded me, “Very few authors became famous. Many of them suffered through bouts of depression. Some died young and others died poor. You have some potential but get a job that pays a steady income.” In college writing was on a collision course with literature. One professor ranted, “Read every story seven times and squeeze it for meaning. Otherwise you’ll never learn how to write.” Because of him and other like minded souls I decided that newspaper writing was the way to achieve success. But times were hard and over the next ten years several newspapers folded or consolidated for financial reasons. Jobs were hard to find and harder to keep. “Get out of the newspaper business,” a crusty old reporter barked. “Writing doesn’t pay very much but it steals your soul.” By then I had become an English teacher, although I still freelanced for small magazines. I continued to produce articles just for my vanity. I was not the only educator who dabbled with poetry or stories. Education was packed with aspiring writers with distinguished backgrounds. “You’re nothing special,” I was told. “Other writers are ten times better than you.” I joined writing groups but even there the news was grim. “If you submit your stories or novels to publishers, expect to get rejection slips. Even the famous authors were rejected enough to paper the walls of their houses.” Years passed and technology changed. Now older and wiser, I decided to write for fun and to entertain. If someone actually liked what I wrote, it would be good for my self-esteem. I became a blogger. There were a few followers but mostly I wrote for myself. I wrote stories and poetry but I didn’t really know how to entertain. I didn’t know how to add music and color. All I had was words. As I look back I still have not achieved my goals nor have I satisfied my soul. I still write because I want someone to understand that life is more than video games and TV. Perhaps I also write because I want to learn more before I die. As I write, my understanding becomes deeper and sharper but I think I’d have to be immortal in order to become a good writer. I still have so much to learn and so much to describe. Life is real. Life is earnest. Life is too short. I looked at my nephew. “I’m still growing up,” I said. “I’ve only changed on the outside.”

Accidentally on Purpose (Part 4)

Pupils writing on the blackboard in a village ...
Image via Wikipedia

Accidentally on Purpose
(Part 4) (conclusion)

Choice #11

Never having

Life was
really tough,

But at twelve I was ready to see,

What the
world had in store for me,

With the art
of sales I came to grips,

Because newspaper
subscriptions won trips,

commissions rewarded my work,

I didn’t
need much for my perks,

Then on to
bigger, better things,

Selling of
tractors, diamond rings,

I sold items
the customer didn’t really need,

I was caught
in a whirlwind of my own greed,

The three I’s,
Income, Independence, Impact,

something happen, a salesman’s facts,

I sold dreams
well because I was bold,

But I felt
in danger of losing my soul,

So I sold
out, didn’t hesitate,

(Of course
later I sold real estate),

Choice #12

Sculpted and
manicured, bushes and lawns,

As a teen I used my brains and my brawn,

Met with
clients and nursery personnel,

They could
trust me, things were going well,

Lined up my
customers for weekend spots,

A very rigid
schedule, right on the dot,

My business
was complicated and vying with sports,

I was
earning a reputation as a businessman of sorts,

There were
several men working for me,

Until off to
college I went, the world to see,

I’ve often wondered
what might have been,

But I’d make
the same choices all over again,

I left
preparing the grounds for preparing my mind,

But I enjoyed
working outdoors, I couldn’t leave it behind,

Choice #13

A sting
operation was in store for me,

Little did I
know I would be handling bees,

When I helped
a beekeeper they got under my skin,

What a
precarious occupation I soon found myself in,

It was
outdoor work which I enjoyed,

surrounded me and I was self-employed,

More than a
hobby, beekeeping was still part-time,

But I made
more income than teaching full-time.

I rented out
bees for pollination every spring,

Then queens
and package bees became my thing,

Honey was
the least profitable part on my list,

My three
phase business was angel kissed,

The bee
business survived flood and drought,

It was
humming along until divorce snuffed it out,

But then I
had time with my children to play,

I could
leave queens and things for another day,

Choice #14

There were
careers I said no because I had doubts,

I could have
made money, so what was that about?

My career
selection became a matter of the heart,

Becoming a
teacher was the best place to start,

students to live life abundantly became my fate,

I didn’t
need fame but I wanted my students to be great,

I won’t know
if they were successful in living their lives,

They’d be
too occupied adjusting their inner drives,

Someday when
our lives merge on some busy street,

What will
they tell me when we chance to meet?

I hope they smile
and point at me with pride,

And say, “Your
class was great, I enjoyed the ride,”

From lower
grades to middle, on through high school,

They knew if
they tried, failure was against my rule,

And those
who pushed for the higher grades,

Could pick
and choose college or trades,

For careers
were not mine alone to choose,

In this game
students could win or lose,

After many
long years I gave up the daily grind,

I didn’t
want to be searching for my long lost mind,

Career Choice

Writing is
something I would do in shade or sun,

It was
therapeutic, calming, my idea of fun,

I was
painting a picture, only with words,

My stories
would wander about like tipsy birds,

I wrote news
articles, short stories, even two books,

Not much
would sell, editors wouldn’t look,

But words
kept oozing out my pores,

And I kept writing
poems by the scores,

Life was
crazy as I was dragged through life’s dirt,

I tried to
keep busy and laugh when I hurt,

parent and lonely, occupations galore,

I decided to
write about life and forget keeping score,

I have a website
shopping mall along with my posts,

I get to
write poems to draw visitors and I am the host,

books?  I hope someday to publish a few,

My writing
is my life that changed as it grew,

Poetry and
stories are waiting to be told,

I’ve got to
release them, I’ve got to be bold,

It’s my
final frontier that I’ll have to face,

There are so
many stories to write I’ll have to race,

For a writer
with stories that he just has to tell,

Will drive
him insane, as you know quite well.

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