A Poem by a Gifted Young Man

I chose the photo to go with this poem, but the poem was written by a friend of one of my sons. I met him a couple times. I saw this poem posted on another blog, and I liked the poem so much. However, I felt like the blog I saw it on disrespected the poet by including personal thoughts, feelings, and convictions about the poem in the post, therefore taking away from the poem, and possibly, influencing a negative attitude toward the poem in some readers. I wanted to present the poem just as the young man wrote it to allow readers to ponder it and come to their own interpretations and conclusions, the way poetry is meant to be.

Therefore, I contacted the young man and asked his permission to share the poem, and he granted me permission. I hope you will enjoy this poem as much as I do.

I do apologize that it is not properly typed in stanzas. I tried to do that and attempted to correct it several times to no avail.

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

Elara’s Path by Tristen

Elara was a dreamer, with stars in her eyes,

Chasing whispers of wonder beneath twilight skies.

A world beyond the meadows, where shadows softly call,

She stepped through velvet curtains, where dreams and dangers fall.

Oh, Elara, sweet Elara, don’t stray too far from home,

The forest hums with secrets, where wild things freely roam.

Hold tight to what you know, dear, don’t trust the fleeting light,

For beauty hides the thorns that bloom beneath the starless night.

The trees began to shimmer, with voices soft and sweet,

“Come dance within our circle, where time and magic meet.”

Their laughter wove a tapestry of silver, gold, and flame,

Each step pulled Elara deeper, forgetting her own name.

Oh, Elara, brave Elara, the path is not your friend,

The rivers sing of freedom, but lead to bitter ends.

Turn back before the shadows claim the heart you hold so dear,

The world you chase is hungry, it feeds on hope and fear.

The moonlight carved a doorway, through mist and tangled vines,

Where spirits whispered promises in soft, hypnotic rhymes.

“Stay here, we’ll crown you queen,” they sang with honeyed breath,

But Elara saw the flicker—cold eyes that spoke of death.

Oh, Elara, wise Elara, you’ve seen the truth unfold,

The stories that they weave are not the ones you’re told.

Run fast, the dawn is breaking, the light will guide you home,

Through forests full of peril, where wild things call you home.

With courage in her heartbeat, she tore through night’s embrace,

The thorns reached out to hold her, but none could slow her pace.

Back to the world she knew so well, where love and safety lay,

Elara left the shadows, to greet the break of day.

Oh, Elara, strong Elara, you’ve walked where few return,

The fire in your spirit, forever it will burn.

No forest can contain you, no dream can chain your soul,

For Elara’s heart is boundless, and now she’s finally whole.

“Practicing the Art of Poetry”

Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash

I have been a member of Lancaster Christian Writers for about thirteen years. I have learned a lot about writing through their monthly meetings and annual Writers’ Conferences and continue to do so. I have also made some wonderful friends and valuable contacts through this group and continue to do so.

This past Saturday, one of the friends I met through the group taught a workshop on “Practicing the Art of Poetry”. She shared “why all writers should practice the art of poetry”. She shared things I never really thought about. She also shared some poems. Then she instructed us to do two writing exercises. She didn’t stress all of the mechanics, techniques, and different types of poems. She didn’t even tell us our poems had to have structure or to rhyme.

Her main point was: a poem doesn’t have to take a lot of time. It is easier to finish than an article or a story. Not to perfect it, but to finish it.

The first writing exercise she instructed us to do was to write a poem about Grace.

I don’t know where the idea came from, but I got an idea as soon as she said the word “Grace”. The following is my poem about Grace:

Grace is a little girl in pigtails picking dandelions in a field in the sunshine. Sitting on a stoop and giggling as a puppy licks her nose. Dancing in the rain and skipping barefoot through puddles. Singing “Jesus Loves Me” when she is scared, and praying “God is great, God is good” before taking a bite of food. Grace is not only her name, but something in her innocence.

The second exercise she assigned us to do was to take something we’re working on — a novel, devotional, article — and turn a piece of it into a poem. So, this next attempt at a poem is from one of the character’s problems and emotions from my current Work in Progress (WIP). But don’t look for it in the book when it comes out, because I don’t think it’s going to make it into the book.

Was she really rejecting him? The look in her eyes and tone of her voice started a fizzure in his heart, but her words spread and deepend the fizzure into many cracks. Her final declaration that she would not go to Boston with him drove his mind to its knees and he turned to leave.

I enjoyed this workshop and dabbling in poetry for a little while.

Tea and Poetry Tuesday

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With all the craziness in the world right now with the coronavirus, I thought this picture might be helpful, as it is sometimes hard to be positive in a world filled with doom and gloom, so take a moment to have a cup of tea and enjoy the poem below. I hope both will help you feel better — more positive.

Song of Hope

by Thomas Hardy

O sweet To-morrow! –
After to-day
There will away
This sense of sorrow.
Then let us borrow
Hope, for a gleaming
Soon will be streaming,
Dimmed by no gray –
No gray!

While the winds wing us
Sighs from The Gone,
Nearer to dawn
Minute-beats bring us;
When there will sing us
Larks of a glory
Waiting our story
Further anon –
Anon!

Doff the black token,
Don the red shoon,
Right and retune
Viol-strings broken;
Null the words spoken
In speeches of rueing,
The night cloud is hueing,
To-morrow shines soon –
Shines soon!

Tea and Poetry

Today’s little tea tidbit is:

“The legend of tea’s origin is that it was discovered by Chinese Emperor Shen Nung in 2737 B.C., when a tea leaf accidentally fell into a bowl of hot water.”

 

Today I was inspired to write an original poem:

Too Long Summer

by Kelly F. Barr

Humidity and rain, humidity and rain,
The things of which this summer are made.
These summer months drag on and on
But I wish they were gone.

No sun and sandy beaches for me
As I prefer to remain burn-free.
Sticky clothes and sweated hair strands
Are more than I care to withstand.

I long for a cool breeze;
Colored leaves on the trees.
Scarecrows, pumpkins, Indian corn,
And gourds filling the horn.

Warm days, chilled nights
are my greatest delights.
The spicy tastes and scents of Fall:
My favorite season of them all.

A Poetry Hiatus

Hello Everyone,

I’m sorry if you are a fan of my poetry. I know I missed posting a poem last week, and this is not what you were expecting today. However, poetry is a struggle for me. I started writing and posting poems when a friend challenged me to participate in the National Poetry Writing Month about two years ago, but poetry does not come easily to me.

Also, my life is rather busy right now as I have a son preparing to graduate from Bible school and go off to a foreign country on a missions/preaching trip for three months. I also have another son who will be coming home from college today and will remain home for the summer and the fall, then return to take his final semester in the spring of 2019 and then graduate from college. I also have a son who is of middle school age that I homeschool, and we are finishing up our school year.

In addition to all of that, I continue to read books for authors who request that I read their book and write a review because I enjoy helping other writers. I also continue to work as a professional freelance writer, as well as, continuing to work on my first novel, which I hope to have completed by the end of the summer if not before.

Therefore, I have decided to take a break from poetry, and I’m sorry to say that I do not know what to fill my Friday space with here on my blog at this point. So, if you have any suggestions, I would love for you to leave me a comment, but for now, I will simply take a break from Fridays at least until the end of May.

Danger in the Patchwork Clearing (a narrative poem)

Danger in the Patchwork Clearing
by Kelly F. Barr

Bramble Fleetwood and Flip Gatherson did somersaults among the wildflowers in the Patchwork Clearing. Bramble’s lower jaw dropped and his eyes widened as a shadow passed over them. A chill ran down his spine as he recognized Crooked Claw Fellingward.

“Flip, run! Hawk!” Bramble scrambled back toward Oak Leaf Forest, and Flip struggled to keep up.
“Stay low and don’t stretch your body.” Bramble puffed out as he ran. How had they gotten so far from Oak Leaf Forest?
He could hear his father’s stern voice in his head, “Bramble, never wander into the Patchwork Clearing. It’s too dangerous.”

Crooked Claw screeched and Bramble looked over his shoulder. The hawk was inches above Flip, who desperately weaved and dragged his pudgy belly across the ground. Crooked Claw made a grab for Flip but missed as Flip rolled to the side.

Bramble tripped over something — rocks! He stopped, picked up a rock, and hurled it at Crooked Claw. He picked up another and another and threw them as hard and quickly as he could. One bounced off the hawk’s beak. Another rolled off his back.

Bramble couldn’t remain in this place much longer. The rocks managed to slow Crooked Claw down enough for Flip to gain a bit of a lead. Bramble started to run again. Almost there — if they could just get to the forest.

Bramble burst over the line, under cover of the Oak trees. He turned and screamed, “Nooo,” as Crooked Claw grasped Flip and lifted him off the ground. Bramble watched in horror, but Flip struggled in the hawk’s grip. Flip pounded his fists on the talons that held him, and suddenly Flip was falling. Crooked Claw descended right above him reaching for his falling prey.

Flip hit the ground and immediately made a break for the forest. Crooked Claw was bearing down on Flip. Would Flip make it in time?

Bramble heard a commotion in the trees directly above him. Father, and Flip’s father, and several other men from the squirrel colony were slinging acorns, from a large slingshot, at Crooked Claw. They slung six acorns at one time and hit Crooked Claw’s wing. The wing crumpled and the hawk made an emergency crash landing as Flip crossed under the Oak trees.

Bramble and Flip scooted farther under the Oaks. Their fathers stood before them. How had they come down the tree so quickly?

“Bramble, are you hurt?”
“No, Father.”
Flip’s father checked Flip over. The two dads looked at their sons. “Suppose you two have had a good fright and now know why you’re not to play in the Patchwork Clearing?”
Both boys nodded.
“Good. Now for the next two weeks, the two of you will be teaching your little brothers how to hide nuts and acorns.”
Again, Bramble and Flip nodded. Anything would be better than running for their lives.

My Hero (A Poem)

My Hero
by Kelly F. Barr

Strong and brave;
He risks his life,
Jumping into peril and strife –
My life to save.

Tender and sweet
When I’m in his arms.
He exhibits many charms
As our eyes meet.

Protective and bold,
My virtue he defends.
Upon him I depend.
His character is gold.

Winter Blues (A Poem)

Winter Blues
by Kelly F. Barr

Frigid winds
Chill me to the bone.
Dreary, overcast days
And days of snow —
Its beauty only lasts so long.

Eager for spring;
My heart sank
As spring’s first two days
Brought the biggest blanket of white
Of the year.

I long for sunshine and warmth
To turn my S.A.D.ness
Into gladness
And to, again, find my motivation.

An Acrostic Poem by Kelly F. Barr

St. Joseph
by Kelly F. Barr

Sun beating on his back.
Trail is dry and dusty.

Johnny rides for the Pony Express.
Open prairie stretches before him.
Seneca waits his arrival.
Erin fills his mind–her eyes, her lips, her spirit.
Problems need to be overcome.
Hope is something he clings to.

An Erasure Poem and Sneak Peek

I created this erasure poem from a paragraph in my work in progress.

 

By Kelly F. Barr

A burst of warm air
And the scent of horses.
She stepped into the parlor.
Checkers —
Read; many kings.
Who was winning?
Wait for the outcome.
Just a few more moves
And Johnny was the victor!