BLOG OF THE WEEK ~ AN UPDATE WITH DE JACKSON

We continue the new year on a high note, my friends, as we catch up with De Jackson, who writes at Whimsygizmo's Blog. De's poems were on fire as the old year drew to a close, and we are looking forward to chatting about what has her firing on all cylinders. De is sharing with us her moving poem and thoughts about the tragic shooting in Vegas in October. You won't want to miss it.

Sherry: It has been a while since we caught up with you, De. What have you been up to? Anything new since we talked to you in 2015?

De: Hi, Sherry! I’m so happy to be here, and humbled by the opportunity to share again. Not too much has changed in my world. I’m still parenting teens, still poeming often, publishing here and there, doing some freelance ad copywriting on the side, and still longing for water. I’m a desert-trapped mermaid, you know.

 

Sherry: I remember that feeling very well! I noted on facebook you made your annual trip to Tahoe this summer. It looked like you had a marvelous time. Any highlights?

De: Yes! We’re blessed to have family in North Lake Tahoe, so we go up for most of July each year, and again at Thanksgiving and Spring Break. It’s my favorite place on the planet. I swear my soul lives there; I just visit her a couple of times a year. My favorite thing is kayaking on all that blue. There’s nothing like Tahoe blue.

Sherry: And nothing like being on or near the water. Also on facebook we can see that your kids are growing up beautifully. What grades are they in now?

De: Our daughter Abby is a freshman, and our son is a sophomore. It’s crazy. I feel like we’re on the downhill slide to an empty nest. These are tough years, for sure, but they really are amazing kids. Zack is an adventurer and animal lover, with a passion for running toward all those creatures other people run away from – snakes, scorpions, spiders, you name it. Someday he’s going to find an incredible way to tell the world how wonderful all of God’s creation is, even the scary, spiny, scaly things.

Abby is a creative soul, an artist, who has also discovered a passion for volleyball in the past year or so. She’s got tons of energy, bouncy-bouncy, fun-fun-fun. 

Abby's art

Zack can sway a little more toward the negative side, so basically I live with Tigger and Pooh. Me, I’m sort of a cross between nervous Rabbit and pondering Pooh. My hubby, of course, is the wise old Owl.

Sherry: LOL. I love the character descriptions of the family. And how is the adorable Kiera-Kai? And your Phantom Samurai?

De: Kiera-Kai is a hot mess of a furry baby. She’s got just enough terrier in her to be a holy terror, and just enough Chihuahua to be neurotic. But she loves me with her whole, whole heart and I adore her. 

Phantom, on the other hand, is my daughter’s cat, and might just be the one animal on the planet that doesn’t like me. Most of the time, I’m like Snow White – birds coming my way, bunnies crossing my path. That cat avoids me like the plague. It’s bizarre. Also, he’s huge. 16 pounds of mostly fluff. We do love him.

Art by Abby

Sherry: Abby's art is wonderful, De. This reminded me of how moved I was by your poem of love for your city, in the week after the terrible attack in October. I would love to include it here, if I may.


FOR MY CITY, AS IT'S FALLING

My City is aching.
It’s taking one breath
at a time, holding love
at center and knowing
……………..it’s enough.

My City is reeling,
kneeling. Begging for healing
and a glimpse of
something that just
might be Light.

………………………..We fight.

Name us: Grace,
hummed hope.

Sherry: This goes straight to the heart, De. Hope rising, in a time of darkness. Love, standing strong, against hatred. Thank you.

De: Here is what I wrote about it, when I wrote the poem: 

This is the first thing I have written in more than a week. Last Sunday night, October 1st, something unimaginable happened here in Las Vegas. My kids’ school, our church and our little Henderson community have been significantly impacted. But in the past 8 days, I have watched my city come together in miraculous ways. Blood bank lines wrapped around the corner. Our churches reaching out to victims and their families, first responders and hospitals and their families, and anyone affected by that terrible night. A memorial park built in just four days. People are visiting the Strip to look at crosses. We have mourned and we have prayed. We are still mourning, and still praying. But there is always, always hope.

  

On the night of October 1, 2017, a single gunman opened fire on the Route 91 concert venue on the Strip. At least 58 people were killed, and hundreds more were injured. Our city is still  reeling and healing from this ordeal. But it’s really been an amazing thing to watch “Sin City” come together with so much community spirit, generosity and hope. I still wear my “Vegas Strong” bracelet almost every day. I still cry about it, often. I have not been emotionally ready to visit the memorial park just yet, but I will. There’s a reason we have deemed this “Grace City,” (Where sin abounds, Grace abounds much more…Romans 5:20) and it’s been an awesome thing to watch. 

Sherry: I love that quote: Grace abounds. It is at such times that humans rise up, being the best we can be, refusing to let the darkness win. Thank you for your beautiful words, in dealing with such a tragedy, De. The two sides of humanity: dark and light. We have to believe that light is stronger.

I was noticing all through last fall that your pen seemed to be on fire. I read so many of your poems with awe, with the comment “Wow!” at the end. Have you been feeling that surge? 

De: Thanks so much for the generous comment. I finished the Poetic Asides November Chapbook challenge, which is a ton of fun, but also a little relentless. I always come out of it a bit dazed, like walking out of a dark theatre after hours and hours spent in another world. I did feel a bit of a surge for a while there, after a dry spell. It’s funny how it all comes and goes, an energy source all its own.

Sherry: Let's look at a few of your poems, shall we? And you can tell us a bit about how each one came to be?

MOON MOTHER

she’s a sweet old golden
grandmother in an embroidered jacket,

all pale blond pigtails and plush mouth
plumped for kisses.

teacher of all things
celestial and falling.

she’s the penny you saved,
the drop of water earned.

the thumbprint of some
bandit, stealing sky.

the momentum of a star,
and the drag of it.

a seventh sister,
shining;

that sixteenth candle,
still lit.

My amazing poet friend Shawna makes these incredible word lists. This is what one of them wanted to be. I write of the moon often, and love looking at her in different ways.

PRE-AMBLE

{What Came Before}

First things first, I’ma say all the words inside my head…
– Imagine Dragons

She breathes fire
and wonders why the world
burns so. In the beginning

was the word, and she kerned
herself sane, scribbled between
the (starting) lines
and found herself
changed.

Did she dance? You’ll have to look
back to see. See, she’s a wily one
and follows only moon,
and sky. Ask her why,

she’ll tell you it’s the amble
before the journey that matters,
that scatters you to breeze and
asks the world where the tiny
parachutes of hope should fly. Blow

a dandelion and keep those
fuzzy kites in sight; they know
things. And if you follow them
just right, the day might
sing. 

Sherry: My goodness, I love the way you put words together! I'm enjoying the photos very much, too.

De: This was one of my November chapbook poem a day poems. I love the idea of breathing fire, and that dandelion fluff sneaks into a poem at least once a month. Man, I love that stuff. The stuff of wishes, possibilities. Sometimes I do think the things that come before the real battle are what it’s all about. The preparation. The quiet moment when you steel your look, and get ready to scatter your song. I guess this poem is kind of about that. And I loves me some Imagine Dragons.

IF THE EARTH STANDS STILL, 
I WILL KNOW NO MORE THAN THIS   

There is really nothing you must be and there is nothing you must do. There is really nothing you must have and there is nothing you must know. There is really nothing you must become. However, it helps to understand that fire burns, and when it rains, the earth gets wet. – Zen saying

The sky reigns with a crown
of fallen stars and shattered
silence. Sorrow and hope
both float. Build fewer walls,
more bridges. Temper doubt
with breeze, and sunlight. A
lick of fire. A thirst for rain.

 Sherry: Fewer walls, more bridges, a recipe for coming together. Wonderful, De!

De: This was for a Poetics prompt over at dVerse  prompted by the word “reign.” I love that Zen quote, and it just kind of spilled out from there.

Sherry: This next one just knocked me out. The strength of your words resonates well with the recent "Me, too" movement of women everywhere, voices raised in resistance to male abuse of power and privilege.

THROWING STONES AT WAYWARD THRONES

We are the princesses of ice
and fire and fog and fluff. We have
had enough of your glass
…………(ceilings)slippers
and your velvet chairs
not meant for sitting
and your golden stair
demands of our locks. Your frocks
of silk and satin and lace
have no place here. Our legs
are bare and our feet
are filthy, mudluscious in
their river
beds.

We pebble stories and we
crown our heads in only daisies
and sunlight, fairy kisses and
the bright bright embrace
of moon. We swoon
for only breeze, the whisper
of trees on our un-noosed
necks; our un
-bodiced bodies sway
with delight at the sight
of our ink-smudged cheeks
and our mussed hair.

If you dare
to join us, take off
your fussy shoes
and your bruised ego
and your high-horse haught.

And that dragon
you think you’ve caught?
……………….Bring him.

Now he knows how to dance.

This one was prompted by the delightful Miz Quickly, who prompts when she pleases and gave us the word “chair.” I started thinking about thrones, and the kind of throne I would want (somewhere off in nature, obviously) and the kind of princess I’d want to be. One who’s allowed to get dirty, for sure. One who could bare her feet and her soul. And play with the dragon. I’ve always been much more deeply enamored of the dragons than the princes. I’m so happy to be living – and raising a daughter – in a world where women can wield their own swords, and choose their own battles.

Sherry: Well-said, De. This poem makes me deeply happy.

Do you have any plans for your writing in the months ahead? Do you have a routine for writing, or do you write at random moments, sandwiched between life’s tasks? 

De: After November’s big poem fest (and feast), I am actually looking forward to breathing a little. Writing every couple of days, perhaps. Engaging more with the three-dimensional people. ;) Getting outside more. 

I would love to say, for the one millionth time, that I will be trying to get a chapbook published. But truth be told, the left side of my brain (organization, administration, etc.) is actually missing, and I’ve just sort of come to accept that. It’s gonna take either a miracle or a big kick in the pants for me to actually move forward the way I need to. So I just keep writing down the pretty words as they come.

I do have a writing routine, sort of. Once I get the kids off to school, I usually try to go for a short run or walk, depending on my mood, then settle in for some writing time. I usually try to chew on a prompt while I’m out moving, and then come back home and get something down. Life gets in the way lots of days, of course, but the page always calls.

Right now I’m mostly working at our dining room table, since it’s right in the middle of all the action and allows me to sit and write for a few minutes at any point in time. My “office” has sort of become an overcrowded artistic room, now shared by my daughter. I have a dream office design in my brain, with a big comfy chair and lots of blue and twinkle lights. Maybe someday. Right now we have teens. We can’t have nice things. ;)

Sherry: Two beautiful teens is a great trade-off. Smiles. Is there anything you’d like to say to Poets United?

De: Just that I’m thankful to be here. I don’t get over here as often as I should, to this amazing community of astonishing poets. You all inspire, challenge and humble me. Even for an uber-introvert like me, writing can be a lonely thing. Engaging in places like Poets United is like coming home.

Sherry: We are always happy to see you whenever you stop by. And we'd like to thank you, De, for sticking with us through the years. It means a lot to us.

Isn't she wonderful, my friends? I am grateful to have revisited the events in Vegas, through De's words. Our media culture is such that one tragedy replaces another, day after day. It is necessary to remember events which changed so many lives.

Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poems of the Week - Magaly, Rommy and De

We have three gorgeous poems for you today, my friends, written by Magaly Guerrero, who writes at her blog of the same name, Rommy Driks, of Kestril's Rhythms and Groove, and De Jackson, of  Whimsygizmo's Blog. Take a moment's break from your busy day, dive into these luscious lines, and let your soul take a little flight around the ceiling, before  turning your mind back to its daily tasks. Enjoy! 

GLASS EMPTIED OF CLOUDS

My glass was half full, but
I was proud of its contents,
excited about possibilities…

“Oh, the life I can bring to fill
my empty half,” I used to say.

Then you came,
bringing your thoughts
into my days.

“Empty your glass,” you said,
“I have a fill of wonders.”

I allowed the emptying…

…and you filled my glass
with clouds
that looked like heavenly dreams
falling like cool expectations
against the flush of my cheeks.

I closed my eyes,
and waited for wonders…
that weren’t meant to be.

Now,
with eyes open
and opened again,
I see
huge nothings
filling the space that is you.
And I grin…
as I gather the pieces
of my glass emptied of clouds,

of clouds that seeped into dirt
and were boiled clean by the sun,
in promise of better rains…

Beaming
under a cloudless sky,
I am
fixing my glass,
prettying its cracks,
naming the breaks,
proud of my work,
excited about possibilities

I will build true…

Magaly Guerrero, May 2017

Sherry: I love "you filled my glass with clouds." So beautiful. And there is  so much strength in "I will build true." Yes!

Magaly:  This poem was written as an explanation - some friends (who didn't know me well enough to understand my behavior) - thought I was acting too strange, too quiet, perhaps not distraught enough...after breaking up with someone I had been with for some time. I wanted to let them know that I was, indeed, quite upset. But endings are the start of new beginnings. So, I was also excited about what would come next. There was no need to cry (for too long) over broken things, especially when we can repair the breaks, while absorbing lessons that can make us better.

Sherry: It takes life wisdom to keep the good, and look forward with hope. Beautiful, Magaly. Our friend Rommy wrote a very beautiful poem that I thought would go beautifully with yours. Let's take a peek.

NIGHTINGALE HOURS

Wildness floats around you,

wolf wicked,

but I’m no little girl

to be dandelion led.

I am a pebble-strewer,

hoping you’d find your way

to my hidden home.

Delight-whisperer, come

find me quick

amid the mysteries

of the sentinel forest.

Bring your power

midnight mage.

I’ve plenty of my own.

Bring your passion

moon brigand,

and see that I

am just as adept at stealing

kisses and nightingale hours

as you are.

Rommy Driks, May 2017

Sherry: I love "wolf wicked", and "dandelion led" so much! And the speaker's confidence: "I have plenty of my own."

Rommy: The poem came about as a response to a prompt at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads, Kennings. A kenning is an old Norse Literary device (wikipedia definition: A kenning (Modern Icelandic pronunciation: [cʰɛnːiŋk]; derived from Old Norse) is a type of circumlocution, in the form of a compound that employs figurative language in place of a more concrete single-word noun. Kennings are strongly associated with Old Norse and later Icelandic and Anglo-Saxon poetry.)

It is a strongly passionate piece. I'm not sure I can say what inspired me to go that route with the prompt. I just enjoy writing passionate pieces from time to time. What I like about it is while that the speaker strongly desires to be in the presence of their lover, but there is a confidence in them that you don't always get in the presence of intense emotion. The speaker knows they are as desired (and have as much to offer) as much as they desire their beloved. It's a very mature side of passion.

Sherry: It is wonderful: full of passion, assurance, confidence, and, yes, the mature side of love. Let's see what De has to say about life, and being......and poetry.

STORIES SNAPPED IN HALF, AND SHONE

We are born of ash and sigh
-lence, quiet spirits caved
in rain and song,
dark skeletal tree limbs
unsure of their own thin origins;
reaching for sky.

We count our rings, the things
that tell us who we are and
how old and why
we might possibly wish
for something more,
something radiating under
all this troubled skin.

You may find us rooted, or
washed away by our own salt.

You may find our syllables
too short,
too long,
unsung,
but that’s not our fault.

De Jackson, May 2017

Sherry: First, I love your title so much! And how I love the tree limbs reaching for sky. 

De: This is one of those times when the title came first. I pictured poem glow sticks snapping to life, and lighting up the night. The moon, half of her usual golden self, but still illuminating everything.

The things we show the world: our raised limbs, our smallest stories. With an inspiring word list from over at The Sunday Whirl to fuel the fire, the poem just spilled out from there.

Sherry: And so beautifully! Thank you, De. I adore the idea of poems as glow sticks, shedding light.

Many thanks to each of you wonderful poets, for sharing your beautiful poems and thoughts with us today. So much beauty, with which to begin another poetry week.

Do come back and see who we talk to next, my friends. Who knows? It might be you!

Poems of the Week: Songs for Our Daughters

Recently, my friends, I happened upon wonderful poems written about their daughters by Margaret Bednar, whose blog is now titled Of Verse, Poesy and Odes - My Poetic Journey, De Jackson of Whimsygizmo's Blog, and Kelli Simpson, aka Mama Zen, of another damn poetry blog. Each poem took my breath away, and I thought they would work very well together to bring you a moving experience. For this one, you may want to have a tissue nearby, as these proud poets present their spectacular daughters.

I See Her

I'm one among many,
middle school auditorium
squeezed in tightly
with anticipation
lights dim, room hushes

voices ring out
try to harmonize center-stage -
the loudest note, off key
as young warblers part
for my daughter's solo.


The crowd fades as I
sit transfixed
as the soft light


caresses
her angled cheeks, full lips -
dances down her lithe form
fingertip to toe, arabesque -
silhouetting her figure,
more hour-glass than boxy


as she sings, soprano
of love flirtatious
exuding confidence


and then
she blends back in
harmonizing with the other children


and I see her as if for the first time
still beaming, but now
with a tear in my eye.

Sherry: Wow, Margaret, what a poised, accomplished and talented young woman! I am impressed. I can feel your maternal pride, and the wonder of one's child emerging as so talented and radiant a being. I resonate with the tear: the prayer that life will allow that wholeness and sparkle to endure. Thank you for this.

Margaret: This poem was originally written for my daughter who is now a freshman in college (studying drama). But I think it also applies to my youngest (five years later). She sang the Sondheim song "What More Do I Need" and this poem sort of went through me again.

As my daughters grow into young women, and as much as I admire and enjoy seeing them mature, a part of me will always see them as my sweet little girls, with wings on their backs, ballet skirts, hair adorned with flowers, and their hands reaching out for mine. Poetry is often capturing layers of a moment, an experience encapsulated in a few seconds....I have many of these etched within my heart, and this poem is one of a few that attempt to share my wonder and joy with them. 

Sherry: I can see those little girls with wings on their backs! And we mothers, aunts and grandmas resonate with remembering those beloved little ones, even as we encompass and take pride in their blossoming into young adults. 

De wrote a poem about her daughter who was also singing - rocking along with a recent hit that has a powerful message for girls. I have included the song, to underline the message of the poem. Let's listen, and be further inspired.

Listening to my 13-year-old daughter sing Alessia Cara
on an ordinary Thursday night

by whimsygizmo

But there’s a hope that’s waiting for you in the dark
You should know you’re beautiful just the way you are
And you don’t have to change a thing, the world could change its heart
No scars to your beautiful, we’re stars and we’re beautiful.

– Alessia Cara, Scars To Your Beautiful

She’s rocking
her algebra with her dad, and belting
out these lyrics at the top of her
gorgeous lungs and doing something
called point slope variation or somesuch
and I don’t even know what that is. And
she’s sassy and spicy and already puts up
with nobody’s nonsense, and she sings
these words of scars and beauty and truth
and I know she knows them, know she
feels them, but I also know the world will
knock her around a little, fight some of
this truth out of her. And I want to wrap
her back tight in that blanket she loved
and weave my fingers through her tiny
hands and sing her something simple,
some la la lu lullaby that might help her
sleep. Keep singing, Love, I want to say.
Even when the world tells you to stop,
even when it’s all too loud and you’re no
longer proud of everything you are. Even
when the voices in your head are the
loudest of all and they lie and cheat and
steal your heart. Even when you’re broken.
Even though you’re worn. Even when the
sky is falling but the stars are not. Even
when you’re caught between the hardest
places and you’ve lost all traces of the you
you know. Even when the world moves
too slow, too fast, too much past, too long
now. Even when you’ve forgotten how, sing.
Give those lungs the breath they crave, that
heart its uncaged beat, its feathered-hope
treatise with its own chambered skin. Raise
your eyes. See that moon, reflector of Light.
Smile. Trace your scars. Begin.

"Pure Joy"

De's beautiful daughter

Sherry: A spectacular poem, spectacular video and spectacular daughter. Triple header. I am pumped!

De: My girlie is a poem. So much joy and laughter and sass in one small package. Right now she is everything I wasn't, at her age: confident, joyful, in love with the world. I pray every day that she holds onto that fire. I'm so thankful for artists like Alessia Cara who remind our girls that they're beautiful, just the way they are. Fearfully and wonderfully made, and made to take the world by storm.

Sherry: I hope she holds onto that wholeness, too, De. And I suspect she will, because her mom loves and believes in her.

Mama Zen's poem about her daughter is perfect for closing this feature. Her writing is as strong and fearless as her love for her daughter. Let's take a look.

I Sing, Daughter

I sing, daughter,
of sacred spaces,
woman's places
of birth and breast
unblessed
by any preacher's prayer.

Bring, daughter,
your shivers and night.
They're flesh givers, ripe
fruit for your lips
to curve your hips
and sweeten the shine of your hair.

I'll carry, daughter,
the pits in my palm,
proverb and psalm,
to where land meets the water
and offer them, daughter,
to the East, to the Earth, to the Air.

Let us sing, daughter,
of sacred spaces,
woman's places
of birth and breast,
and rest -
blessed by a woman's care.


Sherry: Wow. The fullness of this, and the mystique of womanhood, with its sacred spaces, fair takes my breath away in this poem.

Kelli: This poem is intensely personal to me. It's a response to the push / pull of mothering a teenage girl. Becoming a woman is a long, difficult process. So is bearing witness to the becoming. "I Sing, Daughter" is an offering, of sorts; a promise to my daughter  that there is beauty and power in womanhood. It is a celebration. It is a welcome.

Sherry: Yes, I feel all those things in your poem, feel your Mother Lion strength, protection, pride and joy. It makes my heart sing, for all girls entering womanhood who are fortunate enough to have strong protective mothers, who totally have their backs. 

Thank you, Kelli, Margaret and De, for gracing us with these affirming, proud and loving poems to your beautiful daughters. Each one moved me and made me happy for your daughters.

My friends, I hope you have enjoyed these fine offerings as much as we have. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

I Wish I'd Written This

Better Kindling

By De Jackson

The moon’s on fire
again, akin to the dance-skip
of her own bright journeyspill.

Do you know her
bubble-lull-shimmer-green-grin, the way she melts
a shadow-sky; leaves us

wanting?
Her spark
starts our
twisted-crimsonrose fire,
held breeze-soft in open
jars for all these
cloudy years.

By the time this is posted, we'll all know the results of the US election – but right now, while I am creating the post, I don't, as polling day has not yet begun. But it is very clear that whatever happens, there are going to be people, not only in America but all over the world, who are disappointed and worried – to put it mildly.

And in Australia and other Commonwealth countries, the day this post appears, 11th November, is Remembrance Day, when we think of those who have fallen in battle. Also, in Australia specifically, it is the day of a political coup about which many of us 'maintained our rage' for decades.

So I thought I would choose something beautiful, to take our minds (if only briefly) off sad and contentious things.

I'm sure De Jackson (aka Whimsygizmo) is well known to many of you, being one of the most active poets in the blogosphere. This is a recent poem, which you may already have seen. If so, I hope you agree it's worth enjoying all over again.

I am always entranced by De's brilliant wordplay and its unexpected, delicious effects. Sometimes it's witty, inventive, startling; here it is simply beautiful – and with some joyous surprises.

De says that she wanted to be a Poet Pirate Princess when she grew up, but is currently cultivating a quiet, content life in Southern Nevada raising two teens, penning ad copy, and scribbling poems in the margins of life. 

I assert that she has certainly achieved the first goal. Scribbling 'in the margins' is OK, so long as there is scribbling! It's usual for poets to support themselves by doing other work. Poetry itself, as we know, is unfortunately not a lucrative occupation. 

Motherhood is pretty important too – and after all, we do need some life to put into our art. I would go so far as to say that life stimulates art.

I think many excellent poets are to be found online only, these days. But if publication in literary journals and the winning of awards are measures of poetic ability, De is doing all right in those ways too.  

Her words have made their way onto the pages of such journals as Curio, Garbanzo, Burning Word, Bolts of Silk, Miller’s Pond, Moon Hollow Press, Shot Glass Journal, Tuck and others. She is a regular contributor for Phoenix Soul, was honored as a Poet Laureate for Writers Digest Poetic Asides in 2012, and she won the Poetic Asides 2015 November Chapbook Challenge. 

She says she has been paid for her poems in 'journal copies, garbanzo beans, and one time, a whole dollar'. Ah well, at least the principle of energy exchange is being honoured. (And very few literary journals make a fortune either.)

De writes something just about daily at her 'Whimsygizmo' blog.

Because her lovely poem above is short, I'll treat you to another (also recent) in farewell:

Partings

The way the sky cracks
open
to allow
the rising of the moon.

The way your lips part
just before
we bid the day adieu.


PS I completed this post before the sad death of Leonard Cohen, but it's a sweet, if poignant, coincidence that De's second poem above is called 'Partings' and opens with lines reminiscent of Cohen's 'There is a crack in everything, that's where the light gets in.'

Material shared in 'I Wish I'd Written This' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings remain the property of the copyright owners, usually their authors.