Poetry
The Possibility of Music
2025.10.11
Saturday, October 11, 2025
Good morning, The Wonder Fell Way.
How's the day. O/
"Back at it again, Wynn?"
-Favorite Wonder Fell Reader
Somebody's gotta keep the lights on.
Joy, Beauty, Love, Honesty; Life's not worth the effort without these and they're all the realm, task, and duty of The Poet and The Artist.
Why bother getting out of bed without the possibility of music?
Even birds know the necessity of song and start singing with and for each sunrise.
I thought I'd join in. O/
Thanks for listening.
On with our show...
...
What's next?
Here's the first rays of dawn... so what's next?
Maybe you keep a schedule?
Maybe you mostly wing it?
Some of both is best.
Topic to pick for today... how about magic?
Anything Science can't explain.
There's Love. There's Happiness. There's Peace. There's Heaven Above.
There's the Realm of the Poet.
There's redundancy.
Poetry gotta bad rep this past century or so. We went scientific with it. Poets, so many, go to Universities to play puzzle games.
Poetry is music for your mind in your mind as you read it.
Poetry, even sad lines, are a joy to read done poetically.
There's no volume but the cadence of your inner voice as you read.
We express Life through Language. We interpret our experience, match it to our dreams, and share it with ourselves and others with words and actions based on our understanding of words.
Poetry is a direct recognition of, and communication with, that part of you that makes dreams into realities through language.
Our popular music, Rock, Rap, Hip-Hop, and Country, use sound to help shape the scene for the poem shared.
Modern Lyrical Music is Stage Design for Poetry.
The song happens in the self as you read.
O/
Hear me wave?
Poetry!
How we talk to ourselves about Life and what living means is the realm of Poetry.
We don't do it enough. And, if we do, we don't share it enough.
Our News wouldn't look the way it does now if we did.
We all value Life. Poetry reminds us we're not alone valuing it.
Sad song, glad song, whose got the jam?
Every Pop Song reminds you you're not alone.
Take care, read a poem; Dr. Seuss, Keats, Angelou, or Wynn, and make wonderful this wonderful day.
+he Ghos+
Wynn
Brought to you by the emoji of the day: 🚴bicyclist
Same Prompt: Create an image of a Rock and Roll band of Faeries playing in a garage with the door open at dawn in the style of a magical pop art vintage anime painting.
Abe for Example...
2025.08.21
Thursday, August 21, 2025
Good morning, The Wonder Fell Way.
Hello. O/
Words on a stage called an Internet page, thoughts for you.
Still an hour or so till sunrise, clock just turned tomorrow on the West Coast.
People, places and things doing their things make sentences.
That's why we're here.
To make sentences.
So...
Here we go.
On with our show...
...
Using AI for Art's sake gets some artists defensive.
But AI isn't taking away opportunities, it's a new medium.
Another tool for self-expression.
And the point is expression.
The issue right now is that the competency of the mimicry of the software has us feeling both in awe and deceived.
But if you take a breath, remember AI exists, watch the video, view the picture or read the AI generated story again, you can recognize it is a reproduction.
There is a way of sensing whether a work is done by hand or voice, as in a song; or if AI strung code together to place it on you screen.
It's an interesting and awkward conversation and admittance for us to have at first because we have to bring up spirit to recognize it right.
We still don't talk about soul comfortably colloquially.
How do you differ from a robot?
This is not a crazed out whimsical question, but soon enough a dire one.
Our technology is growing that fast... fast enough that we all better have a good understanding of what separates a person from a machine or we're going to find ourselves feeling without purpose.
A machine can't dream or feel.
It comes down to thoughts.
We tag an experience with words for the observation and call it a thought...
The language isn't quite here to concisely define the difference between a machine accomplishing a task versus a human.
I'm working on it.
Poets are working on it.
It's our functional place in society to name unspoken experience.
Because without a name for something there's no way to properly share it, to know it at all.
I'll use Abe for example...
A love puppy hound mountain dog mix rescued from Texas is just a mutt until he's Abe.
Now he's a storehouse of stories and experiences unique to him.
Like you.
There's much to say on this... so much we need to understand.
It comes down to the act of naming and then the accepted recognition of the label of the experience.
Artists give new shapes for shared experiences so we can share them.
A work of art names an experience.
If you ever wanted to know what practical thing Art was up to, now you know.
When your parents named you.... well your name is the title of the painting, the story called you.
You work of Art, you.
A machine can never grow. A plastic flower doesn't reach for the sun. That's the difference. It's their relationship to the light.
So I sit and write the Sunrise...How's it feed you?
Are your petals plastic or reaching high where songbirds fly?
You want to laugh, to dance, to love like a seed wants sunshine.
What's that all about?
Why does Life persist to insist these things?
There's wonder in the world everyone and a galaxy's star set to set the stage to see we have it.
I'll keep working on ways and words to best express the spirit for these AI times. It's my work, my joy.
Take care, know your work, feed your dreams, your wants, and your wonder some sunshine and make wonderful this wonderful day.
+he Ghos+
Wynn
Brought to you by the emoji of the day: 😹joy_cat
Promptly Spoke: Create an image of a nerdy black, white, and brown hound dog wearing a bowtie looking at his cellphone while standing in front of a mirror in the style of a chibi anime illustration.
Perhaps the Pachyderm
2025.06.16
Monday, June 16, 2025
Good morning, The Wonder Fell Way.
Hey. O/
Welcome back.
Peace.
Even the blue jays are relaxed.
Takes a lot to chill out a blue jay.
Being the color blue in nature is a lot of work.
How's your day?
Idyllic Spring in New England temps and sky for the stage today.
Here we go.
On with our show...
...
Change in each sunrise the past few days.
The words agree.
When you make a constant you recognize variables.
The past few morning journal entries want for something.
Something is not being said and wants saying.
The writer's job is to recognize it and say it.
There's an elephant in the room and no one is talking about it because no one knows elephants exist.
The Poet's job? Define the elephant.
Perhaps the pachyderm will prove describable today.
Perhaps the pachyderm was the point that poet's define what's gone unnamed and the exercise is over.
That feels right.
We haven't known what to do with poets in America, haven't the time.
But every once and awhile one of us comes along and every course of events in the Nation is changed.
Words are how we live, how we get things done.
Poets breathe life into old words and make them new.
Everything done with words, and so everything, is made new through The Poet.
And here you are thinking I'm a sweet chocolate Valentine's Day Card warm fuzzy guy.
I am, of course, but there's a whole lot more.
From Epic Poets to Biblical Prophets, poets, poets, poets have always held a place of great respect and purpose in great civilizations.
"Did you know your words can do this, too?"
- Great Poet Who Big Brother is Definitely Watching
...
Another... there's so much more to say mornings...
Call it reference material for afternoon writing sessions.
Hope all's well.
Take care, reconsider the evolutionary importance of poetry, thank a poet and make wonderful this wonderful day.
+he Ghos+
A Color by Letter Wonderland
2025.04.02
Wednesday, April 02, 2025
Good morning, that wonderful way.
How’s the day? O/
Spring fun in the sun?
Work to be done?
Call it fun, get it done, and call it won.
Hope you’re well.
On with our show...
...
What about the place in between?
That space of time from a word set down to that word read.
Do you think these words placed in this place are like seeds in The Earth?
Did they sprout yet?
When you read them are they flowers or only stems?
Full bloom or just pressing through the dirt, their whole life to live?
Perhaps the stage of each word set down depends on the reflection you see.
Can you see the whole tree?
Just a sapling?
I’ve got forests for sentences; whole cities burst to life in each paragraph.
Do you read my intention with your attention?
It’s your expression of my impression you ingest as you read.
I wonder how you read me… what do you see?
I paint as clear an image of each moment as I can.
But my words are a color by letter wonderland for your paint, your brushstroke dreams.
We paint our days with the memories of the colors we see.
Red for me is not red for you.
For the whole spectrum this is true.
My words are the expressions of the colors I sense.
So are yours.
Our imaginations live and breathe and feast on rainbows.
Perhaps one day you’ll share your painting of The World with me.
Because your color red will never look exactly like mine makes the meaning and purpose of Art.
We can never measure the value of color, only experience it and share that experience.
You see and hear (music has color, too) your own color show and call it Life.
You ought to share it sometime.
Take care, realize you paint the air with every sound and stare of every word you choose, see your life is your masterpiece awaiting its weave, weave away and make a wonderful day.
+he Ghos+
For What Might Be
2025.01.27
January 27, 2025
Good morning, that wonderful way.
O/ Hello, your friendly Ghos+ back to wish you a better day.
Hope all's well.
On with the show...
...
The world is a beautiful place; not optimistically, ideally, as is.
Adjust you eyes and look to the skies and you'll see it true.
It's our stories that get in the way, or lift us up.
Stick with the uplifting ones. They serve you better.
Be served better.
You can only ever get what you order, what you have the capacity to dream. You're only ever as good as the story you tell yourself you can be.
Tell yourself a better story, have a better day.
...
Real early here again, hours before sunrise.
I enjoy the easy peace of it.
Peace is always easy; it's in the definition. The stories put on us since youth get in the way.
What we were born into only defines us until we recognize it does.
When we update our understanding of Life we grow.
...
A poet? What is that?
There's plenty of answers to that question on this site. You might say this whole site is dedicated to showing you.
It's a way of thinking that paints a new picture of Life through a still life image of the sight, thought, and dream experience of a whole moment.
It's the experience of a whole story, movie, song in a few verses of geometrically intentional lines.
You have to know yourself well to be a poet, have to trust your great voice within, have to recognize how you hear Life's song in that voice.
You're a mirror song of moments for Life, so she can know herself better, and help us grow better from the experience of the words.
...
If AI can make it, it's not a poem; it's a catalog of poetry.
There's the image of a new dream of life held in compact words that pre-programmed intelligence can never create.
AI can only make what was and is possible, and not what never was possible.
Never what's new, always what's remembered, an expression, never a new value, always an old story matched with an old story to further what is, not create a space for what might be.
Life is a process of stacking dreams. If there are no new dreams, no new dreamers to dream them, even as healthy as a machine can make the machines of our bodies, it cannot further life itself.
Too much growth of the same makes jungles and swamps. Neither environment is healthy for human life to persist.
Urban AI proficient swamps create too much of the same to support what living truly is. Dreaming new dreams to create new experiences to feed new dreams.
This is how Art furthers Life and why it is so important.
Art creates new spaces to place Life to grow, new plots for our gardens of experience.
I do hope this journal, this tribute to the morning, grants you a new lens to view your life.
It's a record of someone whose sat with dreams, discovered their power to change one's life, and recorded the sights through the sound and shapes of language the best he could his whole life.
Hopefully they provide a peaceful, purposeful place for your dreams to grow.
Take care, dream a new dream, and have your better day.
+he Ghos+
A Secret Song
2025.01.08
2025.01.08
Good morning, that wonderful way.
"Time."
What a thing to say to someone just waking up....
That's a good alarm clock that replaces its buzz with the word time. Over and over and still (!) over again.
Throw that one against the wall and back to sleep, but only after you check the screen to check the time, time, time (!).
How are you?
Everything in order yet?
Ducks in a row?
Well, then, away we go.
Sunrise, daydreams, thoughts of you. Another morning in the mind of Wynn.
"Uh-oh. He's finally started referring to himself in the third person. Guru incoming."
- Concerned Reader
"Oh, relax. Wynn would never be so trite. There are much more artistically inclined ways to share his dreams."
- Agreeable Wynn
On with the show...
...
A couple hours before sunrise. Loveseated dog fed, still words to be said.
Is this working for you?
This whole morning journal business?
Still reading?
Thank you.
I don't know what I expected when I started.
Just a: "I'll store my morning journal on this blog, too."
Pictures work wonderfully with poetry, we'll get some on the site soon. Like when poets picked up guitars and turned rock and roll into an anthology of American Poetry.
See? It's medicine for your dreams.
Driving down the street to the beat of your favorite popular song. Don't sing the lyrics wrong!
What's said there helps define your dreams, gives you a new way to express yourself, a new way to expand the story called 'You'.
If you ever want to know what poetry is for press play on your favorite song with lyrics. Even if you just like the beat, you're reading metric verse.
The melody and arrangement of instruments and harmony are an extra tool to convey the message.
Words and rhythm are the only tools of a poet's craft.
Some might say it's more difficult to paint a picture with only words.
There's some truth to that, but it's only a different medium.
It's the audience that matters; it's how you take your music.
The potential for a closer internal relationship is there with only words.
The head voice we use to read is how we define our lives, how we make our days.
Poetry said is music out loud; poetry read is a secret song for your internal ears only.
There's not enough of it in our world.
When we share our dreams with words only, we find out we're not alone.
Touch can only do so much. But there is another kind of touch: Dream to dream.
Remember as you go through your day everyone you see is experiencing what you are now reading this. Making sense of their lives and what they sense with words.
Some, so many, so sadly, lately, keep that conversation, that self-story silently told, overly simple, rehashed echoes of other people's ideas of what is best for them.
What a shame.
Others can help you care for what you can feel; your heart beats similarly to theirs.
Your metaphorical heart sung to you by that great voice within you call yourself, can only be shaped by your own choice of how you shape your dream of life.
Your tools to do this are the words you speak when you speak silently to yourself.
Science can't measure you a right way to shape your dreams because science is a shaped dream shared.
Math is its language.
Options to the weather is all it can ever give us.
How we speak to ourselves, how we tell ourselves the story of ourselves, always determines what life actually means. How we dream our days is always the best hope we have for how well we can spend our days.
Take care of the weather called your body with science, save your actual self, the one who dreams, with music, brushstrokes and words, keep in mind everyone is doing the same, and have your better, share your better day.
+he Ghos+
Then I remember America's poets.
We have this thing, America's poets do.
Maya taught me that. We share it.
She read Edgar Allan Poe and called him EAP (rhymes with creep).
Maya told me, see?
After the first line of hers I ever read, she was Maya, Emily, Langston, and Emerson.
Hank Thoreau called him Nature Loving Wally, Boston's original Green Monster.
First names. Nicknames. Instant friends. Kindred spirits.
A poet knows a poet the same way we know poetry; we let ourselves.
We surrender to what we are: The great manic steady stream called life.
We are not Hallmark Cards. We are tougher than adamantium steel.
We write the day.
We stay the tide.
We steady our ride.
We notice.
We take notes.
We live our lives in the eye of the storm.
A warrior poet?
Is there any other kind?
+he Ghos+
Wynn
Todos
Todos estamos un poco locos.
Todos estamos un poco locos.
Todos tenemos un poco de genio.
Lo que no está en los libros,
La vida le enseñará a tú corazón.
Tu locura viene de la melodía del alma.
Tu genio viene de tú devoción a su canción.
Baila tú corazón.
Canta tú alma.
El latido del corazón de todos es un baile.
La sonrisa de todos canta una canción.
El mundo entero habla el mismo idioma.
Si quieres la atención del mundo:
Balia con todo tú corazón;
Canta con toda tú alma.
~ Wynn ~