Write
Thoughts on writing from a poet's point of view...
The Instrument
2025.01.30
January 30, 2025
Good morning, that wonderful way.
O/ Hello, again.
Welcome back to another installment of Wonderful Ways: The great ways to start your days.
Hope all is well.
On with the show.
...
Transition day, something in the air. A positive one.
They're all positive; they're all for growth. Some lessons are best learned with a calm, peaceful, cheerful spirit.
Been sometime since I had one of those... these.
A good day. Sometimes you just know a thing. Today is a good day.
About time.
Gather up your smiles and gratitude Ghos+, time to shine.
Hope you're feeling the same.
Most times it's a revelation, a new way to see your life.
Sometimes it's a physical thing, something in your environment changes.
Same circumstance so far. It's early as these entries often are.
Shouty Capped Early.
It's interesting to review older entries and themes in relation to the time of the post. What I was thinking on and when.
Knowing the words are public, the site's become more conversational. O/
I prefer it. Hope you do, too.
There's plenty of space for essays in other places.
Also, the instrument used to make the entry changes the subject's focus.
There's more practicality, more socially aware, material in keyboards.
Warm, creative descriptions and depictions of Abe, the sunrise, the moon, the personal, the days doings, lend themselves better to the pen.
I prefer the pen. There's a closeness a step or two away on a keyboard.
It's there, it's just the cold of the keys need cajoling to get to it.
As 'poet' is the job title, the words are best served, for me and by me, with a pen.
If I were writing a current event news article, or a beach read novel, I might lean towards the keyboard for the quickness there.
Thank you again for reading. It means the world to me.
Take care, calmly considerately do your best no matter your instrument, and have your better day.
+he Ghos+
The Sun Thinks You're Important
2025.01.28
January 28, 2025
Good morning, that wonderful way.
Up and at 'em.
O/ Your friendly Ghos+ to wish you a better day and plop a post on the blog.
On with the show.
...
Slow word rhythm this morning. What do the words want to say?
Obvious things.
Abe on the loveseat, deeper sleep than usual. Good dreams for the good friend.
The slow sunrise of winter taking its time.
Like the words.
How are your words? Easy to find?
Where do they stay before we say them? Memory hills? A great human server called History?
What else to write about but miracles?
Magic, perhaps?
Magic is what's undefined.
Easy to find with a sense of wonder.
Some of the best writing comes on a stubborn day of words.
The world hasn't said it yet and wants you to.
Like translating an ancient language, the sense of language shows, but what's it saying?
Words missed and missing.
We haven't changed much over the millennia. Better structures to live in, better ways to communicate.
What we want to tell each other remains the same.
About how our life, our particular experience of life, matters.
We have something to offer because we're here. Our life matters because we are matter. We have something to contribute because we share this space called Life.
We deserve recognition because we can be recognized.
The Sun thinks you're important enough to see.
That's enough proof for me.
Take care, recognize you're worth Life, and have your better 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+
Stuff for the Dark
2025.01.22
January 22, 2025
Good morning, that wonderful way.
Starlight, star bright first star I see this morning.
Early.
Even for me.
Most of my life is an exercise in getting to a page to put down words to make sentences.
Once you find something, someone, you love the day becomes a process of getting to them.
Once there the day is only a matter of enjoying the moments made possible by the effort.
Early mornings and late nights always went best for me. People can be so disruptive with their expectations.
The world was loud, soft, sick or well-enough.
It's easier now. The days are more temperate being tempered by the insistence they are.
A quiet room, a place to shine, to write, to dream. My goal for most of my life was to get there.
Every checklist of a day's events included one word: Write.
When I reached remission, I made it the only word on the list and built everything around it.
Life is too precious; do what you love.
Don't make time to do what you love; do what you love.
Make every other action in your day support doing what you love.
That's how to have a good life.
That simple.
"C'mon, Wynn. Everyone can't just do what they love. That would be chaotic," you say.
No. That would be Paradise.
There's more to what we love than what we want. There's a richness there, a dream fulfilled.
So much we have is unnecessary. So much we have we think we need is, too.
Our movement towards minimalism is a sign deep down we know this. We keep what brings us joy, what serves our dream, and let the rest go.
They're thoughts to help myself.
I hope they help you, too.
Closer to sunrise...
An Abe-rolls-his-eyes-at-me-it's-so-early morning.
How are you?
Well, I hope.
The quiet before sunrise is best.
Potential. A reliable punctual friend, the Sun.
There's only so much we can write about the Dark.
We call him Mr. Lights Out, but he's the default state.
Sunshine is extra. Sunshine is stuff for the Dark.
Hippies and their 'We're all stardust' business are right.
Perhaps one day our physical science will come to its empirical senses and include light and color in every equation.
Light, whatever that is, is the only building block of matter.
A blackhole filled with starlight, that's the Universe.
Gravity, the push from the fire.
The Sun's not getting closer; we're fading.
Dreams make a place for the light to go.
Enough of that on another day.
I do hope you're well. Take care, (you little dance of starlight you), rocket scientist or hippie, and have your better day.
+he Ghos+
If you're interested, there's more posts about me here:
The Dream's Picture
2025.01.03
2025.01.03
Good morning, that wonderful way.
Sleep much?
Yes, or no, away we go.
Feels like a Transition Day this morning.
That something so intangible we call it only something and wait for the time necessary for a better word.
Stubborn. The words want daydreams before lines. Usually a sign something new, something excellent, some interesting insight is on the way. A new route on an old highway that makes the trip more comfortable and convenient.
Maybe, if you're lucky, gives a better view, too.
It takes years at writing before you can call walking away from a piece working and not procrastination.
How we are while we write goes into the words, into the tone, sets the rhythm.
Some dreams aren't finished with their daydreams enough to get real.
Try to push through their resistance and all you write is the struggle with the picture you're painting and so, don't show the dream's picture itself.
Write something else.
Check-in time to time to see if the other dream is ready for pixels or canvas or musical notes.
If so... away, you go.
You'll know because there's a new level of comfort there.
It's a time-out not a walking away.
Everything takes time to grow.
No worries, there's always plenty more to write about.
Take care, listen to your dreams, and have your better day.
+he Ghos+
Frost's Shooting Range
Rode around Frost's farm.
Rode around Frost's farm.
Windows are boarded white.
Closed sign. Historic landmark.
The grass out back is mowed to look like a shooting range.
Hard to see the birch trees through all the saplings,
Shot up young since Route 28 was paved over.
Something about honor and profession and the poet Frost,
And his swinging trees colored over with brittle pines
To keep the scenic route of a poet looking scenic.
A skyscraper touched a sequoia
With a certain kind of light
In a certain kind of eye.
~ Wynn ~
We call it poetry for the ear,
But that’s not where we hear it.
We call it poetry out loud,
But it’s an inside job.
We call the meter measured.
We call the measure divine.
I call the words: All Words!
Sweet- Sweet -Tweet-Tweet
Twitter-Tatter- Beat-Complete.
A feat- of the feet- of the stomp,
Of the never pomp- of the heart.
We call it poetry for the ear,
But that’s not where we hear it.
~ Wynn ~
If the sky and the horizon bent properly,
I could see those paper barked birches.
Autumn -swung and knocked- swung and knocked
Oak and ash and spruce and pine and even
Evergreens
Grumbled.
Fat chirping squirrels bent trunks down.
Elasticity whip snapped shot them back up.
I crooked my neck waiting for the dome of Heaven to burst.
Home ten miles south of mine watching for Frost on the birch branches,
To shatter Coke bottle pieces on the bracken of autumn wet.
My whole young life long waiting for you to crash back down,
Back home;
You never did.
You must have found a better place for love.
You must have found a better place for love.
~ Wynn ~