Poetic Shutterbug

The Art and Craft of Poetry. You wake up in the middle of the night. It is 3:00 am and you cannot get back to sleep. Ideas, street scenes and dreams swirl around in your head activating your creative membranes with words that you know you will forget by dawn. What do you do? Always keep a pen and paper by your bed and jot down those words and ideas. No need to form those words. Those words will become meaningful as you meld them together with your ideas during daylight hours. The craft of writing poetry does not adhere to the 9 to 5 seven day week venue. Poetry comes to you when you are least expecting it and when you are open to its visit. If you treat poetry as a job it will inevitably fill your days with writer’s block. Poetry is born of the heart and soul and not the brain. The heart holds the poem and the brain forms the style. The following quote by poet Lucille Clifton most adequately describes poetry in its most raw form. “I think that we’re beginnin...

I am extremely excited to announce that my new poetry book titled Quietude is available at:  https://www.createspace.com/6903990   Here is a brief synopsis: Experience a poetic journey through life and love from the city by the bay to the streets of Hong Kong and back. Quietude speaks to cultural diversity with a focus on peace and tranquility. The connection between music and nature provides a melodic read through this collection of poetry. You will gain insight into different cultures and traditions and explore each moment through the eyes of a poet who treads softly upon this earth with a serene heart and peaceful mind.    Quietude    quiet envelops the trees  leaves speak foreign tongues  ancient manuscript    Poetry is the song your spirit writes.

First let me say that though I never have been able to relate to Charles Bukowski in any way, shape or form,  this quote was perfect for this particular blog post. There are those of us who have careers, those who work regular jobs to pay bills and put food on the table and those who have no income at all.   I have never been career minded at all.  I have always wanted to write poetry and take photos.  However, I was never able to make a living on these creative pursuits.  I have been paid at times, I have won awards and a trip to Hong Kong for my poetry of which I am very thankful. I work the everyday 9 to 5 as most people, though in my case it's 12 to 8.  It's easy to complain about a job as Bukowski has so bluntly described with the above quote.  We all complain to some extent about our jobs.  I know I do, until I "saw the light" so to speak about what I do each day. My main job is to take photos of products and write descr...

Photo by Joanne Olivieri Poetry by Liz Paez I was given these two poems by a friend of a friend. It touched me in such a profound way that I see life in general a little different as a result. These poems are raw and poignant and come directly from the heart and soul. Poetry is born in the soul and these two poems clearly display that aspect. Life is fragile as so eloquently versed through this poetry. Being of such a personal and tragic nature, I want to personally thank Liz Paez for allowing me to publish her poems and to Julie for sending them to me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Let me give you some background on this first poem. Liz's Grandma was killed in December of 2008. Little information is known except for how she was found. Based on that information and the events that happened that day, Liz wrote this poem - I guess Heaven Couldn't Wait. I Guess Heaven Couldn't Wait I guess Heaven couldn't wait To d...

I first met Pat St. Pierre when she submitted A Taste Of Summer to Ya'Sou ! ezine for publication. Her poetic voice is such that she can artistically express her thoughts within a simple yet complex imagery that not only entertains but tells a story. Her poetry is reflective and ground within her own roots, calling on memories and the complexities that life hands us. When I found out she had published Theater of Life I was thrilled. I knew I was in for a treat and decided to read this book while out in a nature setting so that I could involve all the senses clinging to her words. Her poems are telling, they have meaning and are written with care. Metaphor is highly present and regarded in each verse with endings that have the reader contemplating life as in the poem - The Woman in Me As a child vibrant colored leaves were gathered on autumn days and preserved in picture frames. The woman in me views autumn as God's angels having painted a majestic array of colors. As...

I have had many requests to bring my ezine back to life. The thought of creating a brand new site or blog gave me hives :D. I just don't have the time. However, creating a new page on this blog was easy and alot less time consuming. So, I give you Poetic Shutterbug Ezine and ask that any of you writers who wish to share your poetry/haiku with us, please do so. Just visit: http://poeticshutterbug.blogspot.com/p/poetic-shutterbug-ezine.html and follow the guidelines. The ezine page will be promoted as actively as my blog. Your poetry will appear at the top of the page as it is posted. And, you can include your own blog or website link. I don't know how to make separate posts on the new page and I don't know if it can even be done. If anyone knows, please let me know. So, the post will be continuous. Any questions, post them here or email me. Thanks and have fun.

The photo above taken by me at the Botanical Gardens. The poem below was written as a tribute to me by a dear friend and fan of my work. Thank you so much, Chey . ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Artist Images of God's creation captured forever, Frozen in time by the photographer's hand; Nothing specific, whatever tickles her fancy, Spontaneous creations, crafted not planned. Commonplace objects like auto headlights, With talent and creativity now seen as new, A tilt of the lens, a magnification; They all come alive because of this poets view. Images taken at The Botanical Gardens, Photographs of buildings and people far away; Exotic images, tourist treasures captured, Her own personal reflection of a grand holiday. She speaks to others in words and photos, An artist with a unique point of view; Freely sharing her gifts with other, The gift of an artist, honest and true. Cheryl Oertli (c) 2010

there are not many people out there who will understand the reality of difference the oneness of being alone and the loneliness of isolation the dream desires wish the kiss of the world laid upon my lips placed with the ease of the sun rising so effortless such a flow like waves of nothing more and to see something more than myself every time i look in the mirror the eyes staring back have lived millennia having held every drop of Life in flows of tears of blood to drink upon my name my words my uplifting soul with no expectations of receiving such a beautiful gift my selflessness for you the love i offer up like a sacrificial idiot dumb to the nature of the Beast having spared my soul for the eyes of another and yet through time through my death and birth each life i have ever lived is filled with daily omens reminders of JUST who i am and what i am and will never be another like identical to this difference that is Me. by Leonardo Minjarez

midday moon whisper sweet dreams dusk until dawn

Poetry by Taylor Graham and Photo by Joanne Olivieri (Poetic Shutterbug) I really did not have a photo that fit the poem but for some reason I liked the above pic with the verse. Enjoy! HOME IMPROVEMENT We’re blackbirds in search of a nest here, among the aisles that taste of new-milled lumber and sawdust in fluorescent sparkles, leading to the Paint Center with its color-chips that ring like china in a farmhouse cupboard. I run my finger over cool adobe tile and carpet samples that smell of tabby fur, a hearth cat who lives at peace with blackbirds. No, a blackbird barely survives here, out of the rain that artilleries the roof; he lives on bolts and wing- nuts, disappears into high-gloss Ebony. You’ve got your cart loaded with rolls of stockwire fence and studded T-posts we’ll haul home to drive into bed- rock-mortar, throwing a line around old Miwok kitchens that were open-air to ridge and canyon before this range was subdivided. Miwoks gone out of mind like birds in th...

sunbeams caress her dreams dance upon Mother earth a portrait of peace

Photos taken by me @ The San Francisco Botanical Gardens This is a guest post by Taylor Graham. Taylor, I so much appreciate your loyalty and friendship. Thank you so much for your poetry. HOPING FOR SPRING Gray sky lowering with just a horizon-line of light that moves beyond you. The apple tree’s white petals promise fruit. Tonight, storm. Will weather strip each bud? Wild geese whispering – they’ll fly before morning: March sounds its call of Leaving. On the hilltop, one bare oak. Remember, leafless trees still can blossom with wings.

From my PhotoScapes Unleashed Series Tainted Heart Fiery venom pervades darkened arteries love, a dying flame

Born in Portland, Maine on February 27, 1807, Longfellow was and still is one of the best loved poets of all time. Henry was an active boy, sometimes quick tempered but always sensitive, impressionable and creative. He loved song and dance but did not enjoy excitement. He began school at 3 and by the time he was 8 he studied halfway through Latin grammar. His Father’s extensive library of Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and Dryden, just to name a few, lent to his early curiosity of poetry and writing. At the early age of 13 he penned and had his first poem published by the Portland Gazette titled “The Battle of Lovell’s Pond.” The poem was highly criticized at that time for being unsymmetrical and and unoriginal. However Longfellow was not discouraged. By age 15 he passed the exams for Bowdoin College and studied with well known writers to include Hawthorne. Although his Father wanted Henry to study law he spent a year at Cambridge college in study of general literature. His extensi...

Both photos taken by me -View of my Street from the Great Highway along Ocean Beach The wind caresses my face while I follow cotton candy clouds dancing against blue skies. Seagulls gracefully swirl above while black hawks hover over sand dunes. The pounding of waves against the shore reverberate in a familiar echo as an aquatic symphony permeates the salt air. I breath and inhale the refreshing sounds in a moment of sheer joy. When all of a sudden, the silence interrupts. The birds mute, the wind quietly slapping my cheeks without even a whisper and the waves lost. Heavy footsteps, my own, are all I can hear amongst the dead solitude despite the colors of life surrounding me. For a moment, the deafness brings me to a place of relentless despair. A place where complete quiet resides and my ears no longer exist. Sounds escape me and I am lost in a world without life.

There are so many beautiful poems and songs written in celebration of Valentine’s Day. The 19 th Century poets in my opinion had a monopoly on love poetry. However one of my favorite love poems is The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe. It is simple, descriptive, an excellent style and you could basically just feel the deep sentiment in the poet’s heart while reading the lines. It’s the type of poem where the imagination comes to light and you feel as if you are in that setting. Sometimes simplicity is the essence of beauty and I think this poem proves that point. Have a Happy Valentine’s Day! The Passionate Shepherd to His Love Christopher Marlowe Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of ...

Photo by DK Miller of the Shutterbug Eye @ theshutterbugeye.blogspot.com GRANDPA REMEMBERS The river in its rippling sheen of patterns green and silver, blue with sky, rocks, trees inverted, sound of silkworms on mulberry leaves, soft water-sounds of Mother spinning, reeling threads from boiled cocoons twisted into yarn, spools he holds as she weaves a fabric, then knits the silk to stockings for so many children in that low-built room by fire- light, shadows in the upper loft – no attic in her house of rich scarcity, of getting along with God’s blessings. A cushion if a guest should call... the childhood home a man can never see again. How far he travels, year by sunny afternoon before he finds this very night’s bed, and lets sleep’s river-currents over-flow his mind. By: Taylor Graham

This is a guest post by my dear friend Leonardo Minjarez . He is a wonderfully talented poet and photographer and I am so thrilled to have his work showcased here. Enjoy. If you would like more information on Leo and his work please contact me. Thanks. The need to make sense of such Darkness i will write and write until my fingers bleed and my heart has healed (which ever comes first?) for to hold back these torrents of thoughts rain pierced my mind and fester to sore my blackened heart upon spikes of your smile impaled by words you had spoken and the touch of flesh encased with crystalline sweat and your eyes oh your eyes how could one forget? the need to dive into the pools of your soul endless endless forever night as i would gladly wrap myself among the folds of darkness and be led by the Devil himself into a world of your eternal bliss.

Ocean Beach in San Francisco This is a guest post by my buddy Mitch Marcus. It is a raw, passionate and compelling poem. I want to thank Mitch for his contribution to my blog. You can visit his blog by clicking the link at the end of this poem. The photo above was taken by me at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. Enjoy! To Love Is To Live I miss her so much I will patiently wait for her For the rest of time I dream of redemption Of receiving a short note That asks Will you come to me? Half way around this world Will you come for me? Yes, I say I will cross the oceans And ford the rivers I will come for you I will listen harder I will see clearer I will speak less I will love more Although that seems impossible To love anyone more Than I love you Than I had loved you Than I will love you I miss her so much So much that I cry on a perfect day I miss her And I will wait Forever http://theargus.today.com

Photo taken @ The San Francisco Botanical Gardens Sing Me Sweet dedicated in memory of my Mom Sing me sweet to sleep Sing me hope to fly Sing me dreams to keep your sweetest lullaby.