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Five misconceptions about poetry


Misconception Number 1 – Poetry must be written in eloquent language

Poetry can be gritty and raw, it does not have to be eloquent. Some examples would be poetic writings by rap artists like Tupac Shakur in his book “The Rose that Grew from Concrete.” After all, RAP is an acronym for Rhythm And Poetry. On a lighter side of things, Dr. Seuss, a genius in his own right, certainly did not use “the Queen’s English” if you will.

Misconception Number 2 – Poetry has to rhyme

Some types of poetry rhyme, some do not. There are a number of styles that rarely rhyme including modern free verse.

Misconception Number 3 – Poetry is always short

While the majority of poems do tend to be short, there is no rule requiring them to be so. In fact, some of the longest books, yes i said books, are considered to be works of “epic poetry.” One good example is “The Odyssey” by Homer. This work is more than 500 pages!

Misconception Number 4 – Poetry is for wussies

People sometimes associate poetry with over-sensitivity and wussieness if you will. However, quiet a few poets have been anything but wussies. Many wrote about social injustices and thus dared to challenge authority figures. I would say that takes some guts. On another note, Poe was an inspiration to the masters of the horror genre. There’s nothing wussie about that.

Misconception Number 5 – There is no money in writing poetry

While poetry is a very specific literary genre which does make it challenging, it is possible to make the art into a reasonable side job or even a modest career. A lot of poets sell their work to greeting card companies and get a fair rate for their work. Others  are able to format them in such a way that they work well as song lyrics and can thus be sold in the music industry. Those are just a few options.

Nature’s Masterpiece (A Poem)

One of my newest poems, this one is dedicated to the female form. I hope you like it.

Nature’s Masterpiece

The masterpiece of nature
Molded for a canvas fair
With piercing eyes enthralling
And flowing locks of hair

Painted with lips to kiss so sweetly
And sing in gentleness
Along with breasts to nurture
As well as to caress

Sculpted with curves so eloquent
And legs so well defined
Leading to the secret garden
Of life and passion combined

Intrusion – A Poem

By Amy Oestreicher

Whether I am the trespasser, alien
The outcast, the tortoise turned on its side
I can see the stream from here
And I long to dance with the source.

Can I fish for you, blue glimpse?
A glimpse of the word as it was intended to be?
The realism thrills me

In a world of
geometricshapes,painted signs,brightredautomobiles,

my hollow shell overflows with relief.
For I have now caught the world in coy disarray, in bashful asymmetry.
(I’m sorry I disturbed you – I had thought you were done changing)

But fair lilies in the stream, let me flatter you:

You are such unperturbed beauty; a beautiful mess
Some divine energy had a penchant for modern art.

This trail I stumble down begs to recount to me, pleads, “Can I tell you a story?”
Of What? What – some kind of archetypal tale to us with its paw prints, bird calls, freaks and daddy long legs crawling under rocks like blue crabs
Moist air
Shadowed filth
rocking trees comforting one another in this dark forest community.
Blue forest glimpse – you are my catch and my soul is your bait.
Here is my glimpse of the world as it was intended to be
Realism thrills me as the wind now thrills your branches.

In a world of perfect geometric shapes, of painted signs, of bright red automobiles…
I’ve wandered, lonely and seeking a friend, and I ask, can I belong?
I venture down and down further, and down.
I am a lone pebble, but unstranded, moving with the stream of wind that caresses the branches above me.

In each crumble, I breathe in the equalizing power of nature, of burgeoning love that transcends the limitations of being 5’3 when the trees are so tall.

The air sings and swells with a knowing comfort, a tune I have heard my whole life, as constant as the seasons

and now, I look up at the dense ceiling of trees and whisper, “Thanks.”
before even realizing that I had said it.

And now the dance begins! The dance that I can join too!
And the violins play, and there are brass, and winds, and chords, and reeds, and strings, and shrubs, pebbles, rocks, debris and slugs – sound and color and light!
Trees start to rock back and forth
dance with my awe,
They reply, “Yes.” Yes!

I am the lone pebble tymbling and tumbling, being shaped and molded by the ground beneath me, as it has beneath centiures and centures of lava and strata
And then I stop for I am stopped

A large oak tree firmly itself from the others.

I whispered to it, “Tree, sway for me…sway for me please…” it didn’t budge.

I’m lowered from my floating enchantment.

My soul-bait is anchored once again, as a fervent wind dodges
Corner to corner
Boomerang from trunk to trunk
Wind so dynamic it flickers like fire.

Wind so hasty it drenches flimsier trees with its own leaking madness.

All limbs of the forest shake madly now
All limbs of my body petrified with wonderment.

We are all shaking madly! dizzy and startled by the whippings of the delirious wind

Nature restores its internal pulse
The wind’s wrath quickly wearies
Smaller gusts
Internal pulsing
Even nature must sleep
Internal pulsing
prompts a limb of the stubborn oak tree to coyly bob up and down.
And the world was finally in sync.

I thank this forest sanctuary one more time before I leave.
I am a most welcome trespasser, and my shell is filled with burgeoning blue light

Goodnight, forest.

And all I could think about was how wonderful it would be to hold someone’s hand, staring at the trees together, in simultaneous awe, no words in our breath but all winds in our souls.

from your trunk


“From Your Trunk”  – Artwork also by Amy Oestreicher

Amy Oestreicher is a 28 year old actress, musician, teacher, composer, dancer, writer, artist, yogi, foodie, and general lover of life.  Surviving and thriving through a coma, 27 surgeries and other trauma has inspired Amy to share her story with the world through her passionate desire to create and help others.  Piecing her life together after her initial dreams of performing musical theatre took on a beautiful detour into broader horizons.  Amy has written, directed and starred in a one woman musical about her life, Gutless & Grateful, has flourished as a mixed media and acrylic artist, with her art in multiple galleries and mounting dozens of solo art shows, and continues to share her story through her art, music, theatre and writings.  More information on her unique story, as well as her creative ventures can be found at, and visit her blog for her newest art, music and inspirational musings.

The “rules” of poetry

When people first hear the word poetry…

beside the notion of eloquent language and the concept of emotional sensitivity coming to mind, they might often think about this form of literature as being filled with rules and structural regulations.

While classically poetry has had it’s share of rigidity and intense structure, this is not always necessarily the case.  For example, slam poetry would probably drive someone from the Renaissance era insane.

Personally, I believe that good poetry is not so much about structure and form as it is about emotion and the ability to convey a concept not easily stated in any other way. Hence the reason that I, and many others, do not always follow the so-called rules.

First and foremost, poetry is an art and as such should not be constrained. We all need to have our own rules to some extent.

My personal rules and guidelines

1. I either use rhyme or not. It seems clumsy and awkward to switch between the two in the same poem.

2. When I use rhyme, I tend to rhyme in a pattern of matching up either the first and third/second and fourth lines or a stanza of lines one and two then three and four.

3. I generally write 3-5 line stanzas

4. Modern free verse has always been a great stylistic friend

5. I rarely punctuate except for emphasis with a question mark or exclamation point or to separate items in a series with a comma

I figure hey, what the heck? After all, E.E. Cummings was known for his unorthodox and grammatically flexible style while the great William Shakespeare literally made up hundreds if not thousands of words.


Courtesy of Wikipedia

Subculture Story (A poem)

If you have a “freak flag”

Let it Fly

What good is denying

Who you are inside


If you look different

From all the rest

Celebrate your image

And revel in your uniqueness


Whether your skin be alabaster

Or your hair neon green

Let your true colors

Always be seen


Ballad of Me

Guest post by Clara Littleton


I am a girl, pretty and fair.

I like to wear flowers in my hair.

I care and Share with all I meet.

I worry about all the people without enough to eat.

I am a woman and think with my heart,

by this is only a very ..very small part.


Some days…. many days….

When this is me….

I want to race cars, climb mountains and play baseball.

these are the days I dread….

when the words come that I don’t like,

I don’t like them at all.


Dyke, bitch, confused and not doing my part.

Now that I think back, not so much.

The names are here no matter the garb.

Tom boy, whore

Biker bitch, tease

My long dress, they think I cover for shame.

Too long or too short,

look at those clothes. She’s such as slut.


She must be selling something, I bet it’s free.

Tits too small, or too big. They bet they’re fake

They stop and stare.

Is it my clothes, maybe my hair?

I wonder why they are still standing there.

I turn away.

I want to fight back.

I want to scream,

but these same venomous words are all that is available to me.

To label me.


Not girl enough, too much a boy.

I dance with spiders and snakes.

Sometimes they assume it’s all a fake.

Is it because I am a girl?….

To the man crying out to be allowed to feel.

This all makes my head whorl.

From the men too, pride they steal.


Rare day they dare,

To ask me, to be fair?

What label may we address?

I’m always caught so unaware.

Bo, girl, femme, masculine,

modest, outrageous, too skinny, tooo fat,

I sometimes forget where I’m at.


Lost in what I might be called,

They ask again, wanting to know it all.

I sigh, the words don’t mean a damn.

Not to me, or these people who have set me free

from these labels, schemes and plots.

They ask again, what label do you want?


Finally, I look up, filled with dread.

I feel sad and mad and wish I’d fled.

I contemplate one moment,

the words still flying free.

If you want to label me…

I remind them of civility.

Label me please but with the label I want….

Stop playing this game,

for the label YOU want.

For everyone it’s simply the same.

I just want you to ask for my name.

About the poet:

Carla is an accomplished educator and art enthusiast who also owns and operates her own artistic services and jewelry business Archaeotype Designs.

Unrestricted (A Poem)

This new poem was written while on vacation in beautiful central North Carolina, I hope you enjoy it.


Unrestricted by restrictive things

In nature’s realm from all things set free

Whether dawn or eve

What else can compare

To walking with feet upon the grass

And between trees reaching for the air

Nature shot by werner22brigitte

Nature shot by werner22brigitte


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