A Mistake I Made
There is a question I ask myself repeatedly.
Why did I become who I am today,
a writer of songs, poems, short stories and novels?
In reality, I do not know, but I tell everyone who asks
it was simply a mistake I made.
Many will say I had it in me,
that I was born to do it.
Remembering how it started
I am not so sure of that.
It started with the words to a friend
if they can do it why can't we.
Now almost fifty years have passed
from that fateful day I picked up the pen.
If asked what I have achieved
in all that time of writing.
I would answer there is plenty,
but none of it is money.
My rewards for my writing
is bringing a smile to someone's face
someone whom I might never see.
The inspiration I have passed on to others,
but the best of all to me are the numerous friends
I have gathered from around the world.
poem by David Harris
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Golden Waves (The Aftermath)
As she walked away into the night
and left me standing alone,
it seemed an eternity before I could move.
I watched her silhouette
grow smaller and smaller
until it disappeared out of sight.
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
What was I to do?
In the days that passed,
the newspapers were filled with stories
of whom the world would
eventually call the fab four.
Their music echoed out from everywhere
as their coming had begun.
A dark cloud still hung low over me.
Working in the same place,
I often caught a glimpse of her
from time to time.
There was never any explanation
for her words that night.
As the weeks passed
I occasionally walked alone
along the shore
where we had walked together,
listening to the incoming tide roar.
One day while reading a paper
I turned to a friend and said,
“If they can do it why can’t we? ”
Meaning write songs like Lennon and McCartney,
and so began a love affair
that has lasted almost half a century.
I may never have got rich in money
like John and Paul did,
nor have women chase after me.
It did however give me one thing,
a reason to carry on.
10 March 2009
Authors Note:
In Golden Waves I described how my first real girlfriend got rid of me. This has continued the story to where I first started writing in 1963. The results of this love affair to date is 1307 songs and lyrics,1780 poems,164 short stories,31 novels,7 essays and 3 plays.
DVH
poem by David Harris
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In Loving Memory
A long time ago,1976 to be exact
a friend said I should go along
to a writing class he had joined.
Therefore, I did and met someone,
who was to change my life.
However, I did not know it at the time.
For the first couple of years he was simply my tutor.
However, as the years rolled on,
he became my mentor,
and most of all my friend.
For every year, we knew one another
the friendship grew stronger than before.
Before I met Maurice,
he had published four novels
and I have every one.
He started with A City Called Holy,
next came The Splendour and the Havoc,
and then The World and the Flesh,
and finally Across the Frontier.
He also wrote plays,
produced, directed and acted
in them with his wife Peggy.
When I met him his books
were out of print,
but through the years,
I found them one by one.
After a friendship that lasted
over seventeen years Maurice died.
However just before he passed away,
he told me how his local library
had approached him, wanting to know
if he had any copies of his books,
as they only had one left.
He did not and felt sadly about that.
As he told me, I made a promise to myself.
Not matter how long it took,
or how much it would cost,
his local library would have,
those books of his they did not have.
More than ten years passed from the time of his death,
until I was finally able to fulfil my promise.
I collected through the years
the books the library was missing.
In January 2006, I presented them to his local library.
It was a way of saluting a special friend,
helping keep his name alive.
I did it because of the special gifts,
through the years he gave me.
His friendship, his knowledge and help
with my writing no one had ever given before.
Therefore, any success
that I may ever achieve
can be contributed to him.
A gentleman of words,
my tutor, my mentor,
and lastly a very kind and special friend.
(For the late Maurice Callard)
poem by David Harris
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Why Do I Write
People often ask me why do I write,
unfortunately I have no answer.
I started when I was eighteen
when my then girlfriend
said we were through.
I said to myself
if the Beatles can do it why not try it.
I was lonely with nothing else better to do
and it all progressed from there.
The more I wrote the better I got
and now I don’t even think about it
as the ideas just come to me
and I write them down quickly before they pass.
When I started, my parents said
it was just a passing phase,
but here almost half a century has gone by
and that seems like some long passing phase.
Of course as I progressed, I experimented
with poetry, short stories and novels,
now my back library seems endless
and still I write more and more
jumping from one subject to another.
If I knew why I do it,
I’d bottle it and sell it
probably making a fortune on the way.
Sadly, the answer eludes me,
all I know is, I just sit with pen in hand
and the words come automatically
with line following line until I am through
no matter what facet of writing I am working in.
I never question myself about it,
but just let it happen and feel happy that it does.
Maybe sometime in the future
some scholar will give an answer to why I do it.
24 April 2011
poem by David Harris
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How Do You Write Poetry
There is a question I am often asked,
of which I have no answer for at all.
The question is a simple one,
how do you write poetry?
To be honest I haven’t got a clue.
With me the words just trickle out
one after the other,
if they rhyme that is great
and if they don’t, I just scratch my head.
I cannot tell anyone how to write,
for me it’s just a natural thing.
I write almost everything,
novels, short stories, poems and songs.
I have even written a couple of plays,
but that was a long, long time ago.
However to tell anyone how to write,
I would not know where to begin.
The answer I give to the question is simple;
write whatever you like good or bad.
It’s yours and be proud of it
no matter what anyone else has to say.
The more you write the better you will get.
However, the most important thing
that you should always remember and that is
that you write, write, and write!
9 November 2011
poem by David Harris
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Why I write
I used to feel, like a pain is in my heart.
When without saying a word, u depart
Here I m alone, remembering our memories
Had so much left to tell you my life stories.
As an alternative of you I started talking to myself
Not that good idea but still it was little relief
Not for long that idea worked, if It was too much miss of your.
Thought of writing my felling so I took a pen and paper.
Started writing stories n poems about my felling
And things that I had always thought of telling.
I feel I m near to you and with you I m talking
That's why I write. Even if my writings are not good and boring..
poem by Sushanta Rokka
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Dear Friend
i always love to write, as early as
gradeschool when we were classmates
while you were playing and chasing and stumbling
i just sat on the grass of the playground under a tree and scribble anything
and read a lot about some stories with lots of pictures
and colors of fairies and kings and queens and butterflies and bees,
i do not stop writing, in fact, writing has become my life
that without words i may die an instant death
i dream that i have written novels and stories and lots of poems
i wake up with some ideas like some seeds that i want to sow
and grow in the field and see them become shrubs and trees and forests
and i keep on this life writing and writing and writing and writing
for writing's sake and i wish i may live longer so i may write
some more, some sequels of my love stories and suspense thrillers
and write finally all the poems that are inside my mind
hanging like ripe grapes and creeping like vines on my fence
as i am writing now as you always want to read me
until such time my friend that i will die, or end my life myself (who knows?)
(i will not talk about it now, it is something bizarre and makes me
shiver, but who knows, well you know, all are but possibilities and nothing
but possibilities in this vast wide world of realities and dreams)
there is something i must say somehow
there is something that i must have forgotten, i have not written about myself
i have always written about them, about you, about the world,
please do not refuse me, stop playing with your life,
gradeschool ended
a long time ago, i have one and ultimate request:
write the story of my life, because it is you who only knows about it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Satisfied
When I started writing
almost half century ago,
I wrote for the wrong reason
and that was to get rich quick.
As the years progressed
one, two, five and ten
my reasons for writing changed
I began to love what I did.
As my love grew for words
the better, I got
and now I take my time
with everything I write.
Today I have what I want
a readership wanting more.
I could not of wished
for anything better.
They say life is what you make it.
I made mine with a satisfied mind.
I may not be rich in money,
but I have friends by the score.
Success is not about riches,
it is about being appreciated
for whatever you choose to do
and I have found my success now.
I live my life satisfied;
I am at peace with the world.
My friends stretch around the globe
and I cannot ask for anything more.
poem by David Harris
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A Revolution Poetry Is....!
Are you writing words of rhythm according to thoughts?
Or are you coining words of thoughts according to rhythm?
Or are you writing poetry both working at the same time?
Asking so, if they ask me how to write poetry, what shall I say?
Poetry writing is natural, spontaneous expression from heart!
How can this be taught to anyone to write poetry ever at all?
Poetry is a spontaneous flow of words direct from heart ever!
I wonder many a time how am I writing poetry at all ever!
But this is happening to my great surprise since longtime!
Due to engagements ever poetry only I am able to write
Though my aim in the beginning was writing stories.....,
Novels, short stories and nonfiction articles of criticism!
Poetry books too I have completed writing so since long
But what a pity there is no reception for poetry books...!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Small Time
small time, you call it small time
writing
is small time, there is no money
in writing, like a
politician, look at him, he does not
write, someone writes for him
and he gets the prize
the money
the pot
the jackpot
and look at you
you keep on writing
and writing
and writing
oh la la
poems, fit for a woman
her limited mind
her gullibility
her passion for words and words and words
her imagination
and look at you
poor man, poor, poor, poor
what you give
to this world, what are you giving to this world
it is not even a flower
just a poem for her, and you claim that you are winning her heart?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is Me
He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.
He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.
He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.
He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.
He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.
Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.
19 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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When I first started to get into writing, it was via music. I'd generate ideas for songs that would turn into stories, then they'd turn into novels. I was biased toward music.
quote by Irvine Welsh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Lasting Friendship
For Betty Burton
A friend for over thirty years.
It is funny just how time slips away.
It only seems like yesterday
when the two of us met,
long, long ago in 1976.
It was in September of that year
a friend persuaded me
to go along to a writing class
to help boost up the numbers
and my moral.
With just four pupils
and five when I came along,
so a small intimate group
all with the desire to write,
but Betty became
the most famous of us all
with over thirteen
historical romantic bestsellers.
She really has made her name.
I am proud to say
I was there when she began.
I remember when
she had her first short story published
it was a treat to us all.
If Betty could do it
then there was some hope for us all.
She even started teaching
and I was a guest speaker
at one of her classes,
and as the years passed on by,
we met up with one another
very occasionally,
but what remained
even to this day
was a lasting friendship.
About that
there is nothing more to say.
17 January 2007
poem by David Harris
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Goodbye
Digging a hole down in your room
I watched you disappear too young, too soon
And you run out of stories to keep them entertained
All of the vampires forgot your name
You forgot why you came here today
And so you ran away
I said bye bye bye
When the world has passed you by
I will never forget your name
Do you know why?
Millions of people know what you did
But when it hit ya, you ran and hid
From the money and muscle
The rules of the game
They bought your face boy
They bought your name
You forgot why you came here today
And so you ran away
I said bye bye bye
When the world has passed you by
I will never forget your name
Do you know why?
You forgot why you came here today
And so you ran away
I said bye bye bye
When the world has passed you by
I will never forget your name
Do you know why?
I said bye bye bye
When the world has passed you by
I will never forget your name
Do you know why?
song performed by by Fastball
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The obligatory annual festive write
The obligatory annual festive write
~
Another year has passed
That time has come again
To raise a glass in cheer and to pen
The obligatory Christmas poem
~
New friends have come and been welcomed
Old friends kept and loved
Now to find the time to gather
Share in stories of the year passed
The laughter and the songs
The memories in photographs
They still mean so much
~
And so the stories to come
Those nights which await
When we will laugh and sing
Cry be there for each other
To every month which lays ahead
Together we will face them
And capture in pictures and stories
A new year to remember
~
To every friend a hearty cheer
To all a happy new year
In this season of good will
Let us smile and find peace
Let us rejoice and love
And once more a poem to say
Happy Christmas everyone
Have a happy new year
xxx
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A Mirror Image
How many times when reading a book,
do we identify with the characters within?
Their traits they have we share,
their loves and heartaches
their lives go through somehow mirror our own.
It’s as if the author was writing about us.
As though he has put us under a microscope
and then writing down everything, he saw.
However, we know this isn’t so
because he or she has written
segments of their own life
and by accident they happen to mirror ours.
Every writer will tell you
that they have their characters under control.
Having written numerous novels,
I know the characters take on a life of their own
and do what they want to do.
We become their instrument as they guide us on our way.
We end up writing what they want us to say.
To every writer his characters are real,
they live, breathe and feel.
The more you write about them,
the more alive they become.
So the next time you pick up a book
and the characters seem real,
they probably are to the author
who looks after them.
24 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Fifty Years On: for Bastille Day 3
It seemed to me the mortal wrong,
the crime that marked her wretched
lay not in anything she did
but what she had neglected
nor could the woes of centuries
be righted by this course
but die she must, for otherwise
she simply was to dangerous.
The tumbril slowly started down
her shoulders shook from view
through the mud the jeering crowd
followed in pursuit
I thought a moment-should I go?
but so much blood had flowed...
I had no special love for blood
and there was work to do.
Long ago that fateful hour-
today is fifty years
since centuries of hate devoured
centuries of fear.
Maybe better, maybe not
than fifty years ago
the world turns now-but I have got
no less of work to do.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Marigold: Gloria Swansong
(sylvester / clarke)
The book I bought yesterday
I started to read
I found a small marigold
Pressed between leaves
And in that small marigold,
Well, I found a note
Saying, please wont you write to me
cause Im so alone
So Im going to write back today
Yes, Im going to write right away
I started dear marigold,
Not knowing her name
I just had to write to you
cause I feel the same
You sound like the marigold
That I found today
The beauty was there to be found
But fading away
So Im writing to you today
Yes, Im writing to you right away
As I started writing,
Well what can I say
I got to thinking
Where are you today
Brown leather cover,
Ripped, tattered, and torn
Its been such a long, long time
Since the flower was born
Theres no need to write back today
Im not going write right away
Just like a swan she is gliding,
Drifting from here unto there
She has no thoughts of dying,
Winter does not mean despair
Warm summer nights left behind her,
Thinking of things that shes done
Once were her friends all around her,
But now she is only one
Swan, swan keep your feet off the ground
Keep flying around
Its lonely youve found
You were left on your own
You didnt do right
Not to take off and fly
When your friends left that night
Chorus
Someday I know youll see something
That will bring back the memories of gold
Youll meet the friends that did leave you
No more to be left in the cold
And just like a swan youll be gliding,
Drifting from here unto there
Youll have no thoughts of dying
cause winter did not mean despair
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Waited Outside The World Of Wonder
I waited inside the world of wonder
The poems were coming to me night and day-
I knew I had a vocation at last
So I gave myself into it-
Year after year
For years I wrote poems
They came in and out of me
Like breathing
And I found them wherever I looked and walked
And took them home and wrote them down
And they became my song and my me and my life and my joy
And oh what a wonder it was to be simply to be
Writing them down-
And now writing this one down after so many years
I too still sing and wonder why God has been so good to me
And given me so much I simply love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Personal Journey
If someone had told me years ago,
poetry would make my name.
I would have politely smiled
and nodded yes,
and not believed a word of it.
I remember once
attending a poetry reading
and calmly getting up
and declaring I was not a poet,
and then wondered why everyone laughed.
They must have realised something
I did not know
that in fact, I was a poet,
of course, that was a long time ago,
and much waters
have crossed under the bridge of my life.
The doodles I once called poems
were in fact poems after all.
Some were much better
than I could ever dream of.
It took me a long time
and the internet to realise that fact.
Now I have started a new dawn
within my writing career,
taken steps down roads
I never thought I would go.
The journey has not been unmarked,
as I have gained so much more
than just becoming recognised as a writer.
I have gained so many friends across the world.
Something I could have only dreamed about
in my younger years.
17 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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Stories and dreams
Stories and dreams
~
Still writing stories and dreams
Into poetry the essence of life
Waiting to become written
Into a real memory
If every poem tells a tale
It becomes a step away from reality
A hope held, the fantasy
And all of it is beautiful
Even in the deepest tragedy
Sewn through verse to be spoken
In words carefully chose
Picked like flowers gently
Into the vase upon the page
Replacing dying laments
Picked so long ago
That even dreams forget
And so it goes on without end
Writing into the night
Stories and dreams all waiting
To become a real memory
poem by Matthew Holloway
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