when I was very young I somehow got into it with a book from the library ...and in high school someone that liked me wrote me a poem ... I use to love to wright poetry and still don't understand how I lost it ... maybe to many people I see on TV always trying to advertise their products with poetry... so I have become numb to it ... but on the other hand... how did you start writing or just enjoying everyone else's writes...

I started in high school in English class. I would make up long goofy stories and my teacher always loved that. If you write mystical the desire is still with you. You could be going through writers block. It has happened to me many times until something inspires the feeling inside again. Don't give up on it. I enjoy writing it and reading it. I write what I feel and I feel what I write. May the desire within you resurface again.

thank you so much ... I really wish it would ... I have so many feeling bottle up where as poetry ....always help me release them ... from time to time ...

I started in middle school. I loved writting it was my way of expressing myself. I lost it along the way as many do. Real life suffocates it I suppose. We get older we find life isn't what we thought when young. Now I make Halloween props my way I suppose of putting faces to my monsters. Still expressing myself just in a new way. I do miss writing and everything I felt when doing so. I remember waking many times a night. Just to write something down that came to me.

that is cool ... have you posted your props ... maybe now that the season is changing and getting colder ... I might try and write again ... in here ... like you some of my ideas come before I fall asleep ...

I never have I've show a few to people. Then my sister says hey take orders then you can sale them. So I make and sale them now. It's by order so I don't have tons around the house. I've had people over when I had I think five in my living room . Is definitely a conversation piece.

I wrote poetry until high school too..I kept my poems in a folder and somehow when I went to college I left it at the university..i tried to blog and write more ... I think its because I didnt share my work with others is the reason I stopped writing regularly.

So true! Sleepy thought bring mystic mysterious prose..

A poem I like really a lot is called "Catalogue" by Rosalie Moore, and that's because I like cats so much.

I am John. New to this community here. Some interesting topics here, and they reminded me of when I was 11 years old and because my parents split, I ended up living with my mother in a different district. Changing school was a wrench, and there were no kids of my age where I had moved to. So, being alone a lot, and because the only amusement I had was my guitar, I began writing lyrics. Words for songs just came to me anywhere, anytime of day. I began sending a few off to publishers where I soon found brick walls before me, no matter what genre I wrote for, or which publishers I sent my songs to. I could have filled a scrapbook with those dreaded rejection slips they send which never explain why the song is not for the popular market. Anyway, I am now in my early seventies, and playing guitar and writing lyrics are still two of my hobbies. I just wondered how many people have had similar experiences? Well, that's got something off my chest.lol Thanks to anyone who reads this. Take care. John

Thanks for sharing hermese11

On the Ning Bang Nong

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!

A poem, for children, by, Spike Milligan

For some reason it has always reminded me of
Kubla Khan written by
Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Kubla Khan

Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Wow
Never heard that before
That's pretty darned good, and that's an understatement
I genuinely haven't got a Scooby Doo, why a children's nonsense poem, by the much loved comedian Spike Milligan, would remind you of it
But again, amazing, thanks for sharing

one of my favorites.... tiny, but stack on.....
---------------------------------------------------

And the rain was brain colored....

And the thunder was like something trying to remember something....

Stan Rice~

(Anne Rice's husband)

I am indebted to him. Spike's "Bad Jelly the Witch" was one of my favorite stories to wake up to, when children's stories were on the radio. We used to wake up at 7 am to listen to those stories.

Brevity mastered right there.
I love it, makes you think