The secret to excellent writing is to enjoy with ecstatic abandonment each letter and syllable we put down on paper. The pure joy of writing makes us successes; nothing else will. Those who tell us we have to struggle and sweat have not grasped true meaning in their lives. We need no approval of any human to be a success.
She comes in the night, sleek and evil.
Beware of the Night: this beautiful killer,
exquisite predator, demon.
Wolves roaming, blood thirsty.
She is waiting to devour your soul and your children.
When I am on my knees
& my head is bowed,
don’t count me out.
I am trying to decide
if I am coming back
as fire or ice, but
I am coming back.
Could you will to enquire where we are caught,
And why the ball of fire has not touched us?
Give it some time, give what’s been said a thought
Before you put your questions, making fuss.
Yet here we are, we fuss and fight;
We shout at dark and envy light;
We push we pull we play the game
Of right and wrong; the blame and shame.
Gleaming entropy through decaying eyes,
Whimpers not howls, gasping shade, not fury,
Slowly, swollen, sour sweetly, grimly we go, grimly,
Down the perfume river.
Author T C Weber is a morning person, and he begins his day with what he loves doing most: writing. In an exclusive email interaction with The Literary Juggernaut, Mr Weber, who is a member of Poets & Writers and the Maryland Writers Association, says when working on a novel, his goal is to write one scene each day, schedule permitting. ‘I ensure that I write something every morning, even if it’s just random thoughts or a few paragraphs. Long scenes may take several days,’ explains the author, who also knows to speak Spanish besides a bit of Russian and Japanese.
The stars greatly glowed when the night was young,
And the moonlight gleamed, glistened upon seas;
It looked as if the stars were lights well strung
By men who would prize nothing but calm, peace.
Why does such a powerful wolf as he,
seem almost shy in this game he plays?
So close yet just out of reach.
Listen, to the beauty and sadness as it resonates
throughout this night and my soul;
as he throws back his head
and opens his soul and song to this winter moon.
Pretentious men sat, watched the harm,
Recalling to word their dead thought;
Observed was chaos; there was no calm!
Farm laws were blamed and farmers bought.
Pandemic plagiarised plagiarised plagues
Plagued pure places, preyed ‘pon poor people
Plotted, planned, plunged persistently
Placed plain pain, pessimism, pricks
Pained planet proudly
It’s a whisper in the touch of his nose
on mine & the way it collides
with my skin;
how he feels like a phantom even
when he’s within
reach. Then again, he’s never
within reach anymore.
The morning did beam when the sunlight flared,
Awakening worlds then asleep in men;
It made them alight from their homely den
While raging winds clavered, determined, dared.
What gives us pure pleasure is after all loving those who do abhor us;
So you and sure I shall esteem those who hate us but not once defeat, trim
The strength we’ve attained hitherto by just being loved by those we’d hate, cuss.
Oh, he reigned in the field, fooling those watching him,
And he feigned innocence, made us believe his lies.
Hence, worlds that exist in our very small vision
Are just lies mirroring truth;
But what the true truth does is work illusion
Thus causing pain, agony, and ruth.
The waters of the seas are stilled
And the serene moon
Casts its benign regard
Over the placid scene below
Upon the seascape entire
Each who has wronged me does deserve to be abhorred.
And so, not once will I ever want to think that
No one’s my foe and that world’s friendly, lovely, great.
For I’m quite strongly of this sound opinion that
There’s no mates in the real world that we dwell in.