Author Robert Stubblefield started writing around the age of ten. As a matter of fact, he began composing poems at the time as a way to cope with the loss of his grandmother. Speaking exclusively to The Literary Juggernaut, the twenty-eight-year-old American author and poet, who is currently residing in Maryland, the US, says poetry has always helped him express his feelings towards the world around him. Emphasising that he usually writes when he has the urge to pen down his thoughts and whenever he feels low, Mr Stubblefield, who holds a bachelor’s degree besides two master’s degrees, says he composes poetry so he may articulate the deepest of his thoughts in ways he cannot do when he happens to be speaking.
In the mountain where I grew up,
There is a lake that no man has ever seen freeze.
It is not the biggest, but it is the deepest.
I always looked round in your universe
I noticed that others had lives that were worse
So why years of drinking to blot out the pain
I have lame excuses but I just can’t explain
You are a dire necessity I know, O Poverty
Much have I had of you all my life
And long to have you all the more of yours.
Thousand of whirling stars speckle the inscrutable blue curtain
graciously displaying a jubilant dance before the eyes of curious night owls,
accompanied by soul filled, hidden noises,
enveloped by the warm numbing scents of the vegetal creation.
I suggest you now grasp that heart’s core
Is illumed by none but God; thought ain’t vain.
Same is force that guides the worlds galore,
One birthed by a chaste woman. Prized lore!
But I suppose there is no fun
In leading what you’re leading – gruesome life;
You think not of superb acts dropped
Before you say the thoughts that stay well popped
Until slain is the mental strife!
And goodness goes on to stand sadly done.
Lambasted love couldn’t even minds
That shall float now, forever,
Be born again to be dead, gone.
That is life’s nature; it quite binds,
Creating love in ways clever
In order that worlds may move on.
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.