James C. Shearer: I have been writing poetry since 1967. That being said, my style has changed over the years, grown I hope, as I have. Then as now, I believe poetry to be of photograph or snapshot, if you will, of what my feelings are. Therefore, it is spontaneous and not something I can just sit down and work at - more like something that just happens. The work is in getting the words to match the snapshot of my brain and editing it to make sure the development has the proper lighting and contrast. I'm not much at blowing my own horn so I don't like to include a lot about me in bios. I have been the president of a Northern Michigan writers group called Writers North. I have published some poetry, mostly with a vanity type press though some have made regional newspapers. My favorite poets are as varied as the seasons, right now Robert Service and Eliot fill those roles. Hope you enjoy my snapshots.

A Sword of Fire

A sword of fire
ripped through the ebony
skin of coming night,
leaving purple drops
streaked across the sky.
The green, black hills,
on which the pommel rested
filled with a pool of red
from the dying suns light.
I wished for you to hold,
to be filled with the sight,
and so these words must do
    to give you
      a sunset.

Copyright 2000 by James C. Shearer

I'm Not Richard

A little introspection is a soulful thing
and I started these words
long before I knew Kincaid.
And I already know
he is not me, I not him.
Yet, as I wander around life
taking these little photographs
of words,
I see that his pictures of life
are no more than living.
We need not save the world
and only smile as we go,
Even knowing some pain along the way
and as I bare my soul here,
it's my way of saying -
"See, It's ok."
So I won't burn my photographs,
I'm not Richard, he is not me.

Copyright 2000 by James C. Shearer

Melancholy In The ThimbleWeed

There is a small mound
that I go to in my wandering.
It overlooks a grassy dell
surrounded by scrubby trees
that echoes the spring song
of tree toads in the bog beyond.
Here lost in contemplation
I seem to see below
a boy sprinting across the meadow
stained purple with knapweed.
Blond hair waving,
legs churning through waves of grass,
the breeze grabbing
A laugh tossed in the air.
At my feet are spread
pretty white flowers
growing in the grasses,
But I look beyond them
and seem to see a dark haired girl
wandering up the field
towards where I sit enthralled.
Even as the vision of her fades
she smiles in my direction.
I had reached to touch the sweet
blossom of memory
and pricked my finger
on the thorn of reality.

Copyright 2000 by James C. Shearer