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David Ehrgott Mar 2017
When I was a kid
I don't rem-ember exactly when
5, maybe 6, or seven
my mother was such a *******
she'd tell me to "go get the belt"

and I, like a dolt,
would go the the closet
in my room
grab a nice one
and return to her with it

Where she would
repeatedly strike me with it
this would go on for a period
of about four years

Until one day an old man
entered my room and witted
"Hey Kid! next time she asks
you to "go get the belt"
Go HIDE!

Unless you want to be beaten again
for being a go-get-'er"
I love you
not because
you're good looking

I love you
not because
you're caring

I love you
not because
you dote on me

I love you
not because
your smiles are sweet

I love you
not in lust
of your crevice
or orifice
or skin

I love you
because
without you
I feel

incomplete within.
David Ehrgott Mar 2017
PECAN SAM
as you may know the pecan is Mexico's walnut.
I left the dust and tumble weeds
to be incomplete and moved
back east to where I was born

The trees crowded together
There was a change in the weather
I asked mom ,
"Is that rain?"

The people were crowded
With one thought and mind
Everything was designated
to be black or white

We caught catfish from
the Alabama River
Swam in pristine streams
full of soapstone

Then we moved again
Crossed Texas on our way west
Crossed the continental devide
Came to rest in Spokane

I sang God Bless America
while sitting on a fire hydrant
Looking at the purple
mountain's majesty

Then off again back east
Crossed Texas the third time
To Panama City , Florida
where we came to reside

There I learned
to abide by the tide
And that some things
you can't hide

Two and a half years
of bliss
Then we moved
once again

And again and again
and again and again
and again , again
again , again , again . . . .

All my travels
All my travails
I have found home
in the moment within me .
  Mar 2017 David Ehrgott
Mike Essig
I am often asked this question in comments, private notes and emails.

The short answer is: I don’t know.

I don’t know if there is an answer or if I’m the man to even try.

First, there are probably as many ways to write poetry as there are poets. I can’t imagine any one size fits all template. That is too horrible to contemplate.

Second, my method is actually a non-method. I will describe it, but I doubt it will be useful or transferable.

I have been a fanatical reader all my life. I still am. I probably read an average of three books per week. This has been going on for decades.

I have been reading poetry seriously for perhaps 43 years, including being taught how to read closely by some brilliant professors as an undergraduate and graduate student.

This has deposited an enormous mishmash of poems, sentences, images, phrases and fragments in my brain. Add to that mishmash decades of reading across disciplines, especially history, philosophy, religion and novels. Imagine that mishmash slowly marinading and fermenting.

From that random accumulation, without provocation on my part, poems emerge. There is no order to this and not much effort. I just channel what shows up. I do some retouching, but little serious rewriting.

And there you have it: my non-method. It should be obvious why I doubt it will be of much help to anyone else.

I can give a bit of advice, but only based on my experience.

Love words. Love to learn them. Love to play with them. Delight in them.

Read as much poetry as you possibly can. I doubt anyone can become a poet without doing this.

Be patient. It takes a while for the marinade to work. I’m 65 and I only began writing seriously eight years ago.

Find your own method and your own voice. You’ll know when that voice is authentic.

And then, sing out.
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