Most of the work I do involves narrative publications such as novels, biographies, and such. Unfortunately, today's publishing world is all about money. In order to publish, the work has to be marketable. For poets, that isn't very good news. I've said this before. Poetry is a dying art. Sure, there are people who still enjoy poetry, but the hoards of people rushing out to buy books of poetry is slowly diminishing. That isn't to say that no publising companies publish books of poems. Some do. However, if you think it's difficult to publish a novel, then publishing a book of poetry is torture.   I'm a big proponent having patience and using the system. I tell my clients to polish their manuscripts and send query letters to agents and publishing companies. I tell my clients to 'keep at it.' I tell them to self-publish as a last resort. However, with poetry, I have different advice. I think it's very prudent to self-publish poetry. Your work can be distributed to those who know you best, and if you're work is good enough, friends will give your book to friends. It's a great way to get you name out there and have your words live on 'forever.'   I suppose I need to take my own advice. My grandmother was a talented poet. Though she never published her work, she did have her poems printed into booklets that she distributed to family and friends. Her poems are magical. I've been told that I need to publish them, but I fully know the daunting task that comes with publishing poetry. I have been thinking, however, about self-publishing her poetry. I think that's a great idea.   What are your thoughts on the art of poetry? Do you think it's difficult to publish poetry? Do you believe that self publishing poetry is a good idea?   In honor of today's blog, I'll post some of my grandmother's spring poetry

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The gardeners with their plows

Are turning over the earth

Preparing beds for little seed

That soon will sprout in birth.

 

The children of yesterday

Felt the earth between their toes

As they followed Daddy’s plow

Up and down the garden rows.

 

When his plow overturned the wiggle

Of a redworm ‘twas a signal,

Then and now, to shout and sing,

“Hallelujah, it is spring!”

 

With the coming of springtime

There are songbirds and flowers

But when I was a child

We spent many hours

Down on the creek bank

With old tin pails

Dipping for tadpoles

We found without fail;

Where a fall in the water

From a crossing log

Was just part of the price

For capturing a frog.

 

Our captives were carried

In fruit jars to school

Where they swam ‘round and ‘round

Like fish in a pool.

Fascination grew daily

Throughout the classroom

As tadpoles lost tails,

Growing legs very soon.

 

O herald the spring

Songbirds and bright flowers

But when tadpoles compete,

Try not to look sour.

 

Spring is calling my attention

To the merry month of May

Where out in the rural areas

Wild daises have their day.

 

Clusters of pink roses

Climb old fences here and there

And white magnolia blossoms

Are seen most everywhere.

 

The woods are lush and green

Where wild life romps and plays.

I think of Sherwood Forest

Featuring Robin Hood’s day.

 

The songbirds are a ‘twitter,

Each sings a different way.

Queen Anne’s lace blooms in meadows.

What a lovely display.

 

Yet there’s something that I miss

In the merry month of May.

Could it be the bare-foot children

Playing games of yesterday?