Certain ideas impell me to express them in the form of poetry;  other ideas find their ways into essays and opeds. I'm not a person who writes poetry in response to highs or lows in my life, nor do I resort to it as a psychological release. When the form seems right for the idea, I go with it. This is neither right nor wrong - it's just how I respond.

Ghosts inspire the writer's muse 
As James types a staccato tune 
And Katherine hums her melody. 

Like the prickly cones of the longleaf pine, 
The seeds of the mind expand with new births, 
And creative surges feed the soul.

Fresh words sing from the spirit 
To form realities shaped in black and white, 
While the writer forges the chain of continuity. 

My childhood's summer streets were filled with
Hide-and-seek, kick-the-can, and tag,
Or high-water-low-water, here-we-come-where-from,
and may I.
Under street-lamps, jokes and secrets
Took turns with tremulous off-key tunes, 
While ice-cream and popsicles cooled
Our youthful energies.
And though the playmates faces fade in and out
In memory,
The essence of elation and play is as alive
In my spirit today as
Yesterday, last year, and years ago.