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INSPIRATION

Original Works by Stephen Sifton





The book is called, “Emotions, Feelings, and Unique Ideas” and was published locally in 1992. Many of the poems were written in the summer of 1991 at Purdue University when I was 16. Funny how many of them apply now more than ever.


Loneliness


Loneliness is a type of half-crazed sadness
That often seems to lead into madness.

Loneliness often starts when you’re all alone.
You never have anyone with you to listen or talk.
You can’t seem to find a familiar voice on the phone.
Sometimes you just wanna take a long walk
But you realize you have no place to roam.
So that is when you find a blackboard and a piece of chalk,
And you start to write a little poem.


This is it...the big one. This is the one that I have had published several times in various places. It won a couple of awards (all minor, I'm afraid). This was my first real poem, and it is still my favorite. I was even invited at one point to give a lecture on this poem, what it meant to me, and what inspiration writing is all about. I wrote it in 1989 at the tender age of 14. --Stephen Sifton

Reflections in a Mirror


Everytime I gaze upon a mirror,
Whether it be square, small, round, or large,
I always see a different person.

Sometimes I see a romantic
He is always believing in true love.
Ah, how I hope his dreams come true.

Sometimes I see a writer.
He creates pleasure when he writes.
It's his dream; his life; keep on writing, writer.

Occasionally I see a joker.
A guy always goofing off, telling jokes.
Maybe one will help him, you never can tell.

Once in a while I see a kid,
Having fun, playing games,
But I am seeing less of him.

Most of the time I see an adult,
But he scares me, he makes me wonder.
I hope I don't see him for a while.

Sometimes I see a collector.
He collects odds and ends.
Never stop collecting, be a packrat; that's fine.

Sometimes I see an informer, a teacher.
He helps people learn, he teaches them.
Oh how I hope I can be more like him.

Occasionally I see a humanitarian.
He always helps everyone; he really cares.
I someday hope to be as decent as he is.

Sometimes I see a person who is sensitive.
He listens to your stories. If they are touching he will cry.
He loves everybody and I love him too.

But the guy who I like to see the most is a dreamer.
He is life and the future.
Although his head is in the clouds, he is my favorite.

Now, as I gaze upon this mirror on the wall
I see all of these people, and more,
For they are me, and I am them.

Now, I realize without any of these people
I wouldn't be fortunate;
I wouldn't be me, but only a dream.


My final poem. It is the last thing in my book, almost an afterthought. I believe that poetry can only be written if one is inspired to do so, and for some reason, everything about Purdue inspired me. I don't think I have ever felt more alive in my life than I did then. This poem kind of explains inspiration a bit. I can not nor ever could just sit down and write, I always needed some form of inspiration. The first stanza talks about an old oak tree which is where I wrote the majority of these poems.


Inspiration


Because from the leaves the inspiration falls and you will be hit.

Getting struck by inspiration is not a tough thing at all.
You just have to wait patiently for an idea to fall.

If the inspiration is growing bare, then you should move
To a different tree whose inspiration will fall and soothe.

If a tree is not your inspiration style just try to write somewhere else
Do you think that on this tree there was a computer shelf?

Actually inspiration is an unusual thing entirely
And describing it would definitely tire me.

I wish I knew how it happened, I mean how does it strike?
It can happen at any time whether you are resting or on a hike.

I like to think it happens as it blows by on the breeze
And a little bit gets caught up in the trees.

You hear inspiration calling like the song from a bird.
But when you have finished writing, you're not always sure what you've heard.

Finally, I would just like to say that you must write away from home
And I hope that you have enjoyed my small collection of poems.




This one was written in 1988, I was 13.

Writing a Poem

When you think up a line,
And you think it is fine,
Find a rhyme,
And you have your first line.

When you need a rhyming word,
Sometimes a little bird,
Who you have heard,
Will say to make up a word.

When you write a poem,
In school or at home,
Don’t let the phone,
Interrupt your poem.

People say,
“Rhyming words, not today,
Or maybe some other day,”
But let’s rhyme words, whatta ya say?

Late or soon,
If you write about a raccoon,
Or a crazy loon,
Your poem will be done soon.

Your poem has to end,
An end you will pretend,
Write about a friend,
And it’ll end.



This one is a Purdue poem that is just sort of poetic ramblings, hence the title. People were asking me why I was writing all these poems and I guess I was asking myself too. I really don’t care for this poem anymore, but I love the title.

Thinking Elsewhere

I often wonder whether if I have the right
To question the universe while I write
But then I ask myself “Why not?
This life is all I’ve got.”

My poetry may seem a little strange.
You might even think that I am deranged
The way I write about my inner self
Then the way dust collects on a shelf.

If you don’t like it, then just don’t read it
If you think that you don’t really need it.
If my poems sound good to you,
You are on my wavelength too.

If you are still trying to figure out
What my poetry is all about
Hang around and enrich your mind
And read about the things that bind.

If you know where I am going
Whether to Hawaii or someplace that is snowing
Or seriously where my poems are going to be soon
Like tomorrow, next week, or at noon.

If you wonder why I write this way
But it is not to your dismay
And you love it in this manner
Then you don’t need to make a banner.

All you need to do is create
Before a meal, or just after you ate.
Just whatever you may find,
I hope your poem makes more sense than mine!


A Stray Thought

Everyone is entitled to keep to themselves
But I often wonder if one is entitled to others.
Of course one has the right to love someone
But is someone entitled to be loved by another?

It is mentioned that true love is blind
In that case I will need a dog or a cane
Because my heart spots a young lady
But everything is then stopped by my brain.

I have thought very highly of everyone at some time
But sometimes because of my feelings, things get screwed up.
I never can express them properly
But then again I have never had to make up.

I don’t recall a warm fuzzy in my heart
In fact I have only one bright spot
Others brag how they have been loved over and over
But I don’t because I can not.

Sometimes I feel like life has no purpose for me
And there is no lover that I will be approved by.
No one to share a midnight stroll across a beach.
No one to sing a quiet romantic lullaby.

It’s tough being a true romantic, trust me I know.
But I must have faith; hopefully love will happen soon.
If it doesn’t I must still believe and wait for her.
I would just like a young lady to swoon.

Please someone clue me in that I am normal
I don’t always want to be unique.
Please tell me there will be someone to love me
Tell me that I am not a freak.

I am still waiting for her, whoever she might be.
And I could wait through all of eternity.
But most of all, make me a promise:
Tell me there is someone who will love me.

I just want to love her for life and then thereafter
I just want to be hers, and she would be mine.
She would be the one that I would live for,
But most of all, she is mine.


Thank You Mike!

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