It’s commonly known that, once you post anything on the web, it’s not REALLY yours from that point on. Oh, we dream that it is. You’d like it to be. It should be. It is, technically, your intellectual property.
But an astute webber can take it, pirate it, plagiarize it, and post it wherever they’d like. Without giving you credit.
Sad, sad. This is the world in which we create.
Even with that little © next to your work, there is no guarantee. Of course you have the right to it! It’s yours! But sharing it with over seven billion other people creates a few holes in the secure compound of your expressive little self. Tu comprends?
And you may never know about that use or piracy–or you may know ways to find out (for which I applaud you…) Even as I search for images to insert with “piracy online,” I’m hunting for the right to use it. Is it free? Is it marked? Copyrighted? I worry about these things. With millions of blogs ‘out there,’ it may not be noticed–but it could be. So I look and do my best to not pirate others’ work/image/words/ideas.
Given all of that, I’m posting a poem I just finished. Am I worried it will be stolen? Not really, though it may be. Is it potential prize-winning material? Unlikely. But it is pure, original or not-so-much, honest and carefully-crafted ME.
I think I was born a Night Owl. I came by it honestly, via my dad’s genes. He loved working the Second Shift (4-midnight) and next, working Graveyard. I loved my scientist geeky-dad. We were to some extent ‘kindred spirits.’
When my kids were school-age and/or I worked at a Real/Crappy Job Outside the Home, I couldn’t indulge my owlish nature much. I had to get up early with them and do the school stuff; then after school, the sports stuff; then homework stuff at night. And then I was wasted. This doesn’t include the times I did everything during hub’s deployments. Thus, I was a very tired and somewhat sad Owl Person–but I did it. I survived.
With everyone gone and not having a Real Job now, I can indulge my hooty nature again.
Poetry. It’s writing. It’s creative writing.
I’m not great at it, but it fulfills some void in my soul, when I need to express something with a rhythm, something bordering on indescribable. In the hours before dawn, as it happens when us Owls are often afoot, it is quieter than any other time in twenty-four hours; almost a holy quietness. And the stars…oh, they are sublime. The sky, crystalline and pure.
Orion has been my favorite constellation as long as I can recall, and the one most visible right outside my sliding doors to the south for over twenty yrs.
I love the stars. I can relate to Tolkien’s elves in a most geeky way. Night’s never bothered me, but Darkness did–until I gave my life to Jesus, after which time I was truly set free of that fear. I could, and still can, walk in total darkness around my house, outside, in the woods or even a city, and am not afraid. Not oblivious to danger–just not afraid. It’s lovely.
Anyway. Here’s the poem. Try reading it aloud to hear the meter, the rhythms. I hope you enjoy it and will post a comment, oui? Please note the copyright symbol also. Ahem.
I find the quietest, stillest place
a silent shift, an empty space
where from a restless sleep, I pace
in darkness, before Dawn.
Beams of moon and sheen of stars
whispered rush of distant cars
seem all suspended, for their part
hushed, before Dawn.
Back door open, I stand listening
soaking up Orion’s glistening sword
of lights and nebula misting
show, before the Dawn.
No bird song or coyote yips
It seems Night’s finger’s on her lips
Shushing ’til all Nature sits
in reverence, before Dawn.
Listen, listen! Breath of wind,
holy stillness speaks of Him
calms the heart to sleep again
to peace, before Dawn.