On the passing of a colleague's mother
Sleepwalking to make sense of the frailty and helplessness
pitted against the memory of compassionate invincibility,
teetering on the void, trying to be of comfort while searching
glistening grimaces and straight-lipped smiles for the same.
With more bitter than sweet bittersweet finality
that comfort arrives with a new companion; uncertainty.
The void is flooded by trickling droplets of sharp memory
framed by delicate, embroidered remembrance:
Warm, consuming smiles from eyes to lips to soul
Sage advice given unsolicited
Concern provided as freely as exhaled breath
Pride in the accomplishment of having passed on to another
the desire to accomplish.
Lament and release for the left behind;
the end of physical pains and pangs, a Pyrrhic trade
for the sting of the heart and double-edged reminiscence
and lingering questions of going forward without.
Solace for the lost; a good life led and a legacy of love.
And therein, the ability to remember
and cherish and continue and heal and wake.
And I do.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Poetic License
I'm not comparing myself to them...really. Not even close.
I stood in line today at the DMV
The Department of Moving Vocabulary
Waiting with others equally tense
Trying to obtain my poetic license
I’d studied the rule book, remembered the laws
But still, the written test gave me reason for pause
What if my interpretations were too skewed or obtuse?
Could I be cited for comma abuse?
The line moved a meter and I stood at the next
Carefully considering the flow of my text
The rhythm I’d need to make my application
Good enough to pass me on to the next station
Finally, my turn. It was not as I’d thought;
Not a test but a lesson from others who’d taught
The world to see things through their unique eyes
Who’d shared with their readers a literal prize
A trove of sensory descriptions, perceptions;
A gamut of topics with varied complexions,
Assorted rhyme schemes and rhythms galore,
Similes that fly like be-feathered metaphors.
There on the page stared back Tennyson
And Blake and Whitman and Ms. Dickinson
And Wordsworth and Frost and Mr. Longfellow
And Shakespeare, Barrett Browning, Milton and Poe.
I soaked in their words, took to heart their meaning
Mind and soul racing and spinning, careening
Out of control as their souls bled into mine
Leaving me shaking like an active fault line
The eyes behind the counter gauged my response
To make sure my commitment was fully ensconced
Then a cramped hand, clutching parchment and quill,
Waved me outside to road test my skill.
This is where so many before me had cracked
A test both, at once, imprecise and exact
After all, poetic beauty, in the mind of the beholder,
Can stay between the lines or criss-cross the shoulder.
I eased into my poem, threw it into first gear
Adjusted my mirrors and got ready to steer.
A couplet of moments later I pulled onto Ventura.
A formidable test. Onward, despite the caesura.
I drove and I drove trying to avoid past mistakes
and more than once did I have to enjamb on the brakes.
Although I was prepared, my skills well-rehearsed
I was suddenly befuddled, mind in free verse:
I got out of my poem, out of my head, and took a more
conversational tone, leaving it parked there on the side
of the road for what seemed like several minutes
but, in reality, was days on end as I am apt to do
when I need a break or the dreaded writer’s
roadblocks appear in my path.
Returning to the test, remembering the conceit,
I resolutely pulled my poem back onto the street.
Foot on the pedal, hands at ten and two,
I finally saw my path from the Writers’ point of view.
Like the written portion earlier completed
This was no test, it merely entreated
The writer to discover a passion inside
and to take his or her reader along for the ride.
Armed with the knowledge that no one way is best
I parallel parked my poem, gave it a rest,
Left it out in the world to be reviewed and assessed
Allowed it to be scrutinized and second-guessed.
It was then that my license was truly obtained;
But success in this art is not pre-ordained,
Got to keep writing to become a poetic fixture.
One thing’s for sure –
I look horrible in that picture.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
I stood in line today at the DMV
The Department of Moving Vocabulary
Waiting with others equally tense
Trying to obtain my poetic license
I’d studied the rule book, remembered the laws
But still, the written test gave me reason for pause
What if my interpretations were too skewed or obtuse?
Could I be cited for comma abuse?
The line moved a meter and I stood at the next
Carefully considering the flow of my text
The rhythm I’d need to make my application
Good enough to pass me on to the next station
Finally, my turn. It was not as I’d thought;
Not a test but a lesson from others who’d taught
The world to see things through their unique eyes
Who’d shared with their readers a literal prize
A trove of sensory descriptions, perceptions;
A gamut of topics with varied complexions,
Assorted rhyme schemes and rhythms galore,
Similes that fly like be-feathered metaphors.
There on the page stared back Tennyson
And Blake and Whitman and Ms. Dickinson
And Wordsworth and Frost and Mr. Longfellow
And Shakespeare, Barrett Browning, Milton and Poe.
I soaked in their words, took to heart their meaning
Mind and soul racing and spinning, careening
Out of control as their souls bled into mine
Leaving me shaking like an active fault line
The eyes behind the counter gauged my response
To make sure my commitment was fully ensconced
Then a cramped hand, clutching parchment and quill,
Waved me outside to road test my skill.
This is where so many before me had cracked
A test both, at once, imprecise and exact
After all, poetic beauty, in the mind of the beholder,
Can stay between the lines or criss-cross the shoulder.
I eased into my poem, threw it into first gear
Adjusted my mirrors and got ready to steer.
A couplet of moments later I pulled onto Ventura.
A formidable test. Onward, despite the caesura.
I drove and I drove trying to avoid past mistakes
and more than once did I have to enjamb on the brakes.
Although I was prepared, my skills well-rehearsed
I was suddenly befuddled, mind in free verse:
I got out of my poem, out of my head, and took a more
conversational tone, leaving it parked there on the side
of the road for what seemed like several minutes
but, in reality, was days on end as I am apt to do
when I need a break or the dreaded writer’s
roadblocks appear in my path.
Returning to the test, remembering the conceit,
I resolutely pulled my poem back onto the street.
Foot on the pedal, hands at ten and two,
I finally saw my path from the Writers’ point of view.
Like the written portion earlier completed
This was no test, it merely entreated
The writer to discover a passion inside
and to take his or her reader along for the ride.
Armed with the knowledge that no one way is best
I parallel parked my poem, gave it a rest,
Left it out in the world to be reviewed and assessed
Allowed it to be scrutinized and second-guessed.
It was then that my license was truly obtained;
But success in this art is not pre-ordained,
Got to keep writing to become a poetic fixture.
One thing’s for sure –
I look horrible in that picture.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Beauty of Language Lost on the Student
"I read it...I just want you to tell me what it means..."
“Why do authors say things in such complicated ways?”
A question in Lit class, heard on most days.
“Why can’t they just turn the simple phrase
In their short stories, and novels, and poems, and plays?”
© 2009, Jeff Wilson
“Why do authors say things in such complicated ways?”
A question in Lit class, heard on most days.
“Why can’t they just turn the simple phrase
In their short stories, and novels, and poems, and plays?”
© 2009, Jeff Wilson
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Fear of Intimacy
I just don't know if I can SLAM...
I don’t want to memorize my poems.
I don’t ever want that kind of intimacy
with anyone or anything, other than my wife.
I don’t want to caress the subtle inflections
In tone and pitch born of original spin.
I don’t want to nibble on the lobes of
Self-serving word play as some kind
Of hopeful, analytical foreplay, nor
Scrutinize the acrobatics of mind and tongue
as written word is given voice – for better or worse.
I’m not comfortable with the carnal knowledge
Sprung from exploring lexicon, slowly, deeply, explicitly –
confidential conversations with myself
committed to paper and, thusly,
bound by the bulky, unflattering bodice
of two dimensions.
Upon the recital of each uncertain stanza,
Each line lacking that little something,
Each loose syllable, would I not confront,
headlong, my own performance anxiety?
Was it good for you?
Was it good for me?
Always examining my awkward alliteration
And perfunctory pace and mundane mechanics.
Never quite happy with the way I’ve dressed my words
Or the way we relate to each other – the way we don’t
Talk for days, weeks, years sometimes.
And asking myself ,
“Why couldn’t IT have been something…special?”
It’s not you, poems. It’s me. I’m sorry.
I just can’t do this anymore.
Let’s just be friends.
I’ll always carry a little
Piece of you...in my pocket
But I can’t, and I won’t, commit you to memory;
I’m not able to know you by heart,
Because mine belongs to another.
© 2009, Jeff Wilson
I don’t want to memorize my poems.
I don’t ever want that kind of intimacy
with anyone or anything, other than my wife.
I don’t want to caress the subtle inflections
In tone and pitch born of original spin.
I don’t want to nibble on the lobes of
Self-serving word play as some kind
Of hopeful, analytical foreplay, nor
Scrutinize the acrobatics of mind and tongue
as written word is given voice – for better or worse.
I’m not comfortable with the carnal knowledge
Sprung from exploring lexicon, slowly, deeply, explicitly –
confidential conversations with myself
committed to paper and, thusly,
bound by the bulky, unflattering bodice
of two dimensions.
Upon the recital of each uncertain stanza,
Each line lacking that little something,
Each loose syllable, would I not confront,
headlong, my own performance anxiety?
Was it good for you?
Was it good for me?
Always examining my awkward alliteration
And perfunctory pace and mundane mechanics.
Never quite happy with the way I’ve dressed my words
Or the way we relate to each other – the way we don’t
Talk for days, weeks, years sometimes.
And asking myself ,
“Why couldn’t IT have been something…special?”
It’s not you, poems. It’s me. I’m sorry.
I just can’t do this anymore.
Let’s just be friends.
I’ll always carry a little
Piece of you...in my pocket
But I can’t, and I won’t, commit you to memory;
I’m not able to know you by heart,
Because mine belongs to another.
© 2009, Jeff Wilson
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Individual Writer
This started as a recruitment poem for Writers' Club.
The individual writer, a solitary stylus
Yearning to give life to internal beast
Made of urgent perspective kneaded
In the soul and exposed to the yeast
Of creative thought and passionate feeling
That leaves the head spinning
And the heart tugged or reeling.
The individual writer, a solitary stylus
The individual writer, someone to rile us.
The individual writer, to challenge the brain
His or her own, or one that needs learning;
Idea-exposure, like some kind of x-ray
That penetrates flesh, leaves no trace of burning,
But draws a clear picture of inner design
Reveals one’s hidden inherent strength
Or identifies flaws in skull or spine
The individual writer, to challenge the brain
The individual writer, can move or entertain
The individual writer makes simple something more:
An abused orphan becomes wizard supreme;
No, not a horse, but a metaphor for spirit;
A journey through Wonderland instead of a dream.
The mind, heart, and soul – served from a golden plate
When a writer shapes feelings and thoughts to words
And a reader restores them to their original state
The individual writer makes simple something more
The individual writer not only fashions but opens the door.
© 2009, Jeff Wilson
The individual writer, a solitary stylus
Yearning to give life to internal beast
Made of urgent perspective kneaded
In the soul and exposed to the yeast
Of creative thought and passionate feeling
That leaves the head spinning
And the heart tugged or reeling.
The individual writer, a solitary stylus
The individual writer, someone to rile us.
The individual writer, to challenge the brain
His or her own, or one that needs learning;
Idea-exposure, like some kind of x-ray
That penetrates flesh, leaves no trace of burning,
But draws a clear picture of inner design
Reveals one’s hidden inherent strength
Or identifies flaws in skull or spine
The individual writer, to challenge the brain
The individual writer, can move or entertain
The individual writer makes simple something more:
An abused orphan becomes wizard supreme;
No, not a horse, but a metaphor for spirit;
A journey through Wonderland instead of a dream.
The mind, heart, and soul – served from a golden plate
When a writer shapes feelings and thoughts to words
And a reader restores them to their original state
The individual writer makes simple something more
The individual writer not only fashions but opens the door.
© 2009, Jeff Wilson
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Who I'm Meant to Be
Some of us search for ourselves on a conscious level
examining each decision and thought
Some skate on blades without hindsight or care
of how deeply our selfish paths slice.
Some lie to our friends, our parents, ourselves
to enjoy what our spoils have bought.
Some go out of our way without knowing why
to help strangers no matter the price.
Why is it that someone with ev'ry advantage
Can squander his ev'ry gift
While another with nothing, or near enough to it,
Can prosper, inspire, uplift?
Are our paths chosen -
Finite pieces on some gameboard -
Are we who we are meant to be?
Can we change fate, spit in the face
of Destiny?
Can we will ourselves free?
In this life the answer will never follow
the questions we don't think to ask.
Discovering who we are meant to be
is each soul's most important task.
Coward or hero; villian or friend;
liar or loyal to a fault;
someone who sees what's started to an end
or brings progress to a screeching halt;
Quicksand that impedes ev'ry forward trend
or a springboard that helps others vault;
A bitter herb that even Love cannot tend
or (with seasoning) Earth's proverbial salt?
Each year, each day, each moment brings with it
the most significant opportunity -
To ask and to answer the soul's pointed question:
Am I who I am meant to be?
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
examining each decision and thought
Some skate on blades without hindsight or care
of how deeply our selfish paths slice.
Some lie to our friends, our parents, ourselves
to enjoy what our spoils have bought.
Some go out of our way without knowing why
to help strangers no matter the price.
Why is it that someone with ev'ry advantage
Can squander his ev'ry gift
While another with nothing, or near enough to it,
Can prosper, inspire, uplift?
Are our paths chosen -
Finite pieces on some gameboard -
Are we who we are meant to be?
Can we change fate, spit in the face
of Destiny?
Can we will ourselves free?
In this life the answer will never follow
the questions we don't think to ask.
Discovering who we are meant to be
is each soul's most important task.
Coward or hero; villian or friend;
liar or loyal to a fault;
someone who sees what's started to an end
or brings progress to a screeching halt;
Quicksand that impedes ev'ry forward trend
or a springboard that helps others vault;
A bitter herb that even Love cannot tend
or (with seasoning) Earth's proverbial salt?
Each year, each day, each moment brings with it
the most significant opportunity -
To ask and to answer the soul's pointed question:
Am I who I am meant to be?
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Go / No Go for Lunch
5th/6th grade lunch on the last day of school
Lunch is a time when we all come together
See friends, eat our fill, and talk of the day
A daily routine to which we’re all tethered
But one that now ends as we all go our way
Into Summer Vacation, that double-edged sword
Trips, summer teams, and time with family
You take one more step on your Life game board
And dive headlong into tranquility
Perhaps mindful that in only ten short weeks
You’ll return hopefully wiser, definitely older
With new shoes on your feet, maybe braces on your teeth
New uniform shorts and new backpacks on shoulder
So, today’s lunch is special, the last of the year
Several courses for which you don’t have to study
Goodbyes to some (please hold back the tear)
Maybe plans to hang out every day with your buddy
It’s an ending of sorts if you look at it that way
But more accurately it’s a beginning
This lunch is a launch; you’re blasting off today,
Into next year’s orbit you’re about to go spinning
The countdown’s been happ’ning for some time
The rumblings have been growing stronger
You’ve reached the summit of a year-long climb
And you can’t stay on the launch pad any longer
Goodbye, my friends, enjoy seventh grade space,
Hello, new trainees, arriving soon
Three, two, one…year done…with smiles upon your face
All systems go, reach high, Shoot for the Moon
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Lunch is a time when we all come together
See friends, eat our fill, and talk of the day
A daily routine to which we’re all tethered
But one that now ends as we all go our way
Into Summer Vacation, that double-edged sword
Trips, summer teams, and time with family
You take one more step on your Life game board
And dive headlong into tranquility
Perhaps mindful that in only ten short weeks
You’ll return hopefully wiser, definitely older
With new shoes on your feet, maybe braces on your teeth
New uniform shorts and new backpacks on shoulder
So, today’s lunch is special, the last of the year
Several courses for which you don’t have to study
Goodbyes to some (please hold back the tear)
Maybe plans to hang out every day with your buddy
It’s an ending of sorts if you look at it that way
But more accurately it’s a beginning
This lunch is a launch; you’re blasting off today,
Into next year’s orbit you’re about to go spinning
The countdown’s been happ’ning for some time
The rumblings have been growing stronger
You’ve reached the summit of a year-long climb
And you can’t stay on the launch pad any longer
Goodbye, my friends, enjoy seventh grade space,
Hello, new trainees, arriving soon
Three, two, one…year done…with smiles upon your face
All systems go, reach high, Shoot for the Moon
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Ready to Rise
To my second 6th grade class on the last day of school
‘You’re a liar,’ the lad said as I tried to explain
How next year would be harder; the teacher’s refrain.
‘Every year you teachers preach untruth!’
I kept my cool and inquired of the youth:
“Those are strong words, the way that you’ve phrased them.
Please explain your accusations, now that you’ve raised them.”
He shrugged, ‘Each of my many school years’ past
My teacher has threatened – Next year will be harder than last –
But it’s not! This year was as easy as any before.
You can’t scare me. I’ll not have it anymore.’
His tantrum subsided; he was done with his speech.
I considered his point; then I endeavored to teach.
“I hear what you’re saying; I did not mean to scare you.
My words are quite simply meant to prepare you.
Perhaps Next year is harder is a bit cliché.
Maybe I can describe it in a different way…
While it’s true the work increases – the academic rigor –
And you have to pursue it with high-minded vigor
That’s not all there is to it, this coming of age
You’re entering adolescence, a tumultuous stage.
Put hormones and growing bones and cell phones in a blender
Mix in identity and a dash of the opposite gender.
Pour it into a mold you’re not sure you’ll fit in…
More responsibility – don’t forget to throw that last bit in.
New teachers with new rules to learn and comply with,
New friends, new decisions to sink or to fly with…
Set to bake at three hundred or maybe more
Staying put on the 3rd or moving up to the 2nd floor.
So, you’re right, I should’ve said what I meant
Next year might not be “harder”, but it will darn sure be different!
And every teacher you’ve had who has prepared you thus far
Who has cajoled, pushed, inspired you to Raise the Bar
Will take pride in your comment – your conversation starter –
That you don’t think any “next” year will be harder.
(Just as an aside – one of those trials by fire –
Pick your words more carefully, too. Don’t call your teacher a liar!)
Now…lest you think “different” means only difficulty ahead,
Let me leave you with these comforting thoughts instead:
Change is coming, it’s true, but there’s no need to race it.
Greet it with a smile, a handshake; embrace it.
Meet the challenge of “different” with jubilant elation.
Congratulations!
You’ve made it one more year.
Enjoy your summer vacation.”
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
‘You’re a liar,’ the lad said as I tried to explain
How next year would be harder; the teacher’s refrain.
‘Every year you teachers preach untruth!’
I kept my cool and inquired of the youth:
“Those are strong words, the way that you’ve phrased them.
Please explain your accusations, now that you’ve raised them.”
He shrugged, ‘Each of my many school years’ past
My teacher has threatened – Next year will be harder than last –
But it’s not! This year was as easy as any before.
You can’t scare me. I’ll not have it anymore.’
His tantrum subsided; he was done with his speech.
I considered his point; then I endeavored to teach.
“I hear what you’re saying; I did not mean to scare you.
My words are quite simply meant to prepare you.
Perhaps Next year is harder is a bit cliché.
Maybe I can describe it in a different way…
While it’s true the work increases – the academic rigor –
And you have to pursue it with high-minded vigor
That’s not all there is to it, this coming of age
You’re entering adolescence, a tumultuous stage.
Put hormones and growing bones and cell phones in a blender
Mix in identity and a dash of the opposite gender.
Pour it into a mold you’re not sure you’ll fit in…
More responsibility – don’t forget to throw that last bit in.
New teachers with new rules to learn and comply with,
New friends, new decisions to sink or to fly with…
Set to bake at three hundred or maybe more
Staying put on the 3rd or moving up to the 2nd floor.
So, you’re right, I should’ve said what I meant
Next year might not be “harder”, but it will darn sure be different!
And every teacher you’ve had who has prepared you thus far
Who has cajoled, pushed, inspired you to Raise the Bar
Will take pride in your comment – your conversation starter –
That you don’t think any “next” year will be harder.
(Just as an aside – one of those trials by fire –
Pick your words more carefully, too. Don’t call your teacher a liar!)
Now…lest you think “different” means only difficulty ahead,
Let me leave you with these comforting thoughts instead:
Change is coming, it’s true, but there’s no need to race it.
Greet it with a smile, a handshake; embrace it.
Meet the challenge of “different” with jubilant elation.
Congratulations!
You’ve made it one more year.
Enjoy your summer vacation.”
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Easy Don't It
She drives me crazy...
You make things so difficult for yourself and everyone around you.
The road less traveled was constructed just for you, but you refuse
to walk it when there is a perfectly wild and impassable wood full of
brambles and pitfalls, roots and stones, and all manner of obstinance
just off the black diamond trail. Doors and windows of opportunity
are opened for you, but you would rather let them slam shut
in your face and beat the door with your head just to
know the bass sounds of skull on wood
and how it feels to be dizzy,
just to hear the melodic chaos of glass relenting behind your fists
and tinkling in random shards to the floor below.
You slam your fingers and toes in those same doors and windows
over and over again, never learning from your mistakes and
wearing your bloody bandages and casts and
purple-black bruises with proud defiance.
You stand in silence when you are wrong,
refusing to admit your flaws,
refusing to utter words of solace or apology or acceptance.
You don't answer gentle pleas but demand
I attend to your volatile tantrums.
You close your eyes and turn your nose to my willing assistance
in the most dire situations when I can deliver you,
and cling with a death-grip and
beg for reassurance when none is needed.
You drive me crazy.
You drive me over the edge.
You drive me past my breaking point.
And I let you, because you are beautiful.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
You make things so difficult for yourself and everyone around you.
The road less traveled was constructed just for you, but you refuse
to walk it when there is a perfectly wild and impassable wood full of
brambles and pitfalls, roots and stones, and all manner of obstinance
just off the black diamond trail. Doors and windows of opportunity
are opened for you, but you would rather let them slam shut
in your face and beat the door with your head just to
know the bass sounds of skull on wood
and how it feels to be dizzy,
just to hear the melodic chaos of glass relenting behind your fists
and tinkling in random shards to the floor below.
You slam your fingers and toes in those same doors and windows
over and over again, never learning from your mistakes and
wearing your bloody bandages and casts and
purple-black bruises with proud defiance.
You stand in silence when you are wrong,
refusing to admit your flaws,
refusing to utter words of solace or apology or acceptance.
You don't answer gentle pleas but demand
I attend to your volatile tantrums.
You close your eyes and turn your nose to my willing assistance
in the most dire situations when I can deliver you,
and cling with a death-grip and
beg for reassurance when none is needed.
You drive me crazy.
You drive me over the edge.
You drive me past my breaking point.
And I let you, because you are beautiful.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Paper Tiger in a Bowl
Inaction is the root of my frustration...
Like some paper-tiger goldfish, stuck in a restaurant water feature too small to support one let alone ten, that breaks the thin skin between unbearable life below and invisible death above, eyeing the vast universe of plate glass and neon with unbridled malice, testing lungs that ache with chained monotony or sweet fleeting freedom, gaping and suffocating and ducking below the surface for one more caged breath, daring the world to notice its defiance and challenging those who look on in piteous curiosity or pleading for the perceived cruelty that can only be conceived by the innocent and ignorant,
so sit I.
Like some paper-tiger goldfish, unable to break the thin skin between unbearable obscurity and invisible promise, unable to make a terrifyingly heroic leap into potential somethingness, trapped in sloth of my own forging, unwilling to taste sweet consuming freedom, and swimming in terminable indecision that blunts the will and drowns the soul,
so sit I.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Like some paper-tiger goldfish, stuck in a restaurant water feature too small to support one let alone ten, that breaks the thin skin between unbearable life below and invisible death above, eyeing the vast universe of plate glass and neon with unbridled malice, testing lungs that ache with chained monotony or sweet fleeting freedom, gaping and suffocating and ducking below the surface for one more caged breath, daring the world to notice its defiance and challenging those who look on in piteous curiosity or pleading for the perceived cruelty that can only be conceived by the innocent and ignorant,
so sit I.
Like some paper-tiger goldfish, unable to break the thin skin between unbearable obscurity and invisible promise, unable to make a terrifyingly heroic leap into potential somethingness, trapped in sloth of my own forging, unwilling to taste sweet consuming freedom, and swimming in terminable indecision that blunts the will and drowns the soul,
so sit I.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Happy Birthday, Mr. Shakespeare, 2009
The 8th grade English teacher asked if I would write a little something for the bard's birthday.
In the sleepy Hamlet of Stratford-on-Avon
under a brilliant, gold corona
Is discussed a history of a prolific author
by Two Gentlemen of Verona
They had travelled wide and far,
and the Twelfth Night found the two
In the town where Mary Shakespeare birthed
and little William Shakespeare grew.
Due to a tragic Comedy of Errors
much about his life is speculation,
Measure for Measure, April 23rd is as good
as any for his birthday celebration.
These men discovered Will’s father,
John, was an important man in town
But Will’s education, formal or otherwise,
they just couldn’t seem to pin down.
They found that he matured and married,
an older woman As You Like It
The four day journey from Stratford to London,
he most likely had to hike it
Some guess his wife was weary of Will’s extended leaves,
though she never bossed
Perhaps she feared that badgering the bard
might end in Love’s Labors Lost
There was no Taming of the Shrew,
one gentleman did bet
Anne Hathaway, to this very day,
is thought of as Will’s Juliet.
Let’s leave behind this contrived conceit
of two men on some literary quest
And discuss the merits of Shakespeare’s career
and why he’s considered the best.
He is credited with thirty-seven plays
and (hold on to your bonnets)
He found the time to measure and rhyme
one hundred fifty-four sonnets.
(for those of you keeping score,
that’s 2156 lines of iambic pentameter –
but wait, there’s more)
Much Ado About Nothing came of the rumors
that Will may have been a pen name
The Tempest passed; it was proved at last
that Will existed and earned his acclaim
As the greatest writer of his or any time –
a most prolific fellow
The genius pen behind Macbeth,
King Lear, Puck, and Othello,
The man who brought us the histories of
King Henry IV, V, and VIII for starts
And King John and Richard II and III
and Henry VI – in three parts.
History shows proof that he wrote –
let’s not these waters muddy
He lived, he died, but his work’s survived
as something worthy of study
As our Winter’s Tale comes to end
and Spring brings its hopeful swell
We make merry his birth and life –
All’s Well That Ends Well.
And if he were here, in this room,
if he were still alive
We’d help him celebrate birthday number
four hundred forty-five
We’d toast him with a piece of cake;
we’d toast him with ice cream
As sweet as any sonnet
and as delicious and delightful
as any Midsummer Night’s Dream.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
In the sleepy Hamlet of Stratford-on-Avon
under a brilliant, gold corona
Is discussed a history of a prolific author
by Two Gentlemen of Verona
They had travelled wide and far,
and the Twelfth Night found the two
In the town where Mary Shakespeare birthed
and little William Shakespeare grew.
Due to a tragic Comedy of Errors
much about his life is speculation,
Measure for Measure, April 23rd is as good
as any for his birthday celebration.
These men discovered Will’s father,
John, was an important man in town
But Will’s education, formal or otherwise,
they just couldn’t seem to pin down.
They found that he matured and married,
an older woman As You Like It
The four day journey from Stratford to London,
he most likely had to hike it
Some guess his wife was weary of Will’s extended leaves,
though she never bossed
Perhaps she feared that badgering the bard
might end in Love’s Labors Lost
There was no Taming of the Shrew,
one gentleman did bet
Anne Hathaway, to this very day,
is thought of as Will’s Juliet.
Let’s leave behind this contrived conceit
of two men on some literary quest
And discuss the merits of Shakespeare’s career
and why he’s considered the best.
He is credited with thirty-seven plays
and (hold on to your bonnets)
He found the time to measure and rhyme
one hundred fifty-four sonnets.
(for those of you keeping score,
that’s 2156 lines of iambic pentameter –
but wait, there’s more)
Much Ado About Nothing came of the rumors
that Will may have been a pen name
The Tempest passed; it was proved at last
that Will existed and earned his acclaim
As the greatest writer of his or any time –
a most prolific fellow
The genius pen behind Macbeth,
King Lear, Puck, and Othello,
The man who brought us the histories of
King Henry IV, V, and VIII for starts
And King John and Richard II and III
and Henry VI – in three parts.
History shows proof that he wrote –
let’s not these waters muddy
He lived, he died, but his work’s survived
as something worthy of study
As our Winter’s Tale comes to end
and Spring brings its hopeful swell
We make merry his birth and life –
All’s Well That Ends Well.
And if he were here, in this room,
if he were still alive
We’d help him celebrate birthday number
four hundred forty-five
We’d toast him with a piece of cake;
we’d toast him with ice cream
As sweet as any sonnet
and as delicious and delightful
as any Midsummer Night’s Dream.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Yours is a Hollow Refrain
Don't do dumb stuff. People will think you're dumb. - Mr. Byars, (my high school biology teacher)
I've heard it all a thousand times from
voices more mature and louder than yours,
how much you don't like to read
and you don't like to write,
and you shout about and tout this constructed ignorance
and wear this sneering indifference like a
badge of honor as you walk this institution's floors.
I've heard it all a thousand times from
voices more mature and louder than yours,
how much you don't like to read
and you don't like to write,
and you shout about and tout this constructed ignorance
and wear this sneering indifference like a
badge of honor as you walk this institution's floors.
To all who will listen, but particularly
the denizens of education, you proudly proclaim
that you don't like to read
and you don't like to write,
and you say it with stress to impress, and confess
that we should expect less from you
as if somehow just asking us to
is enough to quench our disappointment
and quell your shame.the denizens of education, you proudly proclaim
that you don't like to read
and you don't like to write,
and you say it with stress to impress, and confess
that we should expect less from you
as if somehow just asking us to
is enough to quench our disappointment
You say that novels are a bore
and poetry you abhor and if you have to write one more
critical essay on the allegories in 1984
or some ridiculous first-person short story about some
nameless bum who was too dumb and got stuck
as a foot-soldier in some godforsaken war
that didn't occur in your lifetime
you won't be responsible for your next crime.
I've studied your work product
and I'm apt to agree, to some degree,
with your confession
that you don't like to read
and you don't like to write.
Your disdain is evident in every misspelled word and
unpunctuated sentence, and hence, I can't make sense
of your thoughts made without expression.
You haven't read the masters who took language
to another level - showered the willing with a gifted rain.
So, you can't emulate Sylvia Plath or Shakespeare
or Isaac Asimov or Dr. Seuss or Thomas Payne.
And again you complain
that you don't like to read
and you don't like to write.
Yours is a hollow refrain.
The lack of importance you place on these arts
leaves chasms in the minds and voids in the hearts
of those who would wish you to prosper and gain.
How do you expect to connect with those who project,
through their learned words, opportunity unbounded?
Those who discover that language is key
to the skill of persuasion, to imparting knowledge,
to soothing or ruffling contingent on occasion?
Your crossroads is here, your choice is at hand;
Leave behind your aversion to spending time in your head,
Your objections to reading and writing unfounded,
And embrace the benefits of these skills instead.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
to another level - showered the willing with a gifted rain.
So, you can't emulate Sylvia Plath or Shakespeare
or Isaac Asimov or Dr. Seuss or Thomas Payne.
And again you complain
that you don't like to read
and you don't like to write.
Yours is a hollow refrain.
The lack of importance you place on these arts
leaves chasms in the minds and voids in the hearts
of those who would wish you to prosper and gain.
How do you expect to connect with those who project,
through their learned words, opportunity unbounded?
Those who discover that language is key
to the skill of persuasion, to imparting knowledge,
to soothing or ruffling contingent on occasion?
Your crossroads is here, your choice is at hand;
Leave behind your aversion to spending time in your head,
Your objections to reading and writing unfounded,
And embrace the benefits of these skills instead.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Whoopsy Daisy
for my daughters
In a great green meadow
Lives a little white flower.
Whoopsy stands small, but tall,
in the bright yellow sun
playing Peek-a-Boo with
orange bees just for fun.
Uh-oh. A little black cloud
brings a cool April shower.
Whoopsy feels blue and
cold from the rain.
Her dainty white petals
wipe the drops from her head.
The sun has returned
and the cloud has fled,
but the water has caused
her stem-dress to stain.
She could get all sad
or embarrassed and red,
but rather, she insists,
and it may seem crazy,
that sadness is silly when
you’re a beautiful Daisy.
So she chooses to be
happy and cheery instead.
“I was due for a change,”
she says as a smile she weaves.
“This new darker stem
is just what I need –
I’m all grown up now,
no longer a seed.”
So Whoopsy straightens her
petals and tucks in her leaves.
As her rosy outlook
continues to grow,
the Happy white flower
in the sea of green,
slowly bows – a
Graceful sort of lean –
right into the kiss of
a brilliant rainbow.
© Jeff Wilson, 2006
In a great green meadow
Lives a little white flower.
Whoopsy stands small, but tall,
in the bright yellow sun
playing Peek-a-Boo with
orange bees just for fun.
Uh-oh. A little black cloud
brings a cool April shower.
Whoopsy feels blue and
cold from the rain.
Her dainty white petals
wipe the drops from her head.
The sun has returned
and the cloud has fled,
but the water has caused
her stem-dress to stain.
She could get all sad
or embarrassed and red,
but rather, she insists,
and it may seem crazy,
that sadness is silly when
you’re a beautiful Daisy.
So she chooses to be
happy and cheery instead.
“I was due for a change,”
she says as a smile she weaves.
“This new darker stem
is just what I need –
I’m all grown up now,
no longer a seed.”
So Whoopsy straightens her
petals and tucks in her leaves.
As her rosy outlook
continues to grow,
the Happy white flower
in the sea of green,
slowly bows – a
Graceful sort of lean –
right into the kiss of
a brilliant rainbow.
© Jeff Wilson, 2006
The Dickens
some things you never grow out of
Mom says, “Stop running!
You’re playing too hard!
Get out of the house,
Go tear up the yard!”
I tried to obey her,
So the yard I did tear.
She appeared at the door
With two fistfuls of hair.
“You’re a whirling dervish!”
Whatever that is.
“Stay out of the flowers!
And don’t climb the lattice!”
Her eyes glazed and wild,
She yells, “Bobby Dickens!
You run around more than
A dozen headless chickens.”
You’re driving me crazy!
You’re driving me nuts!”
She screams through the door,
Which she forcefully shuts.
The deadbolt slides home
A frown replaces my grin.
It’s clear that she’s had it,
I’m not getting back in.
I pull out my car keys,
Dial my wife on my phone.
“Mom kicked me out, Hon.
I’m on my way home.”
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
Mom says, “Stop running!
You’re playing too hard!
Get out of the house,
Go tear up the yard!”
I tried to obey her,
So the yard I did tear.
She appeared at the door
With two fistfuls of hair.
“You’re a whirling dervish!”
Whatever that is.
“Stay out of the flowers!
And don’t climb the lattice!”
Her eyes glazed and wild,
She yells, “Bobby Dickens!
You run around more than
A dozen headless chickens.”
You’re driving me crazy!
You’re driving me nuts!”
She screams through the door,
Which she forcefully shuts.
The deadbolt slides home
A frown replaces my grin.
It’s clear that she’s had it,
I’m not getting back in.
I pull out my car keys,
Dial my wife on my phone.
“Mom kicked me out, Hon.
I’m on my way home.”
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
Really Me
for my wife
Some people know what they want
And who they’re destined to be
Some struggle every single day
Each step a mystery
Most of us are caught between
The former and the latter
Wandering with some intent
And hoping that we’ll matter.
I meandered toward wherever
Through obstacle and ache
When my sails were filled
..........With a wind that whispered
A new course I should take
Who I was supposed to be
Is an unpaved avenue
I was never really, truly me
‘til I fell in love with you.
You crystallized my hopes and dreams
You stoked hidden desire
One path ahead reduced to ash
Burned by your cleansing fire
In its stead new paths arose
Each wild and untethered
These roads may not be straighter
But we walk them now together
I wasn’t lost, but I have found
Life sings a sweeter song
I would have been so much less
..........My heart whispers to me
If you hadn’t come along.
Who I was supposed to be
Is an unpaved avenue
I was never really, truly me
‘til I fell in love with you.
I don’t know who I was going to be
But I’m a better me with you.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
Some people know what they want
And who they’re destined to be
Some struggle every single day
Each step a mystery
Most of us are caught between
The former and the latter
Wandering with some intent
And hoping that we’ll matter.
I meandered toward wherever
Through obstacle and ache
When my sails were filled
..........With a wind that whispered
A new course I should take
Who I was supposed to be
Is an unpaved avenue
I was never really, truly me
‘til I fell in love with you.
You crystallized my hopes and dreams
You stoked hidden desire
One path ahead reduced to ash
Burned by your cleansing fire
In its stead new paths arose
Each wild and untethered
These roads may not be straighter
But we walk them now together
I wasn’t lost, but I have found
Life sings a sweeter song
I would have been so much less
..........My heart whispers to me
If you hadn’t come along.
Who I was supposed to be
Is an unpaved avenue
I was never really, truly me
‘til I fell in love with you.
I don’t know who I was going to be
But I’m a better me with you.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
Recess
why don't we still have recess as adults?
Eager feet and flailing arms spill
from the golden halls onto the brittle-white fields.
Shrieks of delighted panic and freedom fill the crisp, December air.
Streaks of yellow, blue, and khaki,
punctuated by short-lived phantoms,
clouds of exhaled exuberance, criss-cross the landscape,
changing directions, churning in organized chaos,
flashing happily as they give chase to equally speedy brethren.
Youth speeds and slows and stops and sprints,
contorting and writhing,
lungs aching, to escape the reach of the One,
deemed so by random chance or nimble misfortune,
who wears an invisible badge marking Him or Her
different from all others.
And, through burning breath and squeals of terrified bliss,
every so often outstretched fingers find their mark,
and proclamations can be heard in sing-song harmony:
You’re it!
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
Eager feet and flailing arms spill
from the golden halls onto the brittle-white fields.
Shrieks of delighted panic and freedom fill the crisp, December air.
Streaks of yellow, blue, and khaki,
punctuated by short-lived phantoms,
clouds of exhaled exuberance, criss-cross the landscape,
changing directions, churning in organized chaos,
flashing happily as they give chase to equally speedy brethren.
Youth speeds and slows and stops and sprints,
contorting and writhing,
lungs aching, to escape the reach of the One,
deemed so by random chance or nimble misfortune,
who wears an invisible badge marking Him or Her
different from all others.
And, through burning breath and squeals of terrified bliss,
every so often outstretched fingers find their mark,
and proclamations can be heard in sing-song harmony:
You’re it!
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
Over the River
Thanksgiving inspired poem #1
It isn’t a sleigh o’er a late-autumn stream
It isn’t a peek at the Season’s first dream
It isn’t the family that travels your way
It isn’t the hearty, warm words that you say
It isn’t the cranberry sauce that you made
It isn’t that all-but-traditioned parade
It isn’t the twenty-pound bird that you roasted
It isn’t the health and the happiness toasted
It isn’t the bellowing joy at the door
It isn’t the cries of “More! Please, more!”
It isn’t that graham-crusted, golden-orange pie
It isn’t a belt loosening with a sigh
It isn’t the football (but don’t tell the men)
It isn’t spiced coffee served in the den
It isn’t the day-after Holiday Sale
It isn’t the centerpiece with a four-finger tail
And yet, it’s all of these memorable things
All bound and wrapped up with plain poultry strings.
The Thanks of the entire year, in a way,
Dressed and stuffed into one fourth Thursday.
It’s hard to sustain this feeling all year,
But the path to fulfillment is really quite clear.
The secret - one only needs to remember
To give thanks each day, like that one in November.
© Jeff Wilson, 2005
It isn’t a sleigh o’er a late-autumn stream
It isn’t a peek at the Season’s first dream
It isn’t the family that travels your way
It isn’t the hearty, warm words that you say
It isn’t the cranberry sauce that you made
It isn’t that all-but-traditioned parade
It isn’t the twenty-pound bird that you roasted
It isn’t the health and the happiness toasted
It isn’t the bellowing joy at the door
It isn’t the cries of “More! Please, more!”
It isn’t that graham-crusted, golden-orange pie
It isn’t a belt loosening with a sigh
It isn’t the football (but don’t tell the men)
It isn’t spiced coffee served in the den
It isn’t the day-after Holiday Sale
It isn’t the centerpiece with a four-finger tail
And yet, it’s all of these memorable things
All bound and wrapped up with plain poultry strings.
The Thanks of the entire year, in a way,
Dressed and stuffed into one fourth Thursday.
It’s hard to sustain this feeling all year,
But the path to fulfillment is really quite clear.
The secret - one only needs to remember
To give thanks each day, like that one in November.
© Jeff Wilson, 2005
Through the Woods
Thanksgiving inspired poem #2
It’s hard to be thankful at Four.
The table is full. Your belly is, too.
Family spirit is rekindled anew.
But Friday, Thanks is thought of no more.
It’s awkward to be thankful at Fifteen.
Sure, it’s a school day without school.
But, with family? How uncool.
Feign sleep with Cowboys on the screen.
It’s easier to be thankful at Thirty-two.
No longer the cook-ee, the cooker you be.
Surrounded by old and new family,
Aware of the blessings bestowed you.
A gift, to be thankful at Fifty-eight.
Traveling the breadth of a continent this year
To impart turkey secrets, advice, and cheer,
To family scattered to four corners to date.
Second nature to be thankful at the End.
Watching, with a wise, reminiscent eye,
Four thumbing his nose at pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving - a daily garden you tend.
© Jeff Wilson, 2005
It’s hard to be thankful at Four.
The table is full. Your belly is, too.
Family spirit is rekindled anew.
But Friday, Thanks is thought of no more.
It’s awkward to be thankful at Fifteen.
Sure, it’s a school day without school.
But, with family? How uncool.
Feign sleep with Cowboys on the screen.
It’s easier to be thankful at Thirty-two.
No longer the cook-ee, the cooker you be.
Surrounded by old and new family,
Aware of the blessings bestowed you.
A gift, to be thankful at Fifty-eight.
Traveling the breadth of a continent this year
To impart turkey secrets, advice, and cheer,
To family scattered to four corners to date.
Second nature to be thankful at the End.
Watching, with a wise, reminiscent eye,
Four thumbing his nose at pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving - a daily garden you tend.
© Jeff Wilson, 2005
The 12 Labors of Heracles
written as an example for our Greek myth unit poetry project
Alcemena and Zeus produced me, the greatest hero the world ever knew
Hera - insulted by the tryst and my success – her jealousy and anger grew.
She drove me insane, I killed my children and sought advice my tail tucked.
A slave to cousin Eurystheus and his impossible tasks, heroism – unforeseen by-product.
The Nemean Lion with impenetrable skin, I must end its terrible reign
I squeezed it death with my godly-great strength, its impervious hide I did gain.
From the dread, dreary darkness slithered a sinister hydra, venom misting from each hissing head
Nine times did I slice, then (to stop the re-growth) I seared each nasty neck as it bled.
My cousin then told me to bring the back the boar of Erymanthus, not dead but alive.
I used cunning and strength to wrestle it home – then into an urn dear cousin did dive.
Stymphalian birds with deadly feathers of brass killed at will, whether animal or hero.
Under cover of lionskin I scared them to flight with a rattle ‘til left there were zero.
Over hills and through valleys, I patiently stalked. In fact, it took me nearly a year.
Gentle skill and great care paid off in the end when I returned with Artemis’ deer.
The stables of Augeas were fouled with dung, left filthy for years. Oh, dismay!
By changing the course of two raging rivers did I wash them out in only a day.
Hippolyta, warrior queen smitten with my Olympian build, gave me her girdle outright.
Foul Hera whispered a rumor, the Amazons attacked, and Hippolyta died in the fight.
Diomedes had trained his marvelous mares to eat any man that he felled.
I killed and fed him to his own horses and their wickedness was finally quelled.
Poseidon had set a raging bull upon Crete, it breathed fire and caused general alarm.
Without heed of its flame I grabbed the bull by its horns so it could cause no further harm.
Geryon, one monster man with three bodies on one pair of legs, and I engaged in battle.
I pierced him with my hydra-blood arrow and returned, victorious, with his cattle.
Unsatisfied, Hera added two labors to my penance, the first Hesperides apples three
Atlas picked them while I held up the world, then I tricked him ‘to giving them to me.
The final task - to deliver Cerberus from the realm of the dead
My cousin the coward, at sight of the beast, ordered it back to Hades instead.
Upon my success, my reputation enhanced, the greatest hero to ever live.
And Hera, relentless, angered by misfortune, more insanity her gift to give.
Sentenced by Zeus to serve three years hence at the feet of a belittling queen,
Humility learned and my punishment served, I adventure forth, my conscience clean.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Alcemena and Zeus produced me, the greatest hero the world ever knew
Hera - insulted by the tryst and my success – her jealousy and anger grew.
She drove me insane, I killed my children and sought advice my tail tucked.
A slave to cousin Eurystheus and his impossible tasks, heroism – unforeseen by-product.
The Nemean Lion with impenetrable skin, I must end its terrible reign
I squeezed it death with my godly-great strength, its impervious hide I did gain.
From the dread, dreary darkness slithered a sinister hydra, venom misting from each hissing head
Nine times did I slice, then (to stop the re-growth) I seared each nasty neck as it bled.
My cousin then told me to bring the back the boar of Erymanthus, not dead but alive.
I used cunning and strength to wrestle it home – then into an urn dear cousin did dive.
Stymphalian birds with deadly feathers of brass killed at will, whether animal or hero.
Under cover of lionskin I scared them to flight with a rattle ‘til left there were zero.
Over hills and through valleys, I patiently stalked. In fact, it took me nearly a year.
Gentle skill and great care paid off in the end when I returned with Artemis’ deer.
The stables of Augeas were fouled with dung, left filthy for years. Oh, dismay!
By changing the course of two raging rivers did I wash them out in only a day.
Hippolyta, warrior queen smitten with my Olympian build, gave me her girdle outright.
Foul Hera whispered a rumor, the Amazons attacked, and Hippolyta died in the fight.
Diomedes had trained his marvelous mares to eat any man that he felled.
I killed and fed him to his own horses and their wickedness was finally quelled.
Poseidon had set a raging bull upon Crete, it breathed fire and caused general alarm.
Without heed of its flame I grabbed the bull by its horns so it could cause no further harm.
Geryon, one monster man with three bodies on one pair of legs, and I engaged in battle.
I pierced him with my hydra-blood arrow and returned, victorious, with his cattle.
Unsatisfied, Hera added two labors to my penance, the first Hesperides apples three
Atlas picked them while I held up the world, then I tricked him ‘to giving them to me.
The final task - to deliver Cerberus from the realm of the dead
My cousin the coward, at sight of the beast, ordered it back to Hades instead.
Upon my success, my reputation enhanced, the greatest hero to ever live.
And Hera, relentless, angered by misfortune, more insanity her gift to give.
Sentenced by Zeus to serve three years hence at the feet of a belittling queen,
Humility learned and my punishment served, I adventure forth, my conscience clean.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Half Empty, Half Full
depends on the day
I would
If I could
But I can't
So I want
I would
If I was
But I'm not
So I'm gaunt
You would
If you could
But you can't
So you don't
You would
If you were
But you aren't
So you won't
We would
If we could
But we're sad
So we cry
We would
If we were
But we aren't
So we die
OR
I would
If I could
And I want
So I try
I would
If I was
And I am
So I fly
You would
If you could
And you can
So you fire
You would
If you were
So you strive
To reach higher
We would
If we could
And we can
So we give
We would
If we were
And we are
So we live
© Jeff Wilson, 2005
I would
If I could
But I can't
So I want
I would
If I was
But I'm not
So I'm gaunt
You would
If you could
But you can't
So you don't
You would
If you were
But you aren't
So you won't
We would
If we could
But we're sad
So we cry
We would
If we were
But we aren't
So we die
OR
I would
If I could
And I want
So I try
I would
If I was
And I am
So I fly
You would
If you could
And you can
So you fire
You would
If you were
So you strive
To reach higher
We would
If we could
And we can
So we give
We would
If we were
And we are
So we live
© Jeff Wilson, 2005
To the Fullest
hurry up and wait
Standing in line
Wasting good time
Make the most of
every moment
That’s what they say
I stood in line
at the DMV today
I sat in my car
at a red light or ten
On my way to work,
And back home again
The checkout was long
at the grocery store
Quick trip to the post office?
An hour or more
This waiting is something
that no one avoids
Standing in lines
with the other androids
Programmed to wait
“Now, each take a turn”
While precious life seconds,
like calories, burn
Used up, wasted, in
the most thoughtless way
Discarded like pennies
in some millionaire’s play
Some drama that begs
me to carpé diem
The forest – before me
Trees? I can’t see them
Not to mention that
one third of the day
is wasted completely
I sleep it away
Convincing myself that
it’s downtime I need
Sit watching the T.V.
Doing nothing…
With…great…speed
I paused just before
I wrote that last line
While I’m pondering
I’m squandering
My precious time
My time on Earth.
For what it’s worth.
© Jeff Wilson, 2006
Standing in line
Wasting good time
Make the most of
every moment
That’s what they say
I stood in line
at the DMV today
I sat in my car
at a red light or ten
On my way to work,
And back home again
The checkout was long
at the grocery store
Quick trip to the post office?
An hour or more
This waiting is something
that no one avoids
Standing in lines
with the other androids
Programmed to wait
“Now, each take a turn”
While precious life seconds,
like calories, burn
Used up, wasted, in
the most thoughtless way
Discarded like pennies
in some millionaire’s play
Some drama that begs
me to carpé diem
The forest – before me
Trees? I can’t see them
Not to mention that
one third of the day
is wasted completely
I sleep it away
Convincing myself that
it’s downtime I need
Sit watching the T.V.
Doing nothing…
With…great…speed
I paused just before
I wrote that last line
While I’m pondering
I’m squandering
My precious time
My time on Earth.
For what it’s worth.
© Jeff Wilson, 2006
Lament for the Disaffected
written while teaching in a Florida public high school...because of the formatting limitations of this blog, the alternate endings are sequential rather than side by side
A young girl in high school was going nowhere.
No pride - from soiled toe to disheveled hair.
She never was happy, just filled with despair.
But her only comment was, “I don’t care.”
Each test that she failed was met with a smirk.
She rarely passed quizzes or turned in homework.
When told that her future was looking quite bare,
Her nonchalant answer was, “I don’t care.”
Her parents were worried near almost to tears.
But all of their pleas only fell on deaf ears.
They threatened boot camp to give her a scare.
Her listless response? “I don’t care.”
Tried to drop out of school when she came of age.
Went to sign the withdrawal. Couldn’t read the page.
Word spread among her peers of this ironic affair.
She simply shrugged and said, “I don’t care.”
She decided her parents were the cause of her pain
Packed up her stuff, left home, in the rain.
Some decisions are mistakes, she was acutely aware,
But the best she could muster was, “I don’t care”.
She met a young man who shared a parallel outlook.
He never studied; never cracked open a book.
He never pursued a single worthwhile endeavor,
And when pressed for his goals he’d offer, “Whatever.”
He’d dropped out years ‘ere when his parents weren’t looking.
And this disregard tendered booking after booking.
By sixteen his family ties were easy to sever.
“Will your parents bail you out?” Nope. “Whatever.”
He was stuck in neutral with four flat tires.
No skills. No ambition. Just a sheet full of priors.
His résumé was bleak. Interviews? Never.
And with each new rejection he’d spout off, “Whatever.”
Then he met someone with equal indifference.
Her apathy rivaled even his lack of good sense.
Together, a pair ne’er mistaken for clever.
“Wanna go out?” “I don’t care.” “Whatever.”
For an instant, just one, they both thought that they cared
For each other, or at least for that evening they shared.
But alas, as it was, they both fell back into form
The products of Emotion (numb) and Thought (lukewarm).
Four months later she called to tell him she was late
That he was a daddy, gave him a due date,
And that she expected his support, by any means. However.
He hung up on her just after he sneered, “Whatever.”
You’d think that her apathy was wont to persist
But here’s the kicker (it’s really a common twist).
It turns out, for years, her concern had been veiled.
It’s easier to say “I don’t care,” than, “I tried, but failed.”
She really did care. She was human after all.
And like most human beings, she had put up a wall.
A defense to being told how and what to do. A shield.
And now that hard armor was tarnished and peeled.
Her psyche was raw. She had a need to confess
To her maltreated parents that her life was a mess.
(Like they didn’t know.) But, would they take her back?
Had that train left the station? Was she tied to the track?
She put a plan into action for her as yet unborn;
Got herself sweet perfume and her hair neatly shorn.
Summoned up courage she never knew she had,
And from her parents’ driveway dialed. “I’m outside, Dad”.
Bewildered, they opened the door and invited her in.
They stared at each other warily (her mother stifling a grin).
The silence was broken by courtesy. “Can I get you water?”
“Not for me, Mom, but maybe your granddaughter.”
She wasn’t sure what she expected
But she suddenly dared to hope
That bygones would be bygones -
That they would help her cope.
For those predisposed to happy endings
Below please find the left column
The right is reserved for you pessimists,
A tad more somber and solemn.
(Optimist Ending)
She measured their reaction
By the sorrow in their eyes.
She could tell this awkward news
Came as no surprise.
The silence stabbed her hope,
Which bled upon her soul.
Had years of silly, childish fears
Taken too great a toll?
They studied her hard features
In a thoughtful, still-life fashion.
They measured her past dismissiveness
Against their own compassion.
And in the end, as they knew they would,
Were she ever to return,
They were consumed by parental love,
Which still so hotly burned.
She mistook their fiery glare
For an anger she couldn’t bare.
Her eyes began to water,
She crumbled ‘neath their stare.
“I’m sorry that I came here.
I’ll leave; get out of your hair.”
Her father stopped her,
“Whatever happened before is in the past…
Your mother and I don’t care.”
They took her back, no questions asked,
And in their forgiving love she basked.
This spark, her own maternal flame ignited.
She cared again; pride and fear unmasked.
(Pessimist Ending)The anger in her father
Welled up from deep within.
He stood up quickly, clenched his fists,
And sternly set his chin.
His wife could tell from his pulsing vein
(that she had never seen before)
His blood pressure—through the roof;
Her heart—straight through the floor.
Before he could speak a word,
He turned upon his heel.
The verdict was born of pain.
There would be no appeal.
Caught in the silent crossfire,
Her mother sighed and crossed
Her burdened heart;
husband and daughter to each other...lost.
She felt herself give in
To her daughter’s streaming eyes,
To the flame of motherhood
That flickers but never dies.
But her husband yelled from the hall,
“I can’t believe you’d dare!
You lost your chance to ask our help!
Get out! We don’t care!”
And on her own, forlorn and grieved,
She stumbled from their house.
Whatever hope had chanced to burn,
Had frigidly been doused.
Because she couldn’t care ’til too late,
Her family ties did sever.
And what happened thereafter?
No one knows. Whatever.
© Jeff Wilson, 2005
A young girl in high school was going nowhere.
No pride - from soiled toe to disheveled hair.
She never was happy, just filled with despair.
But her only comment was, “I don’t care.”
Each test that she failed was met with a smirk.
She rarely passed quizzes or turned in homework.
When told that her future was looking quite bare,
Her nonchalant answer was, “I don’t care.”
Her parents were worried near almost to tears.
But all of their pleas only fell on deaf ears.
They threatened boot camp to give her a scare.
Her listless response? “I don’t care.”
Tried to drop out of school when she came of age.
Went to sign the withdrawal. Couldn’t read the page.
Word spread among her peers of this ironic affair.
She simply shrugged and said, “I don’t care.”
She decided her parents were the cause of her pain
Packed up her stuff, left home, in the rain.
Some decisions are mistakes, she was acutely aware,
But the best she could muster was, “I don’t care”.
She met a young man who shared a parallel outlook.
He never studied; never cracked open a book.
He never pursued a single worthwhile endeavor,
And when pressed for his goals he’d offer, “Whatever.”
He’d dropped out years ‘ere when his parents weren’t looking.
And this disregard tendered booking after booking.
By sixteen his family ties were easy to sever.
“Will your parents bail you out?” Nope. “Whatever.”
He was stuck in neutral with four flat tires.
No skills. No ambition. Just a sheet full of priors.
His résumé was bleak. Interviews? Never.
And with each new rejection he’d spout off, “Whatever.”
Then he met someone with equal indifference.
Her apathy rivaled even his lack of good sense.
Together, a pair ne’er mistaken for clever.
“Wanna go out?” “I don’t care.” “Whatever.”
For an instant, just one, they both thought that they cared
For each other, or at least for that evening they shared.
But alas, as it was, they both fell back into form
The products of Emotion (numb) and Thought (lukewarm).
Four months later she called to tell him she was late
That he was a daddy, gave him a due date,
And that she expected his support, by any means. However.
He hung up on her just after he sneered, “Whatever.”
You’d think that her apathy was wont to persist
But here’s the kicker (it’s really a common twist).
It turns out, for years, her concern had been veiled.
It’s easier to say “I don’t care,” than, “I tried, but failed.”
She really did care. She was human after all.
And like most human beings, she had put up a wall.
A defense to being told how and what to do. A shield.
And now that hard armor was tarnished and peeled.
Her psyche was raw. She had a need to confess
To her maltreated parents that her life was a mess.
(Like they didn’t know.) But, would they take her back?
Had that train left the station? Was she tied to the track?
She put a plan into action for her as yet unborn;
Got herself sweet perfume and her hair neatly shorn.
Summoned up courage she never knew she had,
And from her parents’ driveway dialed. “I’m outside, Dad”.
Bewildered, they opened the door and invited her in.
They stared at each other warily (her mother stifling a grin).
The silence was broken by courtesy. “Can I get you water?”
“Not for me, Mom, but maybe your granddaughter.”
She wasn’t sure what she expected
But she suddenly dared to hope
That bygones would be bygones -
That they would help her cope.
For those predisposed to happy endings
Below please find the left column
The right is reserved for you pessimists,
A tad more somber and solemn.
(Optimist Ending)
She measured their reaction
By the sorrow in their eyes.
She could tell this awkward news
Came as no surprise.
The silence stabbed her hope,
Which bled upon her soul.
Had years of silly, childish fears
Taken too great a toll?
They studied her hard features
In a thoughtful, still-life fashion.
They measured her past dismissiveness
Against their own compassion.
And in the end, as they knew they would,
Were she ever to return,
They were consumed by parental love,
Which still so hotly burned.
She mistook their fiery glare
For an anger she couldn’t bare.
Her eyes began to water,
She crumbled ‘neath their stare.
“I’m sorry that I came here.
I’ll leave; get out of your hair.”
Her father stopped her,
“Whatever happened before is in the past…
Your mother and I don’t care.”
They took her back, no questions asked,
And in their forgiving love she basked.
This spark, her own maternal flame ignited.
She cared again; pride and fear unmasked.
(Pessimist Ending)The anger in her father
Welled up from deep within.
He stood up quickly, clenched his fists,
And sternly set his chin.
His wife could tell from his pulsing vein
(that she had never seen before)
His blood pressure—through the roof;
Her heart—straight through the floor.
Before he could speak a word,
He turned upon his heel.
The verdict was born of pain.
There would be no appeal.
Caught in the silent crossfire,
Her mother sighed and crossed
Her burdened heart;
husband and daughter to each other...lost.
She felt herself give in
To her daughter’s streaming eyes,
To the flame of motherhood
That flickers but never dies.
But her husband yelled from the hall,
“I can’t believe you’d dare!
You lost your chance to ask our help!
Get out! We don’t care!”
And on her own, forlorn and grieved,
She stumbled from their house.
Whatever hope had chanced to burn,
Had frigidly been doused.
Because she couldn’t care ’til too late,
Her family ties did sever.
And what happened thereafter?
No one knows. Whatever.
© Jeff Wilson, 2005
Three Poems inspired by Aesop's Fables
written as examples for our fable unit
The Crow and the Pitcher (acrostic)
Never one to shy away from a challenge and
Ever diligent in thought and solution, the
Crow, parched from strenuous and lengthy flight,
Eyed what might heal her failing constitution.
Standing upright in plain sight, the pitcher
Seemingly contained water that might quench
Immeasurable thirst, but alas, ‘twas too deep and
The crow’s resolve gave a great wrench.
“You, cruel pitcher, will be my execution.”
It might have been normal to lie down and die.
She sat, dejectedly pondering the why,
That something so dark should come to befall her.
How could life be so close yet effectively wall her from
Even a sip? Oh, that water did call her.
“Madam Crow,” she said to herself in an
Ornery tone, “this is not the time for self-pity.
Take stock of your assets and cleave all bad thoughts.
Hence forth, there’ll be no negativity!”
Escaping the clutch of the cold grip of death she
Renewed her inner-strength with a cleansing deep breath.
“Over there are some pebbles,” she cried, “I can use!”
Four at once she beaked with the strength of one who’s
Inspired to live when she surely should not.
Now she added twelve more to the indifferent pitcher.
Verily, with each load of stones the water did rise -
Every pass and the vessel’s rock-stores grew richer.
Now the life-saving liquid was kissing the brim,
The crow attacked it with vigor, attacked it with vim.
Indeed she succeeded and sat back fulfilled.
Oh, how she had persisted when chances were slim!
Now you see the results when you’re smart and strong-willed.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
The Ants and the Grasshopper (rhyming couplets)
There once was a grasshopper playing a fiddle
Of actual work, he did very little
He spent all of his summer and most of the fall
Goofing around; doing nothing at all.
And while he rested or fiddled or slumbered
He took no notice of ants as they quietly lumbered
Right past his door, their path heavily trodden,
Burdened by various food they had gotten.
They worked and they labored right up to first snow
At which point they rested content and aglow
Knowing they had food to last them the season,
Their diligence and effort clearly the reason.
The grasshopper took notice of his rumbling belly,
And longed for a restaurant (or at least a good deli)
That was opened year-round for the cold, hungry insect,
But alas, looking around, there was none to detect.
So he banged on the door of a neighboring anthill
Panicked and screaming (he was really quite shrill),
He begged for a morsel, anything they could spare,
But those full-bellied ants really just didn’t care.
And lest you find them cruel, and this tale one of sorrow,
Take heed! Prepare today for the wants of tomorrow.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
The North Wind and the Sun (rhyming quatrains)
The glittery Sun and the blustery Wind
Stared at each other, both truly chagrined.
The wind contesting (nonsensical blather)
Which of the two most people would rather
Take in as a guest (like it could be done).
Wind insisting that he would be the one.
The sun just smiled brightly, as she was apt.
This infuriated the Wind. The Wind, he snapped.
And he howled and challenged, “Dumb Sun! A contest!
You choose the terms and we’ll see who’s best!”
Normally Sun would laugh off such a bet.
Not this time. Here are the terms that Sun set.
“You see that man walking down there on the road?”
Indeed, the Wind saw the small man as he strode.
“This is a test of strength – yours outer, mine inner.
Which of us makes him sans coat is the winner.”
“You’re on!” Wind cried as he rushed from the sky.
Oh, the grass, it did bend, and the leaves, they did fly.
And when Wind whipped harder, and the coat he caught,
“My victory is at hand,” he airily thought.
Just then something happened that was quite contradictory
And Wind snatched defeat from the wanton jaws of victory.
In his haste to see that coat billow like a sail,
Wind overlooked the flaw that made his plan fail.
The force of the Wind froze the man cold on the spot
So he bundled up tighter, even tying a knot
In the belt ‘round his waist, nice and secure.
He wasn’t taking that coat off; that was for sure.
Wind, now seeing his error, died down, retreated,
Becoming nothing more than a breeze, defeated.
“It’s over, Sun. Finished. I’ll leave you this thought.
If I can’t, you can’t. Your effort is for naught.”
Sun just beamed from her noon-time position
A furnace just waiting for sudden ignition.
Her rays, at right angles, left stars in his eyes,
And the man felt his internal temperature rise.
He wiped sweat from his brow and loosened the knot.
“My goodness! It’s getting unbearably hot!”
Another five minutes saw the coat removed.
And without a word spoken, Sun’s point had been proved.
Thus, subtly beaten, Wind turned, gently so,
“Well played,” he lilted. “And I think you should know,
You’ve taught me today, as a matter of course,
That persuasion, my friend, is better than force.”
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
The Crow and the Pitcher (acrostic)
Never one to shy away from a challenge and
Ever diligent in thought and solution, the
Crow, parched from strenuous and lengthy flight,
Eyed what might heal her failing constitution.
Standing upright in plain sight, the pitcher
Seemingly contained water that might quench
Immeasurable thirst, but alas, ‘twas too deep and
The crow’s resolve gave a great wrench.
“You, cruel pitcher, will be my execution.”
It might have been normal to lie down and die.
She sat, dejectedly pondering the why,
That something so dark should come to befall her.
How could life be so close yet effectively wall her from
Even a sip? Oh, that water did call her.
“Madam Crow,” she said to herself in an
Ornery tone, “this is not the time for self-pity.
Take stock of your assets and cleave all bad thoughts.
Hence forth, there’ll be no negativity!”
Escaping the clutch of the cold grip of death she
Renewed her inner-strength with a cleansing deep breath.
“Over there are some pebbles,” she cried, “I can use!”
Four at once she beaked with the strength of one who’s
Inspired to live when she surely should not.
Now she added twelve more to the indifferent pitcher.
Verily, with each load of stones the water did rise -
Every pass and the vessel’s rock-stores grew richer.
Now the life-saving liquid was kissing the brim,
The crow attacked it with vigor, attacked it with vim.
Indeed she succeeded and sat back fulfilled.
Oh, how she had persisted when chances were slim!
Now you see the results when you’re smart and strong-willed.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
The Ants and the Grasshopper (rhyming couplets)
There once was a grasshopper playing a fiddle
Of actual work, he did very little
He spent all of his summer and most of the fall
Goofing around; doing nothing at all.
And while he rested or fiddled or slumbered
He took no notice of ants as they quietly lumbered
Right past his door, their path heavily trodden,
Burdened by various food they had gotten.
They worked and they labored right up to first snow
At which point they rested content and aglow
Knowing they had food to last them the season,
Their diligence and effort clearly the reason.
The grasshopper took notice of his rumbling belly,
And longed for a restaurant (or at least a good deli)
That was opened year-round for the cold, hungry insect,
But alas, looking around, there was none to detect.
So he banged on the door of a neighboring anthill
Panicked and screaming (he was really quite shrill),
He begged for a morsel, anything they could spare,
But those full-bellied ants really just didn’t care.
And lest you find them cruel, and this tale one of sorrow,
Take heed! Prepare today for the wants of tomorrow.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
The North Wind and the Sun (rhyming quatrains)
The glittery Sun and the blustery Wind
Stared at each other, both truly chagrined.
The wind contesting (nonsensical blather)
Which of the two most people would rather
Take in as a guest (like it could be done).
Wind insisting that he would be the one.
The sun just smiled brightly, as she was apt.
This infuriated the Wind. The Wind, he snapped.
And he howled and challenged, “Dumb Sun! A contest!
You choose the terms and we’ll see who’s best!”
Normally Sun would laugh off such a bet.
Not this time. Here are the terms that Sun set.
“You see that man walking down there on the road?”
Indeed, the Wind saw the small man as he strode.
“This is a test of strength – yours outer, mine inner.
Which of us makes him sans coat is the winner.”
“You’re on!” Wind cried as he rushed from the sky.
Oh, the grass, it did bend, and the leaves, they did fly.
And when Wind whipped harder, and the coat he caught,
“My victory is at hand,” he airily thought.
Just then something happened that was quite contradictory
And Wind snatched defeat from the wanton jaws of victory.
In his haste to see that coat billow like a sail,
Wind overlooked the flaw that made his plan fail.
The force of the Wind froze the man cold on the spot
So he bundled up tighter, even tying a knot
In the belt ‘round his waist, nice and secure.
He wasn’t taking that coat off; that was for sure.
Wind, now seeing his error, died down, retreated,
Becoming nothing more than a breeze, defeated.
“It’s over, Sun. Finished. I’ll leave you this thought.
If I can’t, you can’t. Your effort is for naught.”
Sun just beamed from her noon-time position
A furnace just waiting for sudden ignition.
Her rays, at right angles, left stars in his eyes,
And the man felt his internal temperature rise.
He wiped sweat from his brow and loosened the knot.
“My goodness! It’s getting unbearably hot!”
Another five minutes saw the coat removed.
And without a word spoken, Sun’s point had been proved.
Thus, subtly beaten, Wind turned, gently so,
“Well played,” he lilted. “And I think you should know,
You’ve taught me today, as a matter of course,
That persuasion, my friend, is better than force.”
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
On Moving from Florida Back to Wisconsin
the weather sure is fun here...
Overwhelming lethargy has overtaken me.
Eyelids, leaden and morose, succumb to gravity.
Muscles, fraught with weariness, object to exercise.
Chest, relieved of burdened air, threatens not to rise.
My sluggish stride deliberate, at best a snail’s pace.
Dark circles and a tired frown afflict my fatigued face.
Under pressure from depression, brain in blank repose,
Heart struggling to keep in time, so slothfully it slows.
The very fiber of my being submits to this abuse;
Melancholy is my Hangman, and winter is his noose.
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
Overwhelming lethargy has overtaken me.
Eyelids, leaden and morose, succumb to gravity.
Muscles, fraught with weariness, object to exercise.
Chest, relieved of burdened air, threatens not to rise.
My sluggish stride deliberate, at best a snail’s pace.
Dark circles and a tired frown afflict my fatigued face.
Under pressure from depression, brain in blank repose,
Heart struggling to keep in time, so slothfully it slows.
The very fiber of my being submits to this abuse;
Melancholy is my Hangman, and winter is his noose.
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
The Undefeatable, Indeflateable, Incredible, Durable Dream
the Shel in me trying to get out?
I was having a picnic
One day with my Dream
I said, “You’re not as far
Away as you seem.”
He didn’t reply
As he lay in the sun.
Just out of reach
At a quarter past One.
When suddenly a herd
Of nasty Nay-Sayers
Went stampeding by
Like fat football players
They trampled my Dream
And laughed as they went
They left my Dream dirty
And mangled and bent.
Their taunts and their jeers
Rang so loud in my ears
Raising all of my doubts
And increasing my fears
And the sight of my Dream
All fractured and broken
Left me crying and small
With a despair unspoken
I thought, for a minute,
“What if my Dream died?”
I couldn’t just sit there
I have too much pride.
I’ll not let Nay-Sayers
Turn me ‘to a mourner
So I picked up my Dream
And I smoothed out each corner.
I ironed and I pressed
And I nursed it along
‘Til it was healthy again,
And vibrant, and strong.
Then the two of us smiled
And returned to our meal
“I’ll keep you safe,” I said.
Then we shook on the deal.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
I was having a picnic
One day with my Dream
I said, “You’re not as far
Away as you seem.”
He didn’t reply
As he lay in the sun.
Just out of reach
At a quarter past One.
When suddenly a herd
Of nasty Nay-Sayers
Went stampeding by
Like fat football players
They trampled my Dream
And laughed as they went
They left my Dream dirty
And mangled and bent.
Their taunts and their jeers
Rang so loud in my ears
Raising all of my doubts
And increasing my fears
And the sight of my Dream
All fractured and broken
Left me crying and small
With a despair unspoken
I thought, for a minute,
“What if my Dream died?”
I couldn’t just sit there
I have too much pride.
I’ll not let Nay-Sayers
Turn me ‘to a mourner
So I picked up my Dream
And I smoothed out each corner.
I ironed and I pressed
And I nursed it along
‘Til it was healthy again,
And vibrant, and strong.
Then the two of us smiled
And returned to our meal
“I’ll keep you safe,” I said.
Then we shook on the deal.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
No Time
written for the 8th grade class and their reputations in their last quarter of middle school
Beginning of a new quarter, the last
No time to think of accomplishments past
The next nine weeks loom exciting; titanic
Rushing to graduate; frantic, manic.
Have you done everything you can
To prepare for what Upper School demands?
Are you ready to take a giant leap forward?
Or baby steps, for some, to help move you toward
the proving ground ‘tween kid and adult
filled with uncertainty, elation, and tumult?
For most, you’ve studied and played and prepared
You’re just waiting…excited, not scared.
Academics have taken care of themselves
Your trophies shine brightly on polished shelves
Only these last few weeks – a seemingly small task.
How will you spend them? What’s left, you ask?
The calendar will tell you Middle School is near done
Soccer, track, D.C., musical, summer fun.
Linear time from now until then
Broken by memories made with your friends.
Are grades and athletics the measure alone
By which a class is remembered; fondly known?
I submit to you, in these last waning days
What a class Creates – the message it conveys –
Says more, speaks louder, overtly confessed
Than any basket, or project, or tackle, or test.
How a class treats each other, I think you will find
Makes a mark on the classes they must leave behind.
How do you WANT to be remembered? Your choice.
Your actions? Your canvas. Your reputation? Your voice.
Years from now as we all look back –
and we will – will we grimmace or pine?
How will we remember the class of Oh Nine?
Oh, they were Awesome! Or, Oh, they were fine.
Oh, their respect for each other was a sight to behold. Or
They were petty and self-centered, vindictive and cold?
They looked out for one another, even peers they didn’t like.
Or they jabbed each other cruelly with sharp, trivial spikes.
They treated each other with the worst social graces,
Or…they realized that going together meant going places.
They had the opportunity and they soundly blew it,
Or they seized the opportunity and together got through it.
Lest, you think everything is about you,
I’m talking to the class of 2010, too.
You’ll be in this position in just one…short…year.
Famous or infamous? The path is quite clear.
Together you’re stronger than the sum of your parts,
A class is remembered for more than its smarts.
Will you be remembered as a class that stood
Apart for themselves or together for good?
Let me finish with this, to each student in this hall
I’m not preaching cliché, “All for one, one for all”.
You don’t have to like everyone to all get along,
But R-E-S-P-E-C-T is not just a song.
When we respect each other, our failures and success,
People older than you (and wiser) will confess
Our memories, Your memories, will be far more pleasant.
With only nine weeks remaining, no time like the present.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Beginning of a new quarter, the last
No time to think of accomplishments past
The next nine weeks loom exciting; titanic
Rushing to graduate; frantic, manic.
Have you done everything you can
To prepare for what Upper School demands?
Are you ready to take a giant leap forward?
Or baby steps, for some, to help move you toward
the proving ground ‘tween kid and adult
filled with uncertainty, elation, and tumult?
For most, you’ve studied and played and prepared
You’re just waiting…excited, not scared.
Academics have taken care of themselves
Your trophies shine brightly on polished shelves
Only these last few weeks – a seemingly small task.
How will you spend them? What’s left, you ask?
The calendar will tell you Middle School is near done
Soccer, track, D.C., musical, summer fun.
Linear time from now until then
Broken by memories made with your friends.
Are grades and athletics the measure alone
By which a class is remembered; fondly known?
I submit to you, in these last waning days
What a class Creates – the message it conveys –
Says more, speaks louder, overtly confessed
Than any basket, or project, or tackle, or test.
How a class treats each other, I think you will find
Makes a mark on the classes they must leave behind.
How do you WANT to be remembered? Your choice.
Your actions? Your canvas. Your reputation? Your voice.
Years from now as we all look back –
and we will – will we grimmace or pine?
How will we remember the class of Oh Nine?
Oh, they were Awesome! Or, Oh, they were fine.
Oh, their respect for each other was a sight to behold. Or
They were petty and self-centered, vindictive and cold?
They looked out for one another, even peers they didn’t like.
Or they jabbed each other cruelly with sharp, trivial spikes.
They treated each other with the worst social graces,
Or…they realized that going together meant going places.
They had the opportunity and they soundly blew it,
Or they seized the opportunity and together got through it.
Lest, you think everything is about you,
I’m talking to the class of 2010, too.
You’ll be in this position in just one…short…year.
Famous or infamous? The path is quite clear.
Together you’re stronger than the sum of your parts,
A class is remembered for more than its smarts.
Will you be remembered as a class that stood
Apart for themselves or together for good?
Let me finish with this, to each student in this hall
I’m not preaching cliché, “All for one, one for all”.
You don’t have to like everyone to all get along,
But R-E-S-P-E-C-T is not just a song.
When we respect each other, our failures and success,
People older than you (and wiser) will confess
Our memories, Your memories, will be far more pleasant.
With only nine weeks remaining, no time like the present.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Setting the Stage
written for UPAF and read by the Fine Arts teachers at USM
The plays have been written,
The songs have been penned;
The orchestra’s tuned
With a message to send.
Arrangements completed;
Costumes, lighting refined;
Rehearsals and practice
With audience in mind.
Dancers and musicians
And actors of all ages
Learning their crafts
By increments and stages.
Giving their hearts and minds
Performing for the masses –
And through their skilled passion
Our culture purposefully passes
From the stage to the eye
From the pit to the ear
By virtue of Tchaikovsky
And Gershwin and King Lear
And struggling playwrights
Whom, by the very same token,
Deserve to have their thoughts
And messages spoken
And composers taking risks
With rhythm and form
Choreographers challenging,
Redefining the norm.
They are the fabric –
These arts we perform –
That wrap us
Sustain us
Keep us
Connected and warm
Enveloping us in
The art that is giving –
The beauty of being human,
The miracle of living.
Keep these arts vibrant
Allow them to flourish
Make them accessible
And see to it they nourish
Generations to come
Talent, ideas – as yet undefined.
(My apology to the bard)
The audience is the thing.
And with that in mind,
The stage has been set
For an impassioned plea.
Listen. Think. Act. Support
The arts in Milwaukee.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
The plays have been written,
The songs have been penned;
The orchestra’s tuned
With a message to send.
Arrangements completed;
Costumes, lighting refined;
Rehearsals and practice
With audience in mind.
Dancers and musicians
And actors of all ages
Learning their crafts
By increments and stages.
Giving their hearts and minds
Performing for the masses –
And through their skilled passion
Our culture purposefully passes
From the stage to the eye
From the pit to the ear
By virtue of Tchaikovsky
And Gershwin and King Lear
And struggling playwrights
Whom, by the very same token,
Deserve to have their thoughts
And messages spoken
And composers taking risks
With rhythm and form
Choreographers challenging,
Redefining the norm.
They are the fabric –
These arts we perform –
That wrap us
Sustain us
Keep us
Connected and warm
Enveloping us in
The art that is giving –
The beauty of being human,
The miracle of living.
Keep these arts vibrant
Allow them to flourish
Make them accessible
And see to it they nourish
Generations to come
Talent, ideas – as yet undefined.
(My apology to the bard)
The audience is the thing.
And with that in mind,
The stage has been set
For an impassioned plea.
Listen. Think. Act. Support
The arts in Milwaukee.
© Jeff Wilson, 2009
Rushing Towards More
written for a friend about to have her second child
You’ve done it before.
You’re wise to the game.
But you’re worried and
wary just the same.
Your courage you brace.
You steady your core,
‘cuz it’s different
when baby makes four.
What uncertainty.
Your moods tend to swing
as you wonder, “Did
we do the right thing?
What challenges and
new joys lie in store?”
‘Cuz it’s different
when baby makes four.
You stretched your heart
for the birth of your first;
made room for your
baby and spouse.
Can you do it again?
Will your heart widen still
when you add a fourth
mouth to the house?
Will your budget allow
your pause in career
to recover from
this second Birth Day?
More than any job,
the perks and rewards
of motherhood serve
to overshadow the pay.
You’re so busy now.
When you look back you’ll see
each bustling moment
as a small luxury.
Spend time with your first.
Change is at your door.
‘Cuz it’s different
when baby makes four.
Belly and heart so swelled,
all your worries be quelled.
‘Cuz it’s easy to tell
that you’ll handle this well.
Enjoy these last days
As you’re rushing towards more…
‘cuz it’s Better
when baby makes four.
© Jeff Wilson, 2006
You’ve done it before.
You’re wise to the game.
But you’re worried and
wary just the same.
Your courage you brace.
You steady your core,
‘cuz it’s different
when baby makes four.
What uncertainty.
Your moods tend to swing
as you wonder, “Did
we do the right thing?
What challenges and
new joys lie in store?”
‘Cuz it’s different
when baby makes four.
You stretched your heart
for the birth of your first;
made room for your
baby and spouse.
Can you do it again?
Will your heart widen still
when you add a fourth
mouth to the house?
Will your budget allow
your pause in career
to recover from
this second Birth Day?
More than any job,
the perks and rewards
of motherhood serve
to overshadow the pay.
You’re so busy now.
When you look back you’ll see
each bustling moment
as a small luxury.
Spend time with your first.
Change is at your door.
‘Cuz it’s different
when baby makes four.
Belly and heart so swelled,
all your worries be quelled.
‘Cuz it’s easy to tell
that you’ll handle this well.
Enjoy these last days
As you’re rushing towards more…
‘cuz it’s Better
when baby makes four.
© Jeff Wilson, 2006
Spark: The Power of One
written for an MLK Day assembly
I am a spark
Igniting internal flame.
Giving life to idea
Accepting no blame
For pushing my thought
Onto some others’ plates,
Feeding them warmly.
Watch what it creates
As they swallow and digest
And make it their own -
Tend their growing passion
In fields that they’ve sown.
Harvesting great effort
and selling it hard.
Spreading the message
With mindful regard
That what has been proffered
Is vital to the masses.
An avalanche rolling,
Picking up all that it passes
An unstoppable force.
Oh, to see it grow!
What started as spark
Now raging inferno.
This is how it begins
Way of the world, so to speak.
Change is a force for
The strong not the meek,
And strength is not measured
By age or by size.
But, rather, persistence
And the number of tries
You have in your heart,
Particularly when
You’re faced with adversity
Again and again.
I am a spark.
I am not just a kid.
I burned and I burned,
And look what I did.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
I am a spark
Igniting internal flame.
Giving life to idea
Accepting no blame
For pushing my thought
Onto some others’ plates,
Feeding them warmly.
Watch what it creates
As they swallow and digest
And make it their own -
Tend their growing passion
In fields that they’ve sown.
Harvesting great effort
and selling it hard.
Spreading the message
With mindful regard
That what has been proffered
Is vital to the masses.
An avalanche rolling,
Picking up all that it passes
An unstoppable force.
Oh, to see it grow!
What started as spark
Now raging inferno.
This is how it begins
Way of the world, so to speak.
Change is a force for
The strong not the meek,
And strength is not measured
By age or by size.
But, rather, persistence
And the number of tries
You have in your heart,
Particularly when
You’re faced with adversity
Again and again.
I am a spark.
I am not just a kid.
I burned and I burned,
And look what I did.
© Jeff Wilson, 2007
All Rise!
To my first homeroom on their promotion to the next grade...
It’s been a great year!
Oh, the progress you’ve made
as you’ve read, and studied,
and written, and played.
It’s hard to believe
(mem’ries of August fade)
that in just nine months
you’ve completed sixth grade.
The waters run deeper
as you advance through the years,
learning with friends
and growing with peers.
Together you challenge
each other to wade
in the rising tide of
each Middle School grade.
The view from the beach
here in my lifeguard tower
gives me reason to watch,
to admire your power;
and to offer you chances
to venture out past the shoal;
to learn how you learn
to achieve your next goal.
And, the goals get tougher
year after year;
that much, if anything,
should be perfectly clear.
Sixth grade gives you a base
upon which you must build
to be a card-carrying member
of the seventh grade guild.
There’s no magic formula;
it’s no matter of luck.
it’s the want to be your best
and unquenchable pluck…
Keep up with guide questions.
Keep up with your reading.
Keep up with your homework
and you’ll keep succeeding.
Keep order in lockers,
start and stay organized.
Demand a side of achievement
with your grade super-sized.
Make connections ‘tween schoolwork
and your real-world life.
Sharpen your thinking skills
Like a ‘smith hones a knife.
Strive to communicate
with diligence and care.
It strengthens relationships
and the bonds that you share
with the friends who are standing
by your side through it all.
You’ll not only thrive,
but, you’ll have such a ball!
The things you experience,
here in your school;
opportunities - for which
you must provide your own fuel
If you do, which you can,
Oh, how brightly you’ll burn!
It’s amazing what happens
when you love just to learn.
Thank you for letting me
be part of your world.
What an honor - to witness
as your future unfurled.
Thank you for this year!
Your dues have been paid.
You’re my first and best class.
Good luck in seventh grade!
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
It’s been a great year!
Oh, the progress you’ve made
as you’ve read, and studied,
and written, and played.
It’s hard to believe
(mem’ries of August fade)
that in just nine months
you’ve completed sixth grade.
The waters run deeper
as you advance through the years,
learning with friends
and growing with peers.
Together you challenge
each other to wade
in the rising tide of
each Middle School grade.
The view from the beach
here in my lifeguard tower
gives me reason to watch,
to admire your power;
and to offer you chances
to venture out past the shoal;
to learn how you learn
to achieve your next goal.
And, the goals get tougher
year after year;
that much, if anything,
should be perfectly clear.
Sixth grade gives you a base
upon which you must build
to be a card-carrying member
of the seventh grade guild.
There’s no magic formula;
it’s no matter of luck.
it’s the want to be your best
and unquenchable pluck…
Keep up with guide questions.
Keep up with your reading.
Keep up with your homework
and you’ll keep succeeding.
Keep order in lockers,
start and stay organized.
Demand a side of achievement
with your grade super-sized.
Make connections ‘tween schoolwork
and your real-world life.
Sharpen your thinking skills
Like a ‘smith hones a knife.
Strive to communicate
with diligence and care.
It strengthens relationships
and the bonds that you share
with the friends who are standing
by your side through it all.
You’ll not only thrive,
but, you’ll have such a ball!
The things you experience,
here in your school;
opportunities - for which
you must provide your own fuel
If you do, which you can,
Oh, how brightly you’ll burn!
It’s amazing what happens
when you love just to learn.
Thank you for letting me
be part of your world.
What an honor - to witness
as your future unfurled.
Thank you for this year!
Your dues have been paid.
You’re my first and best class.
Good luck in seventh grade!
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
Before the Year's First Bell
to teachers everywhere
Upon walking into an unfamiliar room
confronted by strangers with scrutinizing eyes
and prejudicial proclivities,
Apprehension is apt to search
for traces of malice and hints of disdain
whereas Poise looks to win the
hearts and minds of the unacquainted
and make friends where before there were none.
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
Upon walking into an unfamiliar room
confronted by strangers with scrutinizing eyes
and prejudicial proclivities,
Apprehension is apt to search
for traces of malice and hints of disdain
whereas Poise looks to win the
hearts and minds of the unacquainted
and make friends where before there were none.
© Jeff Wilson, 2008
A Plea to the Kindred Spirits
Written as an advertisement for my Writers' Club...
There’s power in a pencil, there’s might in a pen;
The kind that moves children, women, and men;
That spurs them to action; that awakens their souls;
That fills in their lives where there used to be holes.
There’s power in a poem, there’s might in a story;
The kind that cheers honor and celebrates glory;
That inspires hearty laughter, or draws tears from the eyes;
The strength to solve problems no matter the size.
There’s power in words, might you write them on paper;
The kind that turns mental cement into vapor;
Or melts it; a phase change to make matters worse;
Or better, depending on form, rhyme, or verse.
There’s power in you, there’s might in expression;
Whether disorderly or wrought with discretion.
There’s no telling what passions you’ll stir or ignite
No telling how much you’ll amaze and delight
Or challenge or anger, baffle or excite.
It starts with an idea, no matter how slight.
Do you have one? If so, it’s YOU I invite
Come. Share. There is no wrong. Just write.
©Jeff Wilson, 2008
There’s power in a pencil, there’s might in a pen;
The kind that moves children, women, and men;
That spurs them to action; that awakens their souls;
That fills in their lives where there used to be holes.
There’s power in a poem, there’s might in a story;
The kind that cheers honor and celebrates glory;
That inspires hearty laughter, or draws tears from the eyes;
The strength to solve problems no matter the size.
There’s power in words, might you write them on paper;
The kind that turns mental cement into vapor;
Or melts it; a phase change to make matters worse;
Or better, depending on form, rhyme, or verse.
There’s power in you, there’s might in expression;
Whether disorderly or wrought with discretion.
There’s no telling what passions you’ll stir or ignite
No telling how much you’ll amaze and delight
Or challenge or anger, baffle or excite.
It starts with an idea, no matter how slight.
Do you have one? If so, it’s YOU I invite
Come. Share. There is no wrong. Just write.
©Jeff Wilson, 2008
Angel Wind
for Gabriella, taken too soon
We miss the sound of the wind when it is absent;
The loss of gentle chimes and lilting rustling,
The bittersweet gusting and intemperate howling.
We miss the sound of the wind when we are hustling.
But we grieve when she is gone.
We miss the wind when it stops shaping the clouds;
Bending the atmosphere to its will at a whim,
Constantly changing the weather and landscape,
Imposing itself on trunk and leaf, Giving life to limb.
And we grieve when she is gone.
We miss the wind when it no longer licks our cheek;
Bearing butterfly whispers and bluebird song.
We yearn for one last chance; the joy and the burn
Of standing in its impulsive path for too long.
For we grieve when she is gone.
And in our grief we recall each breeze and zephyr;
The wind that made our life musical and sweet.
And through storm and gale, we ache and suffer
But keep the wind in our heart. Perfect. Complete.
And we remember when she is gone.
© Jeff Wilson, 2003
We miss the sound of the wind when it is absent;
The loss of gentle chimes and lilting rustling,
The bittersweet gusting and intemperate howling.
We miss the sound of the wind when we are hustling.
But we grieve when she is gone.
We miss the wind when it stops shaping the clouds;
Bending the atmosphere to its will at a whim,
Constantly changing the weather and landscape,
Imposing itself on trunk and leaf, Giving life to limb.
And we grieve when she is gone.
We miss the wind when it no longer licks our cheek;
Bearing butterfly whispers and bluebird song.
We yearn for one last chance; the joy and the burn
Of standing in its impulsive path for too long.
For we grieve when she is gone.
And in our grief we recall each breeze and zephyr;
The wind that made our life musical and sweet.
And through storm and gale, we ache and suffer
But keep the wind in our heart. Perfect. Complete.
And we remember when she is gone.
© Jeff Wilson, 2003
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