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
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