The Strength It Takes

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For my friends, The Ilardos, whose light beats back the shadows...

To bear the cross

Of mortal fears;

To know a wish

Cannot change Will;

To show gratitude

Despite the tears;

To remain in motion

When all else is still.

To plow forward

Through perilous doubt;

To forge solid steel

Of a broken heart;

To dive straight in

When instinct cries, “Out!”

To live holy, wholly,

When life tears you apart.

To give of yourself

When nothing’s left to give -

To sense when that

Is all that is needed;

To beat back Death

In order to live;

To grow in defeat

And not be defeated.

To play your cards,

Even those poorly dealt;

Not lamenting losses,

but counting your blessings;

With the love of your God

And for each other heartfelt;

Your strength inspires…

Thanks for the lessons.

© Jeff Wilson, 2012

Helping Hand

Written to model an assignment: Write a poem based on the elements of horror as discussed in class using the unit's vocabulary. Boo-yah.

Marvin was an affable lad, a kind and friendly soul,

But quirky in a palpable way, not just a little droll.

When asked one day to lend a hand, he vehemently agreed;

Marvin was profoundly glad to help a friend in need.

A pragmatic plan ascended from his reason’s deepest trough;

He hoisted up his sharpest ax and cut his poor hand off.

He zealously presented it, for it was none too hefty;

He never understood why they, thereafter, called him “Lefty”.

In Response to a Friend's Raps

Definitely impressed when you put your skills to the test. So blessed. Words from your head that well up from your chest. All heart from the start. A man apart. Like Good Will Hunting, my boy's wicked smart.

Providence, please. You spit lyrical with ease. Yours words buzzing and swarming my mind like bees. All honey, no impurities. Keep rhyming for real until everyone agrees. You're no fad, hotter than 98 Degrees. A vision and a plan for all societies.

Upon Waking Up Free on 5/27/12

I do not fully understand what it takes to serve -
The dedication, willingness, sacrifice, and nerve.
I can make this post because you stood your own
and when you fell the good Lord called you home.
Posthumous appreciation and thanks to you today
God bless the fallen soldier. God bless the U.S.A.   

-Jeff Wilson, 2012

Spring Break

When a teacher's thoughts wander...

a glorious thing

this Break in Spring

when the flowers bloom

and the new birds sing

when the children sneeze

and whine their pleas,

“Less homework! Fewer tests!

More eeeease!”

a wonderful thing

this Break in Spring

when dreams of lying

on beaches are king

when lo! it is strange

to adjust to time change

an hour lost but eve’ning gained

a delightful thing

this Break in Spring

when the second-hand drags

and the minute-hand stings

the air a little sweeter

the desk a little neater

air-conditioner instead of a heater

a magnificent thing

this Break in Spring

when a phoenix season

hatches fledgling

refreshed and renewed

with energy imbued

and flaunting a new attitude

© Jeff Wilson, 2012

 

The Lost Verse from "The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert Service

in response to the 6th graders' homework tonight...

I was at first relieved that my eyes, not deceived,

            saw Sam McGee well and alive;

But my anger did surge and I fought off the urge

            to punch him with closed fingers five.

“You scoundrel, you lout!” I yelled with a shout

            over the din of the raging flame.

“You’re warm here within, with that dopey grin,

            while I toil…this isn’t a game!”

He looked awfully nervous, “You’ve done me a Service,”

            he said as his breath it did bloom.

“No need to be glum, Cap, my old chum.

            C’mon in! There’s plenty of room.

©Jeff Wilson, 2012

Prison and Pane

The light through the window splashes the office wall.

Photons crash against and melt into painted cinder block

revealing imperfections - bathing, softening, dreaming.

A siren’s song. A bright reminder of what lies without.

But, the vertical blinds cast shade

                        thick, cold bars against the warmth.

Segmenting the sea of sunshine,

                        the wall forced to realize its purpose.

A fantasy shattered by shards of shadow

                        A stark reminder of what lies within.

© Jeff Wilson, 2012

 

This Will Hurt Tomorrow

Written at 3am. I have to leave for work in three hours. 

Nothing good happens after 2am

except the fevered metaphor of insomniacs

longing for an empty ocean

of darkness behind heavy lids, just out of reach.

Sleeplessness attacks.

Mesmerized by the motion

of the clock measuring

loss by the second.

Treasuring memories of dreams

from nights prior.

To that retired state aspire,

they beckoned.

It’s not the first time this whale has beached,

this bloated consciousness, washed up on the sand

gasping for air,

painfully aware,

that it can’t push its way back into the water

because it doesn’t have hands.

Sleep, she eludes you,

no matter the hours you have sought her,

and Dawn dances just over purple-black horizon

lifting night’s skirt like some strip club tease.

A vicious circle that cannot be undone,

killing me by degrees.

© Jeff Wilson, 2012

 

Not Finished Fighting

The warrior sat. Curled. Fragile.

Wrapped in blankets and headdress.

Gaunt from the long siege. Cold in recovery.

The warrior stood. Straight. Thin.

Draped in small victories and defiance.

Weary from battle. Ravaged in body.

The warrior moved to the fire. Slowly. Smiling.

Swathed in warmth and peace.

Vigor from vulnerability. Sword in hand.

She shook off the chill of the morning

and the emotional chasm of the chemo,

To her afflicted bosom, clutched the moment

and lived in it. For herself. For her boys.

Because you cannot leave behind

that which you refuse to let go.

© Jeff Wilson, 2012

 

Extended Meta-Two

Two poems from 5-10 minute extended metaphor exercises in the 8th grade Cre8iveWriting elective:

I Don't Do Dishes

I have been used by you time and again

Moistened by your tears, rolled up and then

Wiped across your life and smeared

With your selfishness. To others, I appeared

Sullied and wrung out, yet of my devotion you’d brag.

Fold me gently. Smooth my corners.

But, I feel like a limp dishrag.

Life On Track 

I am a train barreling down the track

Without reverse, no going back.

Occasionally slowing to feed its tanks,

Then regaining speed to rejoin the ranks

Of similar engines unable to turn,

No matter the fuel - just burn, baby, burn.

Fated to rocket down pre-determined path,

Unaltered by ecstacy, depression, or wrath.

Passengers hopping my cars as I pass

Some riding coach, others first-class,

Some left at the station, some attended with care,
All of them part of the ticketed fare.
Straight down the track to some final reward -
Enjoy the scenery. All aboard!

© Jeff Wilson, 2012