Here's To Your Success

Another 6th grade year comes to a close...

We’ve spent the year
To make things clear,
To provide for you a
Strong foundation.

The skills you need
To help you succeed
Beyond this year’s
Summer vacation

You’ve done your best
And passed each test
It’s time for
Sixth grade graduation

Your rising star
Will take you far,
From the 3rd floor
To what lies beyond

You’re a terrific class
You’re sure to surpass
Expectations – I’m
Sure you’ll respond

And years from now
You’ll all take a bow
As the grade that
Knew how to bond

It’s great to be smart
And know all you know
But beyond that
A piece of advice -

Only two words,
They’re powerful, though,
A secret learned and
Now shared: Be nice.

How you treat each other
Says more than your score
When it comes to what
Matters in the end

Play hard, work harder,
Your potential will soar
Even higher when others
Count you as a friend.

Count these days as a blessing
And not as a chore
To your studies pay heed
To your relationships tend.

I’ve seen what you can do
In the class, on the court,
With instruments
Of mass education

Whether on stage in a play
Or at play in a sport
Your talents are cause
For jubilation

Use your talents for good
Be a pillar of support
And to your friends
Give your total dedication.

I’m proud to have been
A small part of your life
I look forward to see
How you’ll grow.

May your cup runneth over
May your successes be rife
Be nice.
Oh, the places you’ll go!

© Jeff Wilson, 2010

Somewhere Down the Road

It's a lucky thing to have found her, and equally hard not to screw it up.

Your words are meant to comfort,
To demonstrate how much you care;
The things you think I’m feeling…
Those emotions aren’t really there.
I can see the pain you’re feeling
For the things afflicting me
The empathy exudes from you
And, I’m not too blind to see.
But I am too numb from anger
To ‘preciate your loving touch,
Your devotion in these coming days
Won’t seem to ‘mount to much
Over time, I’m sure I’ll find
Your love was my Gibralter
The rock beneath my ev’ry step
That would not let me falter.
‘Til then, I will hear your words,
See the tears well in your eyes,
And wish that I could be as strong
As my stoicism belies.
And wish that I could offer you
Some emotional compromise.
And wish that I deserved your love…

© Jeff Wilson, 2010

Nothing So Disheartens

When the bloom fades...

Nothing so subdues the soul as being undervalued.
Nothing so weakens one’s will as capricious criticism.
Nothing so dampens drive as one’s extra effort eschewed.
And from these careless condemnations, is birthed a seething schism.

© Jeff Wilson, 2010

Impact

There's an idea for a novel in me somewhere...

Bits and pieces,
The collected musings and brilliance
Of artists and authors.
Searing their talent and insight
On my incompetent consciousness.
A fleeting brand
That dies in the light of a flat screen
        And sinks into the depths
        of routinely rejected experiences
        gaining neither traction nor foothold
        in the amassed memory of life times.
An impermanent tattoo
Broken by time and
Deformed by attention deficit.
Were it within my ability
To piece these miniature jewels
Of immense meaning
These significant epiphanies
Together,
Were it within my faculty
To discern their import
To synthesize their arrangement
Into smart, familiar patterns
That others would recognize
As simple, obvious truths,
Were it in my destiny
To think
And be thought of
To bestow words
of measurable merit
Or comfort
or escape;
Satisfaction lies therein.

© Jeff Wilson, 2010

Bright Cold

Baby, it's cold outside.

“It’s a beautiful day,” my grandpa would say,
As blue sky replaces familiar grey.
The sun shining down on our sleepy, small town
Wrapping it all in a bright, yellow gown
But it is easy to see, through each barren tree,
Fallen snow is not awed easily.
It’s hard to cavort in a gown that’s so short;
And heat?...offers nothing of the sort.
Each breath is a cloud, snow and ice do shroud
Earth too solid to yet be plowed.
And yet, no matter how deep the freeze,
Like my grandpa, I desperately seize
Days as fleetingly beautiful as these.

© Jeff Wilson, 2010

The Last Days and the Days After

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

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