Pounded

Pounded.

Digital images

of artificial worlds,

perfect people,

and white teeth

Pounded.

Serious faces

spew grim realities

of a world

of gray.

Pounded.

Allies say

it’s “them.”

We need to rebel

against rules.

Pounded.

Many individuals

collaborate against

the trend,

“Do it our way.”

Pounded.

Uncertain thoughts

within your head

What is right, wrong?

What is.

Pounded.

with hammers

on the soul

until weak.

Hope is depleted,

falling.

Pounded.

To the core

of being

where life sparks

and surges.

Pounded

to the dense

Essence that

will not just

sigh.

Pounded,

yet not failing.

Clawing back

to see and

stand.

Pounded

on the surface.

Strong inside,

Living,

Being.

One of Those Days

In early, he preps the day’s lessons.

A copier jam backlogs tasks at hand.

In the hall, toner on fingers, he listens.

The student’s bad day needs an ear.

Voluntary review before the bell.

She encourages the few that attend.

In her morning bustle, she forgot

her bagel on the counter at home

He sits heavily in his chair.

Quizzes graded, some too low.

Lunch at his desk, he searches

for aspirin and a new approach.

Confused faces stare at her.

Connections to a unit failed.

Restless kid disrupts the class.

After referral, she thinks what if.

He shrugs on his coat, shuffles home.

Orthodontist bill sits next to cold dinner.

Quietly, he nibbles as he reads

State standards changes policies again.

A cat rubs her ankles in dim light.

The essays graded sit to the side.

She sips at her tea, pondering tv.

No, she promised bake sale cookies.

On his nightstand, a marine pin and

A ceramic bowl from past students.

On her laptop screen an email flickers.

A thank you from a student brings a tear.

Yeah it's been one of those days.

Among the struggles, a brief shiny why.

He will go onward, bright and early.

She will, gladly, proudly, do it again.

Writer's Lament

Fingers tap at keys, without rhythm, to find words,

Trying to tell the story, capture the poem,

Struggling to add meaning to a phrase or two.

The hand scribbles with a pen a stumble of letters

Pulling at the thread of an idea

Untwisting the scrambled jumble of the mind.

The writer, heart in hand, soul in need, mind in fog,

Struggles to grasp the wisp of words whispered by the muse

In a whirlwind of thought during the rumbling roller coaster of life…

...and put them on the page.

A W in the Book

Tonight is not for a title or trophy,

Just the last game of the season.

Tape the ankle, wear the colors,

Roll the neck, and pound the pads.

It’s time. Time for a W in the book.

Look at the faces next to you

And make an oath right now,

That you will step it up and play

Right up to the final whistle

And share a W in the book.

We have had our heartache

Plus, bruises, crutches and flags.

Yet, tonight if we play with heart

Deep from the fiber of our soul,

Forever will be a W in the book.

C’mon boys, rally round the ball.

Yell and cheer like champions.

Let the field echo with our cry

Let our spirit, unbroken, fly!

And put another W in the book.

Drive

            the ball comes down court

            hands ready.

Pick sets.

            flash around, shoulder to shoulder

Post up.

            ball pops the hand

            to the net.

Drive!

            new opponent takes the court,

            smug cancer.

Pick sets.

            team rallies, shoulder to shoulder,

Post up.

            Compo, head up high,

            undefeated.

Drive.

            athletes across the conference

            wear pink.

Pick sets.

            all the Jack Pine, shoulder to shoulder,

Post up

            a number 32

            with love.

Drive.

Miss You

I walk tall, undefeated,

Yet the wind tries to push me down,

To hunch low, retreat into my coat of thoughts.

Grit stings my eye, blurring the world.

I fall…

    ...no one catches me

        ...miss you.

I fall hard, awkwardly,

And the pavement bites my palms,

Burns my knee, the armor of faith groans.

Heart pounds hard, frustrated and mad.

I cry…

    ...no words of comfort

        ...miss you

I rise slow, carefully,

From a tree, a red cardinal chirps, “Hey.”

Warming sun, touches my salty cheek.

Although not here, you are with me..

I sigh…

    ...your message received

        ...miss you.

A Teacher of Art

Today, he was sitting on the bench,

Sketch pad and pencil in hand.

The wind ruffled the paper

While clouds dimmed the world.

I have seen him about the town.

Sketching, drawing, painting

In bright summer dancing in color

And dismal winter of charcoal gray.

I sat next to him and glanced at his work.

His hands were sturdy, the fingers gentle.

“Wouldn’t it be easier in a studio?” I asked.

He adjusted his pad, hand flickered on.

Paints have to spill,” he said.

“Brushes have to hit, tickle, and wave;

Pencils cut, trace, kiss, and break;

And easels get knocked down.”

“Color must be grabbed, smelled,

Rubbed between fingers and tasted.

Form dances, skulks and caresses.

Light and shade play hide and seek.”

 He closed his pad and pocketed pencils.

“Yes, it would be easier in a studio.”

With crinkled eyes, he threw me a wink.

“But, then how fun would that be?”

This poem is a part of the Wordz collection.