I Stand Tall

“Bloodied but unbowed"

I stand tall.

Pulling my limbs from the dark tendrils

that unceasingly try to drag me under,

I stand tall.

As Cool Hand Luke, not ready to lose,

I stand tall.

Against the wages of daily stress

With undaunted spirit

Proud of my humanness,

Of spirit,

I stand tall.

With a glint in the eye

And a curl on the lip,

I stand tall.

And, for those in my life,

Or in my memory,

That have shown me how,

I stand tall

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.

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.

You'll Be There

In the future, there is a classroom

With books and boards and desks.

The floor is worn, maybe a crack in the wall,

But posters splash color and whisper advice.

And you’ll be there.

In this classroom there are students,

Bright and eager and ready to learn.

The world will be opened to them.

Discovery and life will dance about.

And you’ll be there.

Among the students, there will be a few

Trying and doing but not quite getting.

Leaning in, elbow on desk with his writing

Or with her math; a turning point provided.

And you’ll be there.

Among the few, there will be a student,

Sullen or struggling or disengaged.

There will be open battles, quiet chats aside,

Patience required; a long term rescue ensured.

And you’ll be there.

Within the faces, there will be a child,

Noticed, but quiet and blended in.

Not in trouble and not standing out,

Yet from the pat on the back, the confident grin,

The happy room, the warmth of life and learning,

The proud stand, the “good job,"

The hug of safety; unknown, a life change given.

And you’ll be there.

 (for the next generation of teachers)

Rise and Rally

Oh, cancer, you are persistent.

        You attack, young and old alike.

Yes, the list is long of those you have taken.

        But know this,

We rise and rally against you.

With candles and ribbons and tears,

        we stand in memory of those who have fought.

With prayers and science and hands held together,

        we stand by those who face the battle now.

With laughter and hugs and thankfulness,

        we stand with the survivors who are the veterans.

These Heroes All,
have shown us pain, frustration and fear.

But more than that, they have shown us

        the strength of faith,
the grin and grit of courage,
the gleam of hope,
the restfulness of peace

and the unconquered soul

that leads us to

Rise and Rally.

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.

Passion

                     in brief moments

it erupts

  bursting tears and laughter forth

  from a celebration of the senses

  phoenix born from another’s fire

other moments, a spark ignites

  slowly, nibbling, savoring

  all it takes in until

  it roars desire

melding with the soul

              it hungers for more

              craving to be, create, become

              the art that sustains

passion drives to do

               to go beyond mortal limits

               to the essence of true living

               expressing exuberant form

               in a clash of blood and spirit

               dancing and singing

               to live eternally

                                    in brief moments

That Guy

He may be that guy

that’s there at every game

cheering loud, or might be cursing the ref.

He may be that guy

that with few words to say,

is gruff, or might be a lullaby.

He may be that guy

that is at work, long on time,

chasing providence, or might be a dream.

Yet, he is that guy

that is there when needed like a hero,

no cape, but just as bold,

ready to leap, outside brave,

strong face, sturdy and dependable,

"don’t mess with my kids.”

He is that guy,

a paradox of close and distant,

gentle but rugged,

unbreakable yet bending.

He is that guy

that takes on a complex role

for a simple man

of being a father, a dad.

Yeah,

he is that guy.

Brick Girl

On good days, I see her

sitting on a low wall of bricks.

Sun shining in patches through

the leaves, touching highlights

of her cheek, her light hair,

her hazel eyes.

Serene, looking out

toward the road, statuesque,

in the bustle of others around her.

Her bag leans against the wall.

She sits with her

knees up, arms hugging her legs,

casually, relaxed and patient,

waiting for her ride.

In this pose upon brick

she floats, reflective like

a quiet song with Irish lilt,

harmony with airy whispers,

eyes dreamily smile toward

a vision not yet formed

but promising of beauty,

a mirror of her.

On gloomy days,

the wall grunged in rain,

she waits elsewhere,

and I wait for a good day

to see the brick girl

lazily, gently sitting

with a shadow of a smile

and warm grace in her eyes,

patient yet eager,

looking forward and waiting. 

Silver Shield on Blue

One week into the job

The rookie pulls a boy from a car wreck.

He clings tightly onto the blue uniform

But he doesn’t cry.

He is safe in the arms of the officer.

The new blue smiles ignoring pain and says a prayer,

            Michael and Jude, I am the protector,

            The one who faces impossible tasks.

            “I’m going to be a cop too,” said the boy.

            Yeah, this is what I do.

Some years and many miles on the road

Icing a twisted knee from a failed pursuit.

The officer pulls off the uniform that reeks

From the rousted whino.

A call comes from a former classmate with news.

One from their number has fallen in the line of duty.

            Michael and Jude, How can I protect

            And face the tasks ahead without purpose?

            Checking on your toddling child a siren echoes in the distance.

            Yeah, stroking the little head, I can continue to do.

Partners have come and gone, cars have changed.

Knee surgery and temporary desk duty have added a few pounds,

Slowing the step and tightening the blue collar.

Ol’ Cap is hospitalized from stress on the heart.

Whiskey bites the throat

Its all been the same, nothing ever changes

            Michael and Jude, I need some protection

            and help with the job I do.

            On the table , drawn in crayon, is a boxy car and officer in blue.

            Yeah, that’s the trick, I can go on a few.

Its an odd bit a fate that has brought the circle round

Yesterday, a trouble teen said ‘thanks’ and gave a hug.

Today, at the academy, an unusual invite did bring.

A new officer gets inducted and acknowledged today.

The boy from the car.

He shakes your hand with strength the way you did back when.

You pass on a gift of Don Quixote with the inscription that read,

            “Michael and Jude, To Serve and Protect

            Is an impossible job to do.

            Yet, Quixote did manage to joust a windmill.”

            Yeah, you salute, silver shield on blue.

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.