Poem: Obsessed

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Feel the wire stab as I reach anew.
Would stop, but I can’t.
Would slide, but I won’t.
Only press on
grip after grip
until I breach the lip of this
micro chip wall.

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Today’s NaPoWrimo prompt: write a poem that features
walls, bricks, stones, arches, or the like.
I tried to do this…of a sort. 

Poem: Fans or The Seeing

Hawarden Activities

Under the the gaze of the common, flat, golfer
Fans huffed and yorned and livened the ferbers.

Then the middie, little, weeble fan
from the Mediterranean archipelago
came alive to do the warming up.

He rypped, and kipped, and, in earnest,
der-dipped
until, en’man and with haste he
flattened the final Holland-y mile.
The joy it brought as his eager fans
paid him in kite-y caulks!

And talking of fans,
they were padding the thai and brioche with the hat.
‘N himself was amongst the blue trekkers
trekking under, ready to seed and drink with the olpers.

This little Olive, through the lineage of follie,
said, “Sinne! My sick opportunity turned what-up bejosh?!”
And, he left with the easel and frou.
And, he steampunked to night
and kakou.

NaPoWriMo prompt:
Find a poem in a language you do not speak. Let these unknown words inspire musings in English.

My inspiration:
Fan Oer See EnFierder by Tsjebbe Hettinga, Netherlands
(all my honors & apologies to Mr. Hettinga.)

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Poem: Shabby Crabby

CJ - CrabShell - 2013

Shabby little crabby went’a
whap, whap, whap.
Shabby little crabby went’a
tap, tap, tap.
Shabby little crabby said’a
well, well, well
I think I’ve outgrown my little
shell, shell, shell!

Shabby little crabby gave’a
push, push, push.
Shabby little crabby went’a
whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
Shabby little crabby was’a
dazed and amazed.
Shabby little crabby wasn’t
Shabby, shabby, shabby anymore!

So when you feel challenged by a
shell, shell, shell
that’s a little too small for your
tail, tail, tail.
Don’t be a fearful little
drab, drab, drab.
Give that tail a little
whap, whap, whap!

Make your life a little
hap-hap-happier, crab!

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CREATING: Mistakes

“If you’re not making mistakes then you are not doing anything. I’m positive that a doer makes mistakes.” John Wooden

Mistakes are an essential element of being creative. It’s not a question of ‘doing it wrong’. It’s a question of playing, experimenting, observing, analyzing, visioning until we get to the moment that ‘feels right’. Mistakes are the work that happens until nothing more can be done to an idea because to mess with it will diminish it.

Mistakes are miles that you travel on the road to your creative destination.

Managers, hear me now.

If you are not willing to allow your team to take that ride, don’t expect them to arrive. You all may get somewhere. And, it may be somewhere that moves you closer. But, if you are expecting your team to ‘go all Columbus’ and discover a new country without making any mistakes, you will likely be disappointed. Remember, Columbus told his sponsor, Queen Isabella, that he’d reached the East Indies. It was some time before they figured out that they’d discovered the West Indies. Continue reading

Poem: Still Afraid

 

701px-Self_Esteem_Shop

So there I was
in the desert
making a pass across
tumbleweed way
when I realized
how traumatized,
mortified,
horrified
I would be if they found out.

I wasn’t worried that they’d find I went too far.
I wasn’t too worried that they’d find out about that minute
when I thought I was in it,
only to find that it was an illusion …
(a mirage? a delusion?).
No, those weren’t the blanks
behind my angst.

My fear was seeded deep,
long ago … so long ago I thought,
maybe,
I’d never feel it again.
In fact,
I’d worked so hard to build
the fence.  No,
not fence … wall.
No, not wall … barricade
against it,
that maybe it would
stay
locked
up
and in it’s place forever.

But, there I was in this desert.
And, I was afraid that as I made my way
through all this open landscape
they would see I was not worthy.

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Poem: Letting Go

CJ - Beach - 2014 - C

We let you go.
It took a long time.
Years,
and then days,
and then a few more months
til we were ready.

And then yesterday
with prayers and poems and
ruby red roses
we rushed to sea side
and stood inside the wind
beneath the clouds
facing the bracing surf
and said, be free.
Be free, father.
Be free, grandfather.
Be free, husband.

Wrapped in the warmth of our love
and gratitude
be free, friend.

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