In Her Wake

If the value of a life lived
Can be determined by
The number of people impacted
During that life,
Then she was a world leader
Of enormous stature.

She was an English teacher
Whose passion for literature,
Love for people,
And exuberance for life
Rubbed off on thousands
Through the years.

She had a way about her
That inspired people
To believe in themselves,
To accomplish great things,
To stretch their wings and fly,
To live a life they love.

In 35 years of teaching
She had spawned
Doctors and lawyers,
Artists and architects,
Poets and authors,
Men and women of the world.

For this incredible lady
Each day of her life
Was a celebration,
A splendid affair
Full of pageantry and hope
And the people she loved.

She passed away
At 85 years of age,
Some 30 years after
Retiring from teaching
But not before leaving
One final set of instructions.

She demanded
That not a single tear
Be wasted on her passing
For she had lived
An awesome life
For which she was proud.

Instead, in her wake
A party was to be held
Celebrating the life she lived
With the people she touched
Showing the impact
That one Lady had on the world.

People came from all around,
Former students of hers,
Mostly 40 to 70 years of age,
To commemorate her life,
The gifts she had given them
And the legacy of her teaching.

Going It Alone

There is a delusion
We sometimes have
That no one else
Can do what needs
To be done
Quite the way we can.

We create difficulties
For ourselves
When we don’t delegate
Responsibility to others,
And end up trying
To do it all ourselves.

We need to figure out
How to involve others
In our cause,
And incorporate
Teamwork into our plans
And efforts.

The only enemy is us
When we believe
We are the only ones
Who can do the job,
And refuse to allow
Others to help.

Frank Gets Hairy

Frank was a very
Soft spoken
Mild mannered type,
Not given to
Exuberant display.

He just happened to be
Follicly challenged,
That is to say,
He was as bald
As they come.

Now I am not sure
If the two are connected
But I do know this,
When we put a wig on him
He turned into another fellow.

Suddenly there was a guy
That nobody knew
Kicking up a storm
Chatting away,
The life of the party.

Sometimes a change
In our appearance
Is all we need
To invent another
Way of being.

Fanning Island

As far as islands go
It wasn’t a very big place,
Maybe only a few miles across,
But it sure looked mighty good
After a couple months at sea.

Fanning Island was a coral atoll
Covered in the palm trees
Of a copra plantation,
A lonely British protectorate
Largely left out of the 20th Century.

It housed a small population
Of several hundred people
Of Polynesian descent,
And a British governor
Who ruled the land.

We managed to motor
Into the inner lagoon
After nearly running aground
While navigating
The entrance channel.

My brother and I
Couldn’t believe our eyes
When we saw the Island girls
Swimming out to the boat
To greet us.

I had read a bit about
South Pacific Island hospitality,
And they were the fulfillment
Of ever fantasy
I ever entertained.

They only get two ships a year
Coming in with supplies
And picking up the coconuts,
So visitors were rare
To that part of the world.

They were probably as anxious
To get off that Island
As we were
To get off the ship,
But rules got in the way.

My brother and I
Left the states
In such a hurry
That we neglected
To get our US passports.

Imagine attempting to sail
Around the world
And forgetting such a detail,
But that was
Exactly what we had done!

As a consequence
My brother and I
Weren’t allowed off the boat
And the girls
Weren’t allowed on.

Damn the British
Rules of propriety!

We were almost
Completely out of supplies,
So the Islanders sold us
What they could,
Which wasn’t a very much.


What little supplies there were
Was more than
Our dingy could handle
And it ended up sinking six times
Ferrying supplies back and forth.

A few of the crew members
Entertained the idea
Of jumping ship there
And trying to catch
Another boat back.

They were dissuaded
From that plan
By the fact
That it might be another six months
Until the next boat came along.

Much to the governor’s delight
We headed back out to sea
After only a day at the Island,
Intent on sailing to Samoa,
And looking forward to whatever
New adventures were in stow for us.

Eroding Dreams

The pounding surf of time
Wears away
At the fabric
Of our dreams,
Eroding the substance
Of our lives,
Our willingness to imagine,
Our fascination
With simply being alive.

What is left
After our dreams
Have suffered
Their untimely death
Is a mediocre existence
Suppressing
Who we really are,
Leaving us with the question
“Is this all there is to life?”

But I believe
It is our birthright
To be fully alive,
To lead an awesome life,
To love who
And what we are,
To touch one another
And to ultimately
Make a difference in the world.

The key
Is to keep
Our dreams alive,
To never loose the vision
That excited us as a child.

Enthusiasm

On a recent trip to Disneyland
The parents of a five year old
Were rudely awakened
From a sound sleep
By a blood curdling scream
Of their anxious young son.
As they jerked awake
Wondering what on earth happened,
The little boy frantically yelled
Get Up! Get Up!
As if it was an emergency.
When they asked
What was the matter,
He informed them
That the sun was up
And it was time to go!
Such enthusiasm is hard to take
At 6:30 in the morning
For most of us old foggies.
Do you ever wonder
Where our enthusiasm
For each new day went?

Collections

I vividly recall
Collecting things
As a kid
Like stamps and coins,
Baseball cards
And even match book covers.
Later on my collections
Became larger
And more expensive
But no less temporary.
I would collect tools and things
That might prove useful someday
If someday ever came,
That is if I could find them
Once the need occurred.
As an engineer
I collected an incredible variety
Of engineering reference books
On almost every subject
In Civil Engineering.
My wife on more than one occasion
Questioned my sanity
Because I bought
So many reference books,
Few of which were ever used.
My decision to take a break
From engineering for a while
Was finalized when I donated
My engineering book collection
To the county library.
The library turned around
And sold the entire collection
To a local engineering firm
For a tidy sum.
Being an avid chess player,
I collected hundreds
Of books on chess.
I have books on
Every major opening,
The middle and end games
As well as collected games
Of the grandmasters of the past.
I would be a much better player
Than I currently am
Had I read many of those books.
Every once in a while
I will get rambunctious
And pull one of the chess books out
With great pretense
And intention to improve my game,
But my commitment
Doesn’t last long enough
To significantly improve my game.
No wonder I have
Such a storage challenge!
I am a collector of things
That interest me at the moment
But my interests frequently change.

Coin Collecting

I have fond memories
Of my father bringing home
Sacks of coins,
Pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters
For us to search through
For the occasional rarities there.
My brother, Lee,
Had the most extensive
Collection of any of us.
He even managed
To find a 1909 svdb penny,
A gold coin
And quite a number
Of other valuable pieces.
Back in the early sixties,
There were barber dimes,
Buffalo nickels,
Indian head pennies
And lots of others coins
That would make the collectors
Of today drool,
And they were all
Still in general circulation.
Since we lived in Las Vegas
Silver dollars, the real ones
From the 1800’s and early 1900’s
Were as plentiful as dollar bills.
That was before the silver in them
Became more valuable
Than the coins themselves
And most of them were melted down.
We certainly weren’t
The only ones looking though,
Because in a few short years,
There wasn’t much left to be found.
Eventually we gave up collecting,
And what we each hoarded
Disappeared, was sold off
Or was simply added to the stuff
We accumulated over the years.
Just imagine how many
Such coin collections
Are hidden away in storage
Just waiting to be found
By someone sorting through
The piles of junk
That some coin retentive person
Horded in years past!

Chess Nuts

I learned the game of chess
As a child from my father,
And it has been a passion
Pretty much ever since.
In high school I convinced myself
That I was pretty good
For I probably played 1000 games
Without losing a single match.
It was a different story in college,
However, where I finally played
Against somebody who
Had mastered the game.
I got soundly beaten
And discovered that there was
A whole lot more to chess
Than I previously thought.
I picked up a few chess books
In an effort to bolster my tactics
But never really became
A serious student of the game.
I just loved to play
Every chance I got.
I relished the challenge
Of a hard fought battle
And the competition to win.
There was plenty of competition
There in college
Especially from the foreign students.
Chess apparently was
Much more popular overseas
Then it was there in the US.
I visited the university chess club
But the people there seemed
An odd mix of characters
Not given to social graces
And seldom if ever seeing
The light of the sun,
And I could not see myself
As a member of
Their peculiar fraternity.
Once while driving around Los Angeles
With my new fiancée,
We happened on MacAurthur Park
Where the street people
Congregate to play chess
And I played a few games
But it wasn’t a place
Where I wanted to hang around.
There was a stabbing
While we were there.
In the San Francisco area
I got into postal chess,
Playing protracted games
That often went on for months.
That was when I seriously
Start building a chess library.
Anyone not completely into the game
Could not imagine how many books
Could possibly be written
On such a subject.
I have since come across people
Who have actually learned
German and Russian
Just so they could
Keep up with the chess journals
Written in those languages.
Chess was a common lunchtime activity
Among the engineers
There in San Francisco.
We got so that we could play
Five or six games in an hour.
Through the years
My brother, Lee, and I
Would play against each other
Every time we got together
And we were always dead even
No matter how much
Either of us studied.
Playing chess got to be a problem
Because I would play
To the exclusion of everything else,
Including eating and sleeping.
I quickly discovered
Chess was my one real addiction,
That it would get in the way
Of all the other areas of my life
If I let it.
After I moved to Ventura in 1983,
I largely restrained myself
And didn’t play that much anymore,
That is until I found out that Sal
My oldest daughter’s fiancée,
Was also a chess nut.
He wasn’t very good initially,
At chess I mean,
But he spent the next year
There in New Orleans
Polishing up on his game
And when he got back
We were just about even.
Now neither of us like to lose,
And certainly not to each other
So you can bet,
That somewhere behind the scene,
Each of us is secretly
Preparing for the next encounter.

Big Shrimp, Little Shrimp

I enjoy going fishing
Whenever I get a chance.
It is one of
The simple pleasures of life
That I seldom
Take the time to do,
But on one such rare occasion,
I decided to fish
From a bridge
There in Miami, Florida
Late one night.
In doing so
I joined the ranks of shrimpers
Who were out in force
With their lanterns aglow
Attracting the shrimp
To their waiting nets.
What was amusing to me,
But probably not for them,
Was that the bait I was using
Were jumbo shrimp
Which made the shrimp
They were catching
Look positively puny.
There they were
Working so hard
To collect their catch
And I was throwing in
Shrimp four times the size of theirs
To try to catch a fish.

Bar Room Etiquette

My brother and I
Were moseying around
Pago Pago, Samoa
Late one evening
Shortly after our arrival
Looking for something to do
When we found a local bar
That was completely full.
Every seat and table
Were taken.
Lee was my younger brother
But he was a bit more
Worldly than I.
He told me to watch
As he proceeded to buy
A round of drinks
For one of the tables,
And the next thing we knew
The table was cleared,
And we were seated
With a couple island girls.
Now I am not much of a drinker,
Never have been
And never will be,
But it is permanently etched
In my mind
How smoothly that worked.
Thanks Bro!

American Woman

She is a normal
All American girl
Trying to make it
On her own.

She has spunk
And she has pride
In who she is
And the life she leads.

She makes do
With what she earns,
Pinching pennies
And scrimping to get by.

She has a few friends
But not a lot,
Some guys she sees
But nothing serious.

She leads a quiet
And a humble life
Mostly getting by
Paycheck to paycheck.

Still she dreams
Of someday finding
A guy and having
A family of her own.

It’s a small world
In which she lives,
An adopted pattern
That grew comfortable in time.

Yet deep in her heart
She knows unquestionably
That there is more
To life than what she sees.

She is a wandering spirit
Looking for something
Yet not really sure
Just what she will find.

She is a woman child
Willfully strong
Defiant and bold
Yet silently crying.

She is a mixture of the ages,
Something new
And something old,
Values sometimes confused.

She is a dreamer
Who hasn’t given up believing
That somewhere out there
Is her knight in shining armor.

She is an American Woman.
Independent and free,
Yet often wishing
She wasn’t so alone.

Abundance or Drought

It seems to be
A feast or famine
Kind of life
That I live,
Especially when
It comes to romance.
There are times
When I am so
Profoundly alone,
Thirsting for someone
To share a moment or two
Or maybe a life,
And no one is there.
The harder I look,
The harder they are to find.
Just about the time
That I give up looking,
The tide changes
And there is suddenly
Someone there,
But it is as if
Somewhere far upstream,
A dam has broken
And a flood
Of interesting possibilities
Magically came out of hiding.
What I have difficulty seeing though
Is the part I play
In whichever of the two,
Abundance or drought,
I might be experiencing.

Informational Overload

One thing I have noticed
About myself
Is that I have a pretty
Well defined
Limit to the amount
Of information
I can take in
In a given period of time
Before I go into
Informational overload.
If I am looking
To buy a house,
I may be able to look
At three houses
In one day, but anything
Beyond that
Tends to become a blur
And I have a hard time
Remembering
The specific details
About any of them.
I like art work
Probably as much as
Anyone else I know,
But if I go to an art museum,
There are only so many
Paintings my mind can absorb
Before even the works
Of great masters
Start to lose their impact.
Back when I was in school
Learning facts and figures,
I quickly discovered that
After a certain point,
Additional study
Was counterproductive,
For I would begin to
Lose much of what
I had already gone over.
I suppose each of us
Has a threshold
Of tolerance
Beyond which it is
Pointless to go.
There is only
So much new information
That most people
Can take in
At any given time
Before everything
Starts runs together
And becomes confused.
Each of us has to get
A sense of where
That boundary lies
Not only for ourselves,
But for our customers
And the people
We work with as well.
From a psychological sense,
It might be interesting to study
Where that boundary lies
And what it is dependent on
In people in general.
I know for me,
It is somewhat relative
To how tired I am,
But I also wonder if
It might be a function of IQ.
Do smarter people have more
Informational absorption capability,
Or do they just adapt
More effective strategies
For dealing with
Massive informational input?
With practice,
Can we extend our
Absorption cutoff
And possibly increase
Our rate of learning
As a result?
I assume this phenomenon
Is a clue to how
The human mind really works.
I know is that I have had to
Make peace with it
Within myself,
And have learned
Not to push myself
Beyond those limits.

A Minor Detail

Imagine trying to sail
Around the world
And neglecting to take
A Passport along with you,
But that is exactly
What we did.
In our rush to sail off
Into the wild blue yonder
From the Island of Hawaii,
That was one of many
Major and minor details
We, that is my brother,
My aunt and myself,
Failed to consider
Before leaving.
The opportunity
Was there, so we jumped,
And didn’t ask
Too many questions.
We just figured
We would resolve
The complications later.
It was something of an issue
When we got to Fanning Island,
A British protectorate,
And the local officials
Wouldn’t let us off the boat.
The worst indignity
For my brother and my
Teenage hearts
Was that they wouldn’t allow
The local girls
On the boat either.
A number of them
Took to tantalizing us
By swimming around
The boat and inviting us
To jump ship.
I am telling you,
We thought about it!
As soon as we got to
American Samoa
We applied for
Emergency passports.
We had spent the summer
Sailing down through
The South Pacific,
So I figured it was time
For me to head back
To the university
To continue my studies.
The only problem was
I couldn’t hang around
And wait until
The new passport arrived.
I just bought the tickets,
Gathered my meager belongings
And jumped on the first
Returning flight I could
Back to Hawaii.
To say that
The immigration people
Get a little uptight
When someone flies in
From overseas
Without a passport
Is an understatement.
They yanked me aside
Strip searched me,
And scrutinized my clothes
As well as my luggage.
They must have had me tell
The story of how I got there
Twenty-five times
Before they finally gave up
And let me go
Some four hours later.
The whole episode
Was kind of ridiculous,
But I was unstoppable then.
I wonder what would happen
To somebody if
They tried that today!

A Musical Tribute

I sat there in rapt attention
Hardly believing my ears
Or the beauty of the sound
Which flowed from his guitar.

It was a classical piece he wrote
On coming to this country
That captured the essence of him
And the passion of the moment.

I had never heard
Any piece played
With such melodious sound
Or that much heart and soul.

It was dedicated to us
And specially to me
For I had helped him
Explore the path he was on.

I was honored beyond measure
By the words he said,
The acknowledgement he gave,
And the music he played.

If ever there was a question why
I spend the time
Or the effort to coach
That was the answer!

The Traitor Within

Our harshest critic
Is the voice
We hear echoing
Within our heads,
Filling our minds
With negative comments
Fear and doubt,
Questioning every effort
We attempt to make,
Putting us down
Every chance it gets,
And complicating
Even the simplest tasks.
If anyone else
Were to say
The things it says,
We would shut them up
Or kill them dead.
This inner voice
Is relentless
In its chatter,
But we must learn
To tame its voice
Or ignore the racket
It creates inside our head
If we are ever
To advance our cause
Or to achieve
A lasting peace within.
Most of us,
If we notice the voice at all,
Are well aware
That it is not our friend.
Every competitor
Whose achievements
We praise
Has confronted this foe
And found a way
To silence its comments
Or override its messages.
This critic will defeat us
Before we even start,
If we let it,
Or it will cause us falter
Before we reach
Our planned objective.
Those who give up in life
Or concede defeat early
Have spent far too much time
Listening to its barbs.
It is the traitor within,
And we need to recognize it
For what it is,
And treat it accordingly.

A Fish Vigil

Have you ever had
Fish stare at you
While you are trying
To eat a fish dinner?
If you are ever
On the Island of Oahu,
There is a fish restaurant
Which features
A three-story high
Saltwater aquarium
Fully stocked with
A wide variety
Of reef fish,
A couple turtles,
Some eels,
A number of sharks
And some stingrays.
They also have some
Human mermaids
Who swim around the tank
And feed the fish by hand
To entertain the tourists.
As you relax
To enjoy the show,
Your fish dinner is served,
And it almost seems like
The fish in the tank
Know what is going on,
For numbers of them
Take up a vigil
Watching you eat,
As if trying
To make you feel guilty
For eating their relatives.
It makes for
An interesting ambiance.

A Nation of Crabs

They are like crabs
Squirming around
Inside a bucket,
All of them trying
To escape captivity,
But the moment
One of them appears
Ready to succeed,
The others reach up
And pull him back down.
Each crab is out for himself
And himself alone,
For no two crabs
Will work together
For more than a moment or two
Before one of them
Stabs the other
In the back.
I suppose they are waiting
For the crab
Who would be King
To extract himself
From the fray
And show the rest
The path to freedom,
But all who escape
Seek another life
And leave the rest to squirm.

Zen Limbo

He observes life
Without emotion,
Living as if he is
On the outside
Looking in,
As if it is not
Happening to him,
Or as if
He has no concern
For how it turns out.
He is in
Suspended animation,
Not participating
Or being at cause
In anything
That happens,
Present in body,
But reacting as if
He isn’t there.

A Poor Choice of Victims

A number of years ago
A woman was accosted
Late at night by a man
In a local parking garage,
And it might have ended
As just another crime statistic,
One more woman robbed or raped
Except for his remarkably
Poor choices of victims.
The woman just happened to be
A black belt karate instructor
On her way home from teaching
A woman’s self-defense class.
To say the attacker
Got more than he bargained for
Is an understatement!
He would have been better of
Trying to wrestle a mountain lion
Than trying to tackle her.
He didn’t have a chance.
All her years of training
Came to play in an instant
And she was all over him.
The guy was a goner
Before he knew what hit him.
I rather imagine
That the he was thankful
When the police finally arrived
And got the woman off him!

Working Stiff

He works on the line
At the local factory
Doing the 3 to 11 shift.
It is hard work,
Tedious and boring,
But he has been
Doing it so long,
He can practically
Do it with his eyes shut.
It is a job
He loves to hate.
About all he can say
In its favor
Is it puts food
On the table.
His buddies and him
Collect at the local pub
Each afternoon
To shoot the breeze,
Complain about life,
Down a couple beers,
And maybe play
A few rounds of pool.
He has a wife
And a couple of kids,
But he doesn’t seem
Overly anxious
To get back home.
It is a routine
He has fallen into,
Devoid of all passion
Mindless
Of the passing time,
And numb to
The sense of being alive.

Unconsious Work Habits

There are things we do
Over and over again
That dramatically impact
Our productivity.
Most of the time,
We are only vaguely aware
That we are doing them,
If at all, yet they still
Have a profound impact
On our ability
To get things done.
We may hit
The snooze button
On our alarm clock
Three or four times
Before we
Begrudgingly get up.
We may wait
Until the last available second
Before rushing off to work.
We may routinely put off
A mundane task
Like returning phone calls.
We may have a practice
Of doing ninety-five percent
Of a task,
Then diverting our attention
To other things
Before it is done.
It is these incompletions
And procrastinations,
Our unconscious work habits,
That become a pattern
That runs our lives.

Why?

With child like
Innocence,
We perpetually
Ask why,
Assuming there is
A reason
For everything,
And where
None exists,
Or none
Can be found,
We will
Invent one.

Why the Distance?

Why is there this distance
Between us?
Where did we
Go wrong?
Was it something
I said or did
That had you
Turn away?
You were someone,
A special friend
I could count on.
We used to
Wile away the hours
Sharing secrets,
Dreaming of days to come,
Being together.
Now we don’t even talk.
I no longer expect
It to be you
When the phone rings.
I miss your ready smile,
The times
We spent together,
And I wonder
If you miss me
As well.

Walking in Darkness

Much of her life was spent
In a muddled state of confusion.
She had tried to make
Sense of the world
For the longest time,
But had given up in frustration,
Concluding the logic of the universe
Was beyond her comprehension.
Being human gave her no insight
Into why others act the way they do,
Or why life occurs as it does.
It was all a mystery to her.
She drifted by as if in a fog,
The light of understanding
Rarely piercing the darkness
Of her mind.
Life just happened around her
And she was never at cause.
It was an act she put on,
Pretending she didn’t have a brain.
Yet she was as smart as anyone else.
Her brain just never followed the logic,
Or even deduced that there was
Such an order to the universe.

Varied Pathways to Heaven

It intrigues me
How every great cook
Seems to have
His or her unique
Method of cooking.
There are the recipe
And cookbook collectors.
They can cook
Just about anything
As long as
They have a recipe.
They are good
At following instructions,
But are almost helpless
Without a guide.
Then there are
The more inventive types
Who don’t hold to
Any particular recipe,
But seem to
Know instinctively
Which combinations
Of ingredients
Work together
To tantalize
The taste buds.
A dish is apt to turn out
Slightly different
Each time they prepare it.
They will experiment with
A bit of this,
And a smidgen of that,
Whatever suits their fancy
At the moment.
If you ask them
For the recipe,
They are unlikely
To be able to tell you
Exactly how they did
What they did.
There are cooks
Who must taste
Every single dish,
And others
Who never sample
A single entrée,
Yet the food
Turns out great
Either way.
The latter tend to be
Skinnier than the first.
There are those
Who pester the food,
Checking to see
How each dish is doing
Numerous times
During the course of cooking.
Others rely on precise
Settings of time and temperature.
Still others
Cook by sense of smell.
Some cook’s noses
Are so well trained
They can smell
The ingredients,
And tell you
If anything is missing.
Regardless of how
A great cook goes about it,
The meal created
Usually turns out to be
A culinary masterpiece.

Unreasonable Request

Normally when we request
That someone do something,
We tend to take into consideration
All the limitations,
Real or imagined,
Of the person we are asking.
Our main interest
In making the request
Is that the other person
Not be inconvenienced
By our request.
An unreasonable request,
By contrast,
Is definitely an inconvenience,
But it is also a bold statement
Of what we believe
The other person is capable of.
The request is delivered
Without regard to the person’s
View of themselves
As weak, inferior or powerless,
And it is made with compassion
For what it would take
For the other person
To accept that request
And live up to it.
It asks the other person to go beyond
What they think they can do
Or where they normally stop.
We tend to be timid
About making such requests,
Mainly because we don’t
Have a vested interest
In the other person’s success,
But coaches and personal trainers
Make these requests often.
The person who receives
Such a request
Doesn’t have honor it.
They can comply, decline,
Or make a counter offer.
An unreasonable request
Simply encourages them
To go the extra mile
Whether they want to or not.
It is a tool we all can use
To spur the other person on.

Unfiltered Senses

It seems a part of being human
The urge to reinforce
The things we believe
By the evidence we see or hear.

We are skillful in that task
Using our ability to be selective
In what we notice
To filter our observations.

If we believe in conspiracies
Then it is conspiracies
That we will see
Hidden in every corner.

If we believe someone is ignorant
Then it is stupidity we hear
In everything they say
No matter what they say.

If we feel the world is out to get us
Then we will surely be right
And will take justified offense
At all the wrongs against us.

If we think we know
This is how certain people are
Then we will find ample evidence
To support our claim.

If we want to discover
What the world is really like
We need to curb our tendency
To distort our senses.

Unfiltered senses are the key
To unbiased observation,
Effective listening,
And genuine communication.

Through transformation
We develop awareness
Of the filters we have
And barriers between us.

With that awareness
Comes the possibility of choice,
And the opportunity to bridge the gap
That alienates us from humanity.

Under Sail

He loved the feel
Of the boat
Challenging the sea,
And the sound
Of the wind
Caught by the sail.
He relished
The taste
And smell
Of the salty
Ocean spray.
Sailing was
The only time
And place
He was truly
At peace
With himself
And at one
With the world.
He would leave
His pager
And cell phone
At home,
So no one
Could disturb
His reverie,
And every time
He went out,
He dreamed
Of never coming
Back again.

Typhoid Mary of Flames

There she is
With her hair singed,
Having barely survived
Another fiery ordeal.
The woman is constantly
Scurrying around
Putting out fires,
Dealing with emergencies
Of one sort
Or another,
Running herself ragged.
She is perpetually
On the brink of exhaustion,
Always vigilant,
Fearful that each new flame
Might get out of hand.
In spite of all
Her heroic efforts,
She often leaves
A place or situation
In smoldering ruins.
It is almost as if
The neighborhood
Suddenly erupts
In spontaneous combustion
Whenever she is around.
She’s a regular
Typhoid Mary of flame,
With no idea
She’s the center of the fires.

Passage to the South Pacific

My brother, Lee, and I
Were driving past
White Sands Beach
On the Island of Hawaii
When we spotted
A couple hitchhikers
Standing along the side
Of the road.
After we picked them up,
They regaled us
With an outlandish tale
Of being crew members
Aboard a majestic,
Old-time sailing ship
Anchored nearby
In Kealakekua Bay,
And coincidentally,
They were looking
For more crew members
For a voyage
To the Island of Fiji.
When we stopped by
My aunt’s house,
On the way down
To check out the boat,
She was invited as well.
They proposed to charge us
Five hundred dollars each
For food and provisions
For the trip,
And we gladly anted up,
Not the least bit concerned
That the boat violated
Almost all Coast Guard regulations.
In fact it was lost at sea
For three days
On a test sail out of the harbor,
And there was a significant possibility
It had sunk somewhere out there
In the Middle of the Pacific.
That was a real tragedy
As far as my brother and I
Were concerned because
We had recruited a couple
Of the best looking girls on the island
To go with us,
And when the boat disappeared
Without a trace,
Their parents wisely refused
To let them sail with us.
My aunt, my brother and I
All went anyway.

The Writer's Story

Though she was a gifted writer
And had spent half her life
Honing her verbal skills,
None of her books were selling.
The people who reviewed her work
Uniformly agreed
They were extremely well written
Perhaps some of the best
In their genre.
None of that seemed to matter.
She had run the gauntlet,
As far as she was concerned,
Gone through author’s hell
Getting her work polished and ready,
Finding a publisher
Willing to take a risk
And print them.
That turned out to be
Only the opening salvo in a battle
To get the books out there
And in the hands of readers.
Ultimately it was not about the books,
But about how well
She presented herself,
And she was not a public speaker.
She was intimidated by crowds
And was not prepared
To go on the road
Marketing her books,
And the books
Didn’t market themselves.

The Toastmasters Experience

Few, if any, of us
Are natural born speakers.
We tend to get intimidated
If more than two sets of eyes
Are looking at us,
And find it difficult
To express ourselves
In a public setting.
Public speaking is an art form,
One that is learned
And polished with experience,
And one of the safest ways
Of getting that experience
Is through Toastmasters International.
It is an organization
Whose sole purpose
Is to help people
Develop skill and competence
At public speaking.
Whether you are
An absolute novice,
Afraid of uttering a public peep,
Or someone who starred
On the college debate team,
Toastmasters has something for you.
It provides a system
Of constructive feedback
So that you know
What works
As well as what doesn’t
About your presentations.
People talk about almost anything
That interest them,
The variety is astounding.
For those of competitive spirit,
Every speech is a contest,
And once you have mastered
Speaking at the club level,
There are opportunities to compete
At higher and higher levels.
Many of the world’s greatest speakers
Have honed their skills
Through participating in
Toastmasters International.

A Message to the Future

When I first encountered
The Hari Krishnas
Back in 1969,
They seemed
A radical offshoot
Of the Hippie movement.
They were strangers
In a very strange time.
I first saw them
Selling flowers in airports
And walking the streets
With shaved heads
Wearing bizarre outfits
And singing chants.
I perceived them as
The lunatic fringe
Of the flower child era.
I didn’t encounter them again
For almost thirty years,
And when I finally did,
They were nothing like
What I remembered.
They had established temples
And religious communities
Across the United States,
And their members
Are fully integrated into society,
Working for a living,
Just like anyone else.
I discovered they are followers
And an ancient faith
Which emanated from India.
Their espousal of vegetarianism
Is definitely in tune
With the times,
And they have become masters
In the art of meatless cooking.
Some of their beliefs,
Like reincarnation,
May never garner
General acceptance,
But that doesn’t hinder
Their devotion to their faith.
From what I observed,
There is a spirit
Of tranquility about them
A gentle peacefulness
That I find intriguing.
At the time I was
Reintroduced to them,
The Hari Krishnas
Were in the process
Of constructing
A massive temple in India
Designed to last 1000 years.
As an engineer,
How would I go about designing
A structure to last that long?
Would it be a modern day
Version of the Egyptian pyramids?
The idea of doing that fascinated me!
The temple is an attempt
To communicate something
To a future perhaps
Fifty generations from now.
It is a message of sorts.
I suppose if I was one of them,
The one thing I would be
Most keenly interested in
Would be preserving
And passing on is my faith.
I would probably
Summarize and synthesize
My beliefs down to
Their most elemental form,
And would enclose those
Within a time capsule
Embedded within the temple
To be opened
One thousand years from now.
Then it occurred to me
That I have no way of knowing
Even what language
People might speak
That far in the future.
Would they be able to
Read and decipher
Anything I had written?
Could they interpret what I said
And really grasp
My thoughts and ideas?
Perhaps as a poet,
I seek eternity
Just like the Hari Krishnas.
I write my thoughts
And observations,
Encapsulating them in poems,
Hoping that my words
Will be read
And passed on to worlds
I will likely never see.
Maybe my poems
Will be translated
As languages evolve
Into the language of common men
Such that my thoughts
Will never be lost.
It seems an integral part
Of the nature of man
To try to communicate
With those yet to come,
To leave some proof
Of our existence.
This we have in common.
I wonder if the builders
Of the Egyptian pyramids
Had these same thoughts
When they built
Their vast tombs
And monuments
That are still there today
Some 4000 years later.
Did they have us in mind
When they built?

The Speech that Never Was

He waited in strained silence
Hoping for the chance
To dazzle us
With his brilliance.
He planned his elocution
In minute detail,
Chewing over every word
He proposed to use
Until it sounded right
In his head.
Only then was he ready
To raise his hand to speak,
But by then it was too late.
What he failed to see
Or understand
Was that it was not
The carefully chosen words
From his mind
We wanted to hear,
But the rough, uncut words
Coming straight from his heart
Which would have revealed
Who he really was
Beneath the pretense.

The Secret Passion

There was a side of him
Few had ever seen.
Even his best friends
Really didn’t know
What he had been doing.
It was not that he
Consciously hid
What he was up to,
But he never trumpeted
His passion in life.
He dedicated himself
To documenting
Life in the rural communities
Of the Central Valley.
He quietly amassed
A collection of thousands
Of priceless photographs,
Depicting every aspect
Of country life.
His work was superb,
Black and white images
Of the finest quality.
He had captured
The spirit of the land
And the people
With unbridled affection.
He had been at it
For at least forty years,
Yet it was not until
He passed away
That the collection
Was discovered.

The Elementary School Science Fair

Imagine an elementary school
Having a science fair,
Grades Kindergarten through 5!
What could children so young
Do within the scientific realm?
Then again,
If not at that age,
Then at what age
Should scientific inquiry start?
I was invited to such a fair,
And was amazed
By what I found.
There were a tremendous variety
Of exhibits and projects,
Some simple and childlike
And others that were
Intriguingly complex,
Apparent expressions
Of raw creativity.
There was clear evidence
Of parental intrigue as well.
It was a competition
Where whole families competed.
Some of the experiments
Were spectacularly sophisticated,
But coupled with
Some very inventive
Or amateur spelling.
Kids are obviously fascinated with flight,
What gives a plane lift,
And what design of paper airplane
Flies the farthest.
There were odd things
To touch and feel,
And also things to smell.
There were projects with signs
Telling everyone
To keep their hands off.
There was a lemon-powered battery
A saltwater buoyancy test,
And a rather professional looking
Waste water study.
There was also a worm test
To see which type worms
Were best at munching waste.
There was even a snail race
Proceeding at a snail’s pace,
A homemade camera
That actually worked,
And various studies of sound.
There was an insulation test
Of blubber from animals of the north.
Kids tend to be intrigued
By growing crystals
And collecting rocks and fossils.
There was an experiment
With hot air balloons,
And another to change
The color of flowers.
Kids showed interest in
A multitude of things
From outer space and astrophysics
To which brand of raisin bran
Has the most raisins.
Needless to say,
I was impressed by
Those budding scientific minds.

The Savior

He was thirteen
When he decided
His purpose in life
Was to save the world.
It was a decision
Born entirely
On his own need
For recognition,
And reflected nothing
Of the condition
Of the world.
He hungered
To be somebody,
To make a difference,
To win the praise
Of the multitudes.
In time he grew frustrated
At his inability
To carry out
Such a lofty plan,
And he began
Scaling down
The scope of his mission.
It shrank
From the world
Down to the nation,
Down to his state,
And further down
To his city,
Then to his family
And finally to himself.
In the end
He could save no one,
Not even himself.
He never became
The hero he thought
He had to be,
At least not
In his own eyes,
And it took him
A lifetime to realize
That the world
Never needed saving
In the first place.

Paternal Instinct

I saw her sitting there
Apparently alone.
With long auburn hair
And an easy going smile
But it was her sad eyes
That drew me in.
She was about seven months pregnant
With no ring on her finger.
Her and the baby’s father
Had gone separate ways
I was told,
But she appeared elated
About having the baby
And seemed to have not regrets.
What fascinate me, however,
Was the strength of my reaction.
I was overwhelmed
By my paternal instinct.
I wanted to hold her,
To take care of her,
To make sure she had somebody there
When the baby was born.
Fortunately, I suppose,
There was no need.
Somebody else had already
Stepped into that role.

Only Time Will Tell

After all the false starts
And wrong turns,
Sleepless nights
And the agony
You went through
Over finding the one
Meant for you,
You finally meet a guy
Who you think
Just might be it.
The chemistry seems right,
And he practically sweeps you
Off your feet.
The two of you are
Inextricably drawn together
Like two halves
Meant to be one.
You have common interests
And shared values,
And low and behold
He doesn’t try to
Go to bed with you
On the very first date.
Now isn’t it crazy?
He is the one
You would like to
Make it with.
You find yourself acting silly,
Being sort of goofy,
Feeling like a kid all over again
And wondering if
You are making
A complete fool of yourself.
Relax, Of course you are!
As you get to know him
Little things creep in,
Minor annoyances
Like discovering
That he isn’t perfect after all.
He can’t read your mind
And doesn’t always know
What you want
Anymore than you do,
But you assure yourself
That he is still the one.
The two of you grow closer
Until one day
In a magical moment
Full of pomp and circumstance,
He asks you to be his wife,
Or maybe it is you
That does the asking.
He presents you with a ring
Symbolizing his intentions.
It is just a rock
With lots of facets,
That changes everything
And maybe nothing.
Even as you walk to the altar
You still wonder,
Is he really the one
You were looking for?
Only time will tell!

The Quest for Gold

A world class ice skater,
Winner of numerous silver medals
In international skating competition,
Was frustrated in his quest for gold.
It seemed no matter how hard he tried,
He always placed second.
He had the skill it took to win,
Yet he fell short time after time.
He knew enough about himself
And the pitfalls of being human
That he rightly figured
It was his mental edge
That needed sharpening.
He had a reputation for never falling
But it was a talent based on fear,
And it was his fear of falling
That was holding him back.
At the very edge of his performance
He was easing up just a hair,
A hair that consistently cost him the gold.
To confront his fear,
He began to practice falling,
Until he no longer feared it,
And it gave him the additional edge
He needed to win the gold.
We might also do well to confront
The fears that hold us back.

Someday When

We live our life as if
This is only a trial run,
A practice session
For someday when
Life really begins.
The job we do
Is just a stepping stone
Until the right one
Comes along.
We are always waiting
For something to occur,
For the money to come in,
Someday when
We get where we want to go,
We have money in the bank,
When we find the one
We are looking for,
After the kids are born,
Or maybe after they have grown up,
Or hopefully after we retire.

To Know Ourselves

We can spend our entire life
Trying to get to know ourselves,
Meditate for years on end
Carefully and meticulously analyzing
Every aspect of our being,
Live the life of the aesthetic monk
Deep in contemplation,
But there is much
About ourselves that will
Always remain a mystery
As long as we pursue
Our quest alone.
Man by himself on an island
Or isolated on a mountain top
Can’t possibly know himself.
It takes honest feedback from others
To give us a sense
Of how we occur to the world,
But in a world where conversation
Is cloaked in pleasantries,
And seldom if ever
Straight and to the point,
Such honesty is a rarity.
We need to make it safe
For others to speak their truth
Without fear of us getting hooked
By anything they say.
We need to listen
For the gold
In what they reveal
Without trying to explain
Or defend ourselves.
Others can see
Our strengths and weaknesses
Far better than we can.
We need to encourage
Others to speak
And let us know
What they see and think
So we can know
How we come across.
Value can be gained
From almost every interview.
Each person we meet
Is a potential resource
To help us
Get to know ourselves.

The ALmost Forgotten Aphrodisiac

He had been profusely poetic
In his younger days,
Especially when his future wife
And him were first dating.
With the inspiration
Of their college romance,
Words poured out effortlessly
Reflecting the heat of their passion.
Each time she came to his door,
There would be a new poem waiting,
Written just for her.
The poetry worked its magic,
And two of them became one,
And from that relationship,
Three daughters were born.
The poems were tucked away,
An almost forgotten aphrodisiac.
As their daughters grew up,
Life seemed to have a way
Of imposing responsibilities
Which grew into obligations
That didn’t allow him the time
To write any more.
He was surprised to discover
That his youngest daughter
Had secretly been reading his poems.
I imagine she liked finding
A side of her father,
She had never known before.
She may have thought
Some of the lines
Were kind of corny,
But I bet she enjoyed
The passion of his words.

The Paper

A high school
English teacher
Was going through
A box of old essays
His students had written
When he came upon
One by a student
He remembered well.
She had been a brilliant
But troubled girl,
Who had committed suicide
Three years before.
It was a paper
In which she expressed
Her feelings
Towards her parents.
And it was immediately clear
They needed to see
The words she had written.
Her parents had split apart,
But he managed to locate
Both of them.
She had described her father
As a jerk,
But stated she loved him anyway.
That was enough
To move the father to tears
Because the first part he knew,
But the second part he didn’t.
She had written of the love
She had for her mother,
And when her mother
Saw the words of her daughter,
She broke down
And cried as well.
Finally she said to him
“You can’t possibly know
What this means to me!
I tore myself apart for years
Wondering what I did wrong.
The answer is plain to see,
Absolutely nothing!
I loved her with all my heart
And she loved me as well!”

The Outside Observer

There is often a distinct advantage
To seeing the world
Through eyes other than our own.
An outside observer,
Someone willing to listen
To our plans and ideas,
But not otherwise involved
In what we are doing,
Can often see aspects of our projects
We never considered.
They have the benefit of
Having a different perspective
From which to view
The circumstances we face.
They can often see
Possibilities we never imagined,
Or potential challenges
We might have overlooked.
This person tends to help us
Clarify our thinking,
And focus our efforts.
Ideally the outside observer
Will not be subject to
The same prejudices as us,
Or the same rules about
What can and can’t be done.
Their contribution to us
Is the insight they provide
That is different than our own.

The Nice Guy Syndrome

He really is a nice guy,
Kind and considerate,
Popular and congenial,
The kind of person
People like to have around,
But his act
Is a two edged sword.
It is based on a fear
Of being straight with others,
Or confronting them
When confrontation is needed.
It robs him of the ability
To be authentic
Which costs him
The intimacy he seeks.
It also leaves him vulnerable
To being taken advantage of,
A definite liability
When it comes to business.
It is a way of being
That has been a curse
As well as a blessing.

The Myth

It is a myth
We entertain
That the courageous
Among us
Somehow don’t
Confront fear.
We hold an image
Of the warrior
Who boldly goes
Into battle,
And fights without fear
Of being
Wounded or killed.
Such an idiot
Deserves no honor.
Whether or not
Our fears are real,
Like the bullets
Confronting the soldier,
Or are imagined
Threats to our survival,
Our fears
Must be faced head-on
And judged
For what they are.
Courage is
Our decision
To advance
In the face
Of those fears.
There is no courage
Without fear.

The Purposeful Life

We are all given a choice.
We can live our lives
Reacting to circumstances,
Buffeted by the prevailing
Winds of happenstance,
Or we can decide
To take charge and determine
The course of our lives
Independent of whatever else
May be happening.
The moment we make
The qualitative decision
That our life is about something
Other than the struggle to survive,
A whole world of possibility
Opens its doors to us.
The sheer act of accepting
Responsibility for creating
The context of our lives
Empowers us,
Has us recognize the ability
To design a future
For ourselves
And those we care for.
It is our choice to be
Up to something
Worthy of being up to,
But it is that choice
Which gives life
A sense of purpose.

The Mentor Group

Once I confronted
My shortsightedness
And realized I don’t monopolize
The valid point of view,
I began to value
The input of others.
The more input I got,
The more ideas
I had to play with,
And the more options
I had to consider.
Each new perspective
Offers the possibility of insight
Into the decisions
I must ultimately make.
I gathered a group
Around myself
Of trusted advisors,
People whose opinions
I respect,
And they became
My mentor group,
A private brain trust
That empowers me
In all that I do.

The Making of a Revolutionary

I may have been
Largely apathetic
About most things
During the chaos
Of the late 60’s,
But when a certain
Revolutionary spirited coed,
In tune with the times,
Suggested that we do it
For the revolution,
I became an instant
Revolutionary.
I was never really sure
Which revolution
She was talking about,
But I don’t suppose
It really mattered.
Since that day,
I have searched
High and low
For a better excuse
For doing it,
But that was the best one
I ever encountered.

The Lesson in Failure

I have come to view failure
As an essential step
In the process of learning.
A single failure
Can potentially teach more
Than a hundred successes,
Yet most of us seem
Afraid to fail.
How else can we
Know the limits
Of what we can
And can’t do?
Many of us will
Try to avoid failure
At all costs,
But all too often
What that costs us
Is our ability to innovate.
It is through analyzing our failures,
And those of others,
That we gain insight
Into possible ways
Of making something work,
In fact there is probably
A lesson to be learned
In every failure.

Use It or Lose It

Nature has a way
Of taking back
What we fail to use.
If a section of highway
Is abandoned
And left to the elements,
In no time at all,
Cracks will open
And grass and weeds
Will start growing out.
It is nature’s way of
Reclaiming the land.
An abandoned home
Will deteriorate much faster
Than one in which people live.
An unused car often
Requires more maintenance
Than a vehicle
That is used everyday.
Our muscles,
And especially our brains,
Will both atrophy
If not put to use.
If we do not use
Our God given talents
Or do anything
With the brilliant ideas
We come up with,
Out brain will tire
Of the futility
Of the effort
And will eventually
Stop coming up with
Such ideas.

A Time to Jump

Sometimes in life,
It’s time
For us to jump,
To sacrifice
The security
We have grown
Accustomed to,
Even if we can’t
Initially see
Where we’re
Supposed to land.
We must trust
The parachute
We packed,
As well as
Our instinct
To land on our feet
In cat like fashion,
No matter
What crosswinds
We encounter.
We really don’t have
Much choice in the matter,
For we are determined
To change the circumstances
Of our lives.
The unknown world
Is far more intriguing
Than the world we know,
So we bail out if we can,
And think of it
As an adventure.

The Howard Hughes Syndrome

Satisfaction can be
A most elusive thing.
No matter how much wealth
We accumulate,
How many accomplishments
We achieve,
How many accolades
We receive,
There remains the question,
“Is this all there is?”
Once we have climbed
The highest mountain,
Built the biggest castle,
Beaten the fiercest foe
Jumped the most difficult hurdle,
Done what even we
Didn’t think was possible,
Will we be satisfied,
And if so, for how long?
Will bigger, better, richer
Give us what we want?
Howard Hughes,
One of the richest
And most accomplished
Men on earth,
Seemingly had it all,
Yet died a miserable recluse.
Countless others
Blindly tread his path
Hoping to find
The fulfillment
He never found.

The House at the End of the Road

It is a human warehouse,
A modern day travesty,
Punishment for those
No longer able to serve
Society’s needs.
It houses refuse,
People whose only crime
Was having lived too long,
And neglecting to have
Anyone who cared enough
To care for them
When they could no longer
Care for themselves.
It is drab and dreary,
And there is no escaping
The monotony of its routine.
For those unfortunate enough
To be confined within,
Time is an enemy
Which must be endured,
And life is a slow
And excruciating torture.

The Grip of Insanity

Much of her life has been spent
Muddled in confusion.
She tried to make
Sense of the world
For the longest time,
But gave up in frustration,
Concluding the logic of the universe,
If there is any,
Is beyond her comprehension.
It is a mystery to her
Why others act the way they do
Or even what
They are talking about
Most of the time.
People can’t help but notice
How her answers
Seem oddly disconnected
From the questions asked,
And it is difficult to follow
Much of what she says,
Yet she babbles on incessantly,
As if trying to communicate
From another world.
She appears to be
Locked in a private reality,
A world seldom illuminated
By the light of understanding.
She lives in a constant state
Of overwhelmed confusion
Commonly called insanity.
At the core of her illness
Is an underlying belief
That nothing makes sense,
And I wonder,
If that notion could be transformed,
What cure might be possible.

The Solitary Man

He had never had
A girlfriend
And was frustrated
By the women
He encountered,
They were a mystery,
As incomprehensible
And complex
As any secret on earth.
He had no idea
How to approach a girl
Or what to say
Once he met one.
He felt totally inadequate
For the task of romance,
Yet he lived in a fantasy
Of what it would be like
Once he found someone.
If left to his own devices,
He would probably
Never have met anyone.
Fortunately,
Sensing his his fear,
She approached him.

The Fear of Public Speaking

For most of us,
Public Speaking
Is definitely not
Our strong suit,
In fact, many of us
Would rather die
Than speak in public.
Just the thought of it
Has us cower in fear
And want to
Run and hide.
For some of us,
An audience of two
Or more people
Constitutes an ominous crowd.
There are those of us
So paralyzed by fear
We can’t even lead
A group of two
In silent prayer.
If we make it
Past the bathroom
To the podium,
Our ability to say
Anything remotely intelligent
Is apt be impaired.
Fortunately, the fear dissipates
With practice.

The Eyes of the Tiger

He had been intimidated
By his father
As long as he could remember.
The man was like a tiger,
Fierce, cold and aloof,
Distant and foreboding,
And his son could
Neither look him
Straight in the eye,
Nor speak openly
In his presence.
It was not until
The son was himself a man
That he had the courage
To communicate directly
With his dad.
He wrote his father
A ten page letter
Saying all the things
He had been withholding,
Never expecting a reply.
His father wrote back
Telling how much he loved
And respected his son,
Saying things neither had ever
Expressed before.
With the ice broken,
The son could freely
Gaze into his father’s eyes,
And observe the love
He thought was missing.
Though in their culture,
Fathers and sons
Almost never do
Anything together,
The two became best friends,
Enjoying each other’s company
In whatever they did.

The Edge of Language

He was struggling,
Grappling with words,
Trying to articulate something
For which there was
No language,
Inventing one
As he spoke.
He sensed
A new perspective
From which it might
Be possible to speak,
One that could give him
A powerful vantage point
To generate
A new reality,
One that stretched
The limits of his mind,
And created an entire
New possibility
For the world to live into.

The Organizational Doctrine

A non-profit foundation
Is being set up
To accomplish a worthy,
Though monumental task,
One the founders consider
Worth devoting their lives to.
There are lengthy discussions
About what they are up to
And how to go about
Accomplishing their goals.
They may even arrive at
A consensus of opinion
About how they want to proceed,
But until they actually
Write their ideas down,
Clearly and precisely,
So others will also see
The vision they have,
And until a structure is defined,
The organization does not
Exist anywhere but in the minds
Of its creators.
Documentation must be created
Which formally declares
The mission and the basic strategies
Of the organization.
Countless foundations have faltered
Simply because the ideas
And the philosophies of the group
Were not adequately articulated.
It is a task not to be taken lightly.
In the process of distinguishing
The organizational perspectives
And objectives,
Many potential hazards and pitfalls
Will likely be identified.
That documentation provides
The backbone around which
The organization is built.

The Dimwitted Rhino

He forages in the jungle
We call life,
Intently searching for a way
To get ahead.
He snorts and roars
His determination
To battle the tide
Of humanity,
Then charges forward,
Hurling his might
Against the foliage
That blocks his way.
Like a dimwitted rhinoceros,
He pits his intellect,
Effort and brawn
In a solitary war
Against the world,
But the world is
A formidable adversary
While he acts alone.
It never occurs to him
To enroll allies
In the nobility
Of his mission,
Thus success
Or failure depends
On him alone,
And in his ability
To continue toiling
In spite of the odds.

The Cracked Safe Between Them

He heard the story
About the candy store
That fronted for
A numbers racket,
And it brought back memories
Of his youth
For that was what his father did
Back in New York.
Other memories
Came flooding back as well,
Ones be had tried to bury
Over forty years ago.
As a fifteen year old,
His fathers safe
Where the gambling proceeds
Were kept
Was an irresistible magnet,
And he figured out
How to take the back off
And skim a little off the top.
He had done it successfully
Several times,
Until his father
Showed up unexpectedly
And caught him in the act.
He expected to get beaten
Within an inch of his life,
But his father didn’t
Say or do a thing.
Two days later
He ran away
And never went back.
He did not speak to his father
For more than
Thirty years afterwards,
But finally had to know
Why he was never beaten
For that incident.
When he talked to his father,
He found out
His father had done
The same thing
To his grandfather
A generation before,
And had also been caught.
He father was beaten severely
And ran away from home
Never to return.
The irony was that his father
Had avoided confronting his son
Over the incident
For fear he would run away,
And that was exactly
What he did anyway.
He also discovered that his father
He kept track of him
All that time,
And knew all the things
He had gone through,
Like the times
He had been hurt
And was in the hospital,
But kept away
Out of respect
For his son’s need
For time and distance.
His father had waited
Almost a lifetime
For that conversation,
And had almost given up hope.

The Conforming Nonconformist

During my Freshman year,
The campus was a hotbed
Of radical political theories
And student activism.
It was a time of hippies
And Flower Children,
Free love, chemical stimulants
And a social revolution
That turned education upside down
And the country inside out.
For the most part,
I was a by-stander,
Standing on the sidelines,
Watching the circus go by,
But I was also a chameleon
Who blended in perfectly
With my surroundings.
Essentially, I was
A conforming nonconformist.
I wore the fashion of the day,
Large, floppy, striped,
Bell-bottom pants, sandals
A flowered shirt, a Neru jacket
And dark sunglasses.
I also sported a mustache
And goatee for effect.
I wish I had a picture
Of how I looked then.
Maybe I could get one under
The Freedom of Information Act
From the trove of surveillance shots
Taken back then.
Basically I was trying to be like
Everyone else
Who were all trying to be different
With great similarity.

The Life I am Committed to Live

I am committed to
Living a life I love,
One full of
Passion and purpose
Where each day
Is a distinct adventure.
In the course of that life
I will take many risks,
Face many challenges,
And know a multitude of triumphs,
Large and small.
I will test the limits
Of what appears to be possible,
Daring to be different,
Boldly asserting my right
To be who I am.
I will learn to appreciate
Beauty in all its forms,
And to find it at every turn.
I will tear down the barriers
Isolating me from others,
And will speak my truth,
Welcoming others to speak theirs
So that we may share
An intimate bond.
I will fall in love
A thousand times over,
And open myself
To be loved in return.
I will live courageously,
Encouraging others
To do the same
So that each of us will know
The glory of being alive.

The Coach's Irony

It never ceased
To amaze him
The ease of working
With people
Who are open
To coaching,
Compared to the futility
Of working
With those who aren’t.
He had to battle
The resisters
Tooth and nail
For every ounce
Of progress made.
It was always
A contest of wills
And it wore him out,
But that was how
Most people
Seem to be in life.
The truly coachable ones
Were few
And far between.
Their apparent
Lack of pretense
Was always
A welcome relief.
They possessed
A simple openness
To explore what is so,
And the strength
To be vulnerable.
Maybe that is the only
Real difference
Between the two.
The others lacked
The trust and confidence
Needed to
Let their guards down.
It’s hard to reach
Those who have
Their defenses up
As if their lives
Are under siege.
The irony was that
Even with
All these observations
And his profound
Understanding of the value
Of coaching,
The coach was not
Coachable himself.
He was one of
The defensive ones.

The Charmed Life

He had lived a charmed life
Up to that point.
He never felt challenged,
And everything came easy.
Life was a game
And he played it well.
He had achieved
Both success and recognition
In the field of sports
As well as in business.
He took the rewards
And the accolades
As his rightful due,
Never feeling
A moment of gratitude
For anything
He had been given.
Only after he got hurt
And had to suffer
The indignity of helplessness
Could he begin to appreciate
The extraordinary fortune he had.

The Barnstormer

I spotted him
Slumped over
In his wheelchair,
But even then
I could see he was sizable.
His eyes flashed to life
With my company
And he warmed
To the opportunity
To share his story.
He was ninety-one years old
And had lived
An adventurous and exciting life.
He was one of
The original barnstormers,
The people who made
Aviation history.
He vividly recalled
Flying his biplane
From field to field,
Doing aeronautical stunts,
And watching
As aviation transformed.
He was there
When every one of the airlines
Got their start.
His son was also a pilot
Until he was forced
To retire at sixty-five.
I could feel his passion
For the skies,
And sensed his will
To be up there
Just one more time.

The Aroma of Life

When I hear a person talk
About their life,
And the things they have done,
It is the passion
Underlying their tale,
That snares my attention.
I listen for the richness
And full-bodied aroma
That only comes from
A life truly enjoyed,
And thoroughly lived.
I like people
Who let their impish side
Show through,
Who have a sparkle
In their eyes
Highlighted with
A mischievous grin.
The people I am interested in
Are not immune
To the difficulties of life,
But no matter what happens,
They seem to take it in,
And come back for more.
Why I ask,
Would anyone choose
To live their life
Any other way?

The Araner

Those guys we picked up
There in Kailua
Regaled us with talk
About the ship
They were from,
And they weren’t kidding
About the boat either.
She was “The Araner,”
A stunningly beautiful,
Old-time sailing vessel
Anchored majestically
In the middle of the bay.
She was a white
Two-masted schooner,
The largest version
Of a gaff rigged ketch
Ever built.
She had quite a history,
And we were about to add
Another chapter to the tale.
She was built in 1908
And owned at one time
By the movie director,
John Ford, and had appeared
In such classic movies
As “Paradise Lost”
And “Donovan’s Reef.”
As the story goes,
The IRS had seized
The yacht for back taxes,
Then auctioned her off
Over in Honolulu, Hawaii.
She was then purchased
By a consortium of investors,
Several of whom
Decided to take her out
For a test sail,
Then neglected to return.
In other words,
The boat was stolen’
But we didn’t find that out
Until much later.
We were informed
They planned to sail
Her down to Fiji
To get her retrofitted.
Several years later
I heard that the Araner
Actually made it
Down there,
Where she was
Promptly sold
To a hapless stranger,
Who turned around
And sailed her
Back to Hawaii
For retrofitting.
As soon as he
Got her home,
She was seized
By the harbor authorities
And returned
To the remaining investors.

Stick Shift Challenge

My youngest daughter
Was learning how
To drive a car
With a manual transmission
A while back,
And it brought back memories
Of what it was like for me
Before I mastered
That subtle art.
My stick shift education
Was provided
Compliments of
My second car,
A VW Beetle.
It was a bright
Shinny new model,
Hot off the showroom floor,
And it performed dutifully
During the brief test drive,
But when I tried
To drive it home,
It became another beast entirely.
It seemed to develop
A mind of its own,
As fidgety and cantankerous
As any mule.
It started, . . . then stalled,
Started, . . . then stalled,
Progressing down the highway
One lurch at a time,
Grinding gears as it went.
It was as if
The car had developed
An acute case
Of the hick-ups.
The more frustrated I got,
The worse it got.
I was almost tempted
To return the car
To the dealership.
Fortunately
For the sake of the car
And my self pride,
I had the skill mastered
In a day or so.
Mastery didn’t mean
I could necessarily teach
Family members though.
At one point
I tried to teach my wife
The art of the stick,
Back when she was
A stick shift virgin,
But gave up
And let a professional
With more patience than I
Handle that challenge.
My daughter would also
Become a master
Without my intervention.

Spheres

I live my life
Within a sphere
That constitutes
The universe
As I know it.
On the fringes
Of my universe
Are countless
Other spheres,
A few of which
Orbit in close proximity.
Those are the ones
I call my friends
And associates,
The ones I interact with
On a regular basis.
Some of them
Know each other,
But many are worlds apart,
Their only connection
To each other
Being through me.
What connects me
To each of them
Are the dialogs we have,
And it is the depth
Of those conversations
By which I measure
The quality of the life I live
And gage who I am.

Sisterhood

They were best of friends
And worst of enemies,
And they were thrust
Into each other’s space
At the age of three and six
With the advent
Of a baby brother.
They couldn’t be
In the same room together
For five minutes
Without fighting,
Yet they shared a room.
The oldest one put tape
Down the middle of the floor
And dared her younger sister
To cross the line.
Even after they were both grown,
And off on their own,
They couldn’t spend more
Than a few moments together
Before they would be
At each other’s throats again.
There was love between them,
But never expressed.
The tension was palpable
Every time they got together.
It wasn’t until many years later
That the oldest sister heard
Someone else’s younger sister
Tearfully lament
Her inability to express
Her love for older sister
That she got
What it must be like
For her younger sister.
One phone call
Was all it took
To dissolve the barrier
That had separated them
Virtually their entire lives.
Once the two of them
Could openly love each other,
They were truly
Best of friends
And almost inseparable
From then on out.

Sexual Politics

In the sexual realm
We are often
Left to interpret what
Our partner means
When he or she
Doesn’t respond,
Or isn’t in the mood
For having sex.
When one party
Is more desirous
Of intercourse
Than the other,
And the other person
Refuses their overtures,
That person is apt
To feel rejected.
If the other person
Acquiesces or gives in
Against their will,
It is bound to be
A less than
Enjoyable experience,
And a breeding ground
For resentment.
Somehow we need to be
Considerate of each other,
Especially in
The bedroom setting.

Perceptions of Adulthood

To a four year old,
Adults are big people,
The ones to run to
When we get hurt,
The heroes we look up to,
Powerful and strong,
And the ones who demand quiet
When they would like to play.

As we enter our teens
Adults are the ones
Who set the limits
We must challenge,
The ones whose words
Often don’t fit their actions,
The ones whose rules
Are made to be bent.

By the time we reach sixteen,
Adults are the ones
Who hold the money
And have power over our lives,
And we resent their control.
They are often out of date
And out of touch with our reality,
And we can’t wait to become one.

As a young college student
Adults are the ones
Who have finished school,
The ones who have real jobs
And are making money,
The ones who don’t have to hassle
With exams at every turn,
The ones free to do what they want.

When we finally graduate
And find ourselves
One of the adults,
It is seldom as free and easy
As thought is was going to be.
There is a lot of work to do,
Responsibilities, obligations,
Taxes and bills to pay.

As an adult, we may look back
Romancing the freedom we had
When we were young,
The absence of responsibility,
The lack of obligation,
The opportunities we wasted,
Forgetting what it was really like
To be that age.

Who is to say
What adulthood is?
We can see plenty of adults
Acting like kids,
And plenty of kids
Trying to act like adults,
But few people at any age
Content with the way they are.

Partnership

There is a synergy possible
When two people
Fully engage in dialog
That can produce
Miraculous results.
Every discussion
Can break new ground,
Explore fresh ideas,
Create distinctions,
And provide insight
Going beyond
Where either party
Could have gone
By themselves.
Such a partnership
Will leave the participants
Empowered, invigorated,
And excited to be alive.

Our Act

It is an act we have,
A show that we put on,
The faces we wear
For the public to see.
We are performers
On the stage of life,
Wearing masks
To disguise
Who we are,
How we feel,
And what we think.
We smile to cover
Our heaviness of heart
And use bravado
To hide our fears.
We speak in riddles
To avoid being straight,
And pretend we don’t care
When our life leaves us
Neither satisfied
Nor fulfilled.
We stand like statues
Sculpted in stone
Cold, hard and indifferent
To the anguish around us
As well as within us,
All the while wondering,
“Can’t anyone be real?”
“Is this all there is?”
“Why am I not happy?”
We maintain our act
At any cost,
And all it costs us
Is our life!

Nothing Personal

Nothing had changed
Yet everything was different.
The house was
As messy as usual
Even though she had
Cleaned it the day before.
The kids were running around
Screaming like maniacs,
Yelling at each other
As if they were both
Hard of hearing.
Her husband was
The same oaf
He had always been,
Nestled in his Lazy Boy,
Watching TV,
Trying to ignore the kids
As well as her.
Her work had not changed.
Her boss was still
A nervous breakdown
Waiting to happen,
And her coworkers
Continued to gossip
Back and forth,
Spreading the office poison.
The traffic coming home
Was as bad
As it had ever been,
Slowed by rubber-neckers
Gawking at an accident.
All of these things
Would normally have
Driven her up the wall,
But today she simply
Took them in stride
And didn’t let any of them
Bother her.
She had always taken
Such things
As if they were
Personally directed at her,
And would snarl
At the world in return.
It finally dawned on her
That nothing could be
Further from the truth,
And that revelation
Transformed the quality
Of her life.

The Grindstone Grinds

Back in his early twenties
He thought he had it made.
He had a job with a major company
That paid what seemed like
A whole lot of money
To a kid fresh out of college,
And he was progressively
Working his way to the top.
He had a college sweetheart
And they were engaged
To be married.
They had even put money down
On the house of their dreams.
He prided himself
That he earned every penny he got,
After all, he put in
Countless extra hours
To get where he was.
The sacrifice seemed justified
Because he was rising fast,
Becoming a superstar
In that business world,
Or at least he was
Until his fiancee decided
The life of an executive widow
Wasn’t what she had in mind.
After she left,
The effort to get ahead
Seemed pointless,
His heart was no longer
In climbing the ladder
Of corporate success,
And he soon left that job
For a position
Where his time
Would be more his own.

Monday's Transformation

It had been clear
For a long time
That the job
Wasn’t right for him.
It was a battle
Every morning
To get up
And out the door.
Monday was the day
He dreaded most,
And Friday never seemed
To come fast enough.
Though he hated the job,
He stayed
Week after week,
Month after month,
Stewing in silent discontent.
He dreamed of starting
His own business,
But didn’t have
The courage
To cut the umbilical cord
That sustained him.
He was good at
Looking busy,
So they tolerated him
As he tolerated them.
The truth was
He had started sneaking
Personal projects in,
And working on them
During company time,
Hoping to get
A business going,
But the burden of guilt
Over that dishonesty
Gave him no peace.
When he finally got
The gumption
To hand in his resignation,
And was able to
Legitimately concentrate
On what he wanted to do,
The rewards
Were more than he
Could ever have imagined.
The income on which he was
So dependent
Was quickly exceeded,
But even more important,
With his conscience clear,
He found he could
Sleep at night,
And his resistance
To getting up
Had vanished.
Suddenly he couldn’t wait
For Monday to come.

Missing You

I am haunted
By the distance
Between us?
Where did we
Go wrong?
Was it something
I said or did
That had you
Turn away?
You were always
Someone special,
A friend I could count on.
We used to
Wile away the hours
Sharing secrets,
Dreaming of days to come,
Being together.
Now we don’t even talk.
I no longer expect
It to be you
When the phone rings.
I miss your ready smile,
The times we spent together,
And I hope
You miss me as well.

Paradigm Flush

While growing up,
We are bombarded
With a wide variety
Of complex stimuli
And experiences
Which we had to
Sift through
And decipher
To make sense of
The world around us.
This process provides
The foundation
For our understanding
Of ourselves
And our place
In the overall
Scheme of things.
Most of the time,
Everything fits together
In a neat,
Convenient package
Of observations
And conclusions
That define
Our perspective
On reality,
But occasionally
Something happens,
Or appears to happen,
That doesn’t
Quite mesh
With our sense
Of the way things
Are supposed to work.
This tends to disrupt
Our equilibrium,
And have us question
Our understanding
Of the world around us.
If drastic enough,
It may even shift
The paradigms
We hold as truth.
That may not be
Such a bad thing.
Many of us could use
A paradigm flush
Every once in a while,

Limited by Friendship

He was almost afraid
To allow a woman
To become a friend,
Especially if
She was someone
He was attracted to.
There seemed to be
A penalty in friendship,
As if it caused
A line to be drawn
Between them
Which he dared not cross.
Though he thirsted
For the authenticity
Friendship brought,
It was another kind
Of intimacy he sought,
One friendship
Strangely precluded.
It was as if
A certain inauthenticity
Was essential
To breaking the ice,
And friendship hindered
That pretense.

Intimate Friend

I’m not sure
Whether it was
Coincidence
Or providence
That brought
Us together,
But from moment
I met you,
Being with you
Always seemed
So incredibly natural
And easy.
We started out
As two crazy kids,
Each afraid
Of getting hurt,
Tentative in our trust,
But there was
No denying
That the chemistry
Was there,
And we
Quickly became
Best friends
And more.
It was your smile,
Your way of
Laughing at life,
And those deep
Brown eyes of yours
That captivated me.
We talked
For hours on end
And never ran out
Of things to say,
Or tired of listening
To each other.
You were everything
I ever dreamed of,
Maybe more
Than I deserved,
And I counted myself lucky
Just to have you
As an intimate friend.

The Lessons of Life

I have done a lot of different things
Over the course of my life,
Worked a wide variety of jobs,
Seen both success and failure,
And learned a few things
About life along the way.
I learned that life is seldom as easy
As I think it should be,
But it is seldom as difficult
As I make it out to be.
It is full of strange twists and turns
And convoluted lessons.
Planning is important,
But it rarely went as planned.
I learned I have nothing to prove,
Except to myself,
And I am the hardest one to please.
I learned that life is a competition,
Me against myself,
And sometimes I win
And sometimes I loose,
But I have also learned
Not to get too excited about my victories,
Nor too upset about my losses.
I have learned to take each day
One day at a time,
To smell the roses along the way,
To take a risk now and then,
To live a little
And to love a lot.
Most important, I have learned
To take life in stride,
Yet give it all I have got,
And when I fall down,
To get up and dust myself off,
And go at it again.

Her Sentence

It was a story
She made up
About herself
A long time ago,
That she was ugly,
And no one wanted her.
Whether it was true
Or not
Made no difference at all
Because she
Accepted it as fact.
Every time
She looked in the mirror,
She saw who
She thought she was,
But not herself.
Her relationships
Seemed to follow a pattern
Where the guy
Left her for another,
And she took that as proof
Of her original contention.
She is actually
A very attractive lady
Who needs to seriously question
Her underlying beliefs,
As well as the sentence
She passed on herself.

Grinding Gears

Occasionally I see someone
Learning to drive
A manual transmission,
And I smile
With the memories it brings.
I watch them struggle
Down the road,
One lurch at a time,
Grinding gears as they go,
Cursing the clutch
And the person
Who invented
Such a cantankerous thing.
I sense their frustration
Dealing with a car
With a mind of its own.
I empathize as well
With the car
For what it has to endure.
I’d be nervous and jumpy too!

Getting Published

I, who have
The gumption
And the arrogance
To believe
My thoughts
And observations
Are worth writing,
And that the world
Will want to read
What I have written,
Struggle with
Getting my words
Into print.
I have tried
Everything I could think of
For the last three years
To find a publisher
Who would be willing
To take on my work,
But to no avail.
I had a literary agent,
But that did me
No good either.
I have endured
And continued editing
And writing my books
And in the process,
Have exhausted
All my financial resources,
Yet calling it quits
Is out of the question.
It is painfully obvious
That the books won’t ever
Be published
Unless I give up
Trying to do it alone
And enroll others
In making them happen.

Fulfillment

He was a young man,
Ambitious and bold,
Perfectly willing to work hard
Day in and day out
As long as he saw
Something in it for him.
He worked that way
For many years,
Working his way
Up the corporate ladder,
Accumulating things.
No matter how much
He accumulated
Nor how far he went,
It never seemed
To be enough.
He was no more satisfied
Than the day he started.
It wasn’t until
He began to ask
What he could contribute
To the world
Instead of what the world
Could contribute to him,
That he found the fulfillment
He sought.

Forgiving the Unforgivable

His older brother and him
Had been inseparable,
The best of friends.
He idolized his brother,
And was completely devastated
When his brother was murdered.
Hatred for the man
Who shot him
Consumed him,
And it didn’t abate
Even when that man
Was sentenced
To life in prison
Without possibility of parole.
He felt guilty
For being alive
While his brother was dead,
And languished
In a prison of his own creation
For four hate filled years.
Finally he had to ask himself
If this was the way
His brother would have wanted
Him to live his life,
And the answer was,
“Of course not.”
He had to forsake his hatred
In order to get on with life,
And he did that
By composing two letters,
One to his brother
And the other to the man
Who killed him.
In the first letter,
He promised to live a life
That would make his brother proud.
In the second letter,
He forgave his brother’s killer
And prayed that the man
Would also forgive himself
For the things he had done.
The transformational power
Of those two letters
Was miraculous.
He became another person entirely
Than who he had been
The last four years.
His face lit up
And his spirit rebounded
As if a 1000 pound burden
Had been removed
From his shoulders.
He still missed his brother,
But he honored him with his life.

Fire Fighter

She is a woman
Of perpetual motion,
Scurrying around
At a frantic pace
Putting out fires,
Dealing with emergencies
One after another,
Running herself ragged.
She has no idea
Things could be handled
Any other way
Than in crisis mode.
She has never learned
To take life as it comes,
To relax and enjoy herself,
To trust that it will
Work out in the end,
For it always does.

Remorse

She loudly trumpets
Her feelings
Of guilt and remorse
For what she did
And all the people
She let down.
She acts as if
Her feeling bad
About those things
Compensates for
The trouble caused.
Her guilt is an opera
Full of flamboyant suffering,
A noisy racket
Of meaningless
Verbal penance.
In truth it is
A smoke screen
Leaving no one to blame
And no one responsible.

Beyond Emergency

It so often happens in life
That we are confronted by
Situations or conditions needing
Our immediate attention,
That demand that we act now,
Or face dire consequences.
We can focus every ounce
Of our attention,
Energy and resources
On meeting that challenge,
And one way or another,
We generally scrape through
Seemingly by the skin of our teeth.
We can pride ourselves
At having averted another disaster,
And what we usually find
On the other side
Is another emergency
Waiting to take its place.
We can easily find ourselves
Bouncing from one threat to another
Living our lives
In reaction to events
Over which we have no control.
If we ever want to get ahead,
We have to move beyond
The circumstances of the moment,
And apply direction to our lives.
The degree to which
We are able to do that,
Determines the power we have
In dictating the course of life.