Category: 2025 ramblings (Page 2 of 3)

Well, today, I just don’t have the energy to spend on a longer poem, so you get a pair of cinquains. I think I’ll call it the yin and yang of Monday. Choose your own adventure. Cheers.

Monday
Fresh, new
Promise lies ahead.
A start, new beginning...
Awake

Monday
Heavy, slow
Dragging through time
Eyes heavy, rest required.
Sleepy

I really have no idea if I’m gonna do a poem every day…. This one has taken all day to get sorta worked out… the premise is a crow sees a guy walking… and… well… enjoy.

I watched him from my perch,
his footsteps soft on the path that winds by the lake,
a man alone, his thoughts tangled
in the way they all carry them,
buried deep and pressed between the ribs like forgotten songs.

I, too, have been alone,
but I am different,
familiar with the sky, the wind,
the whispers of branches—
they are my companions,
but I saw him,
walking like someone who had forgotten
the taste of sound in his mouth.

So I spoke,
just a tilt of my head,
just a flick of my wing to send the air into motion,
and there it was—
How are you, my friend?
A question I’ve asked many times,
of the clouds, the trees, the lake,
but for him, it was new,
like a crack in the stillness
that had followed him too long.

He looked up, startled,
as if a voice from the world itself
had broken the secret silence of his own mind.
And there, in the space between us,
he answered,
as if to prove he could still speak,
still find words in the mess of his solitude.

“I’m fine,” he said,
but I could hear the weight in the air around him,
the way it sagged like a curtain never pulled back
to let in the light.
“I’m fine,” he repeated,
but something in his voice,
something soft and deep,
told me he was not.

So I asked again,
What do you mean?
Because I know what it means
to carry that silence,
to walk a path where no one else has dared to tread,
where the trees seem too far
and the wind carries only the echo of a name
you’ve forgotten to speak.

He said nothing,
and in that space,
I felt it—
that quiet,
that stretch of time between us
where the world is too vast
for a solitary man to fill,
too still for even the sky to hold him.

I flapped my wings,
letting the wind stir him,
then I flew,
as all things must,
toward the farthest horizon,
leaving him there,
alone with his questions,
alone with his silence.

But I know this—
I know he’ll hear me again,
the next time he looks up,
the next time the world feels too big,
too empty.
And maybe then,
he’ll have something more to say.

For almost a year, I’ve been contemplating launching a podcast. I won’t bore you with all the specifics, but given my role, the idea of producing a podcast—particularly one that could stir controversy—makes me apprehensive.

As an educator, a profession currently under intense scrutiny, I feel the weight of this decision. Rather than diving into planning and scripting podcast episodes, I’ve been tinkering with this poem that explores the fear and hesitation of “speaking out” in a world already brimming with noise and, at times, irritable chaos.

I didn’t write what follows today, but I spent some time refining and polishing it. It’s the result of several months and numerous revisions. I hope you find it enjoyable and perhaps even relatable.

A Voice Through the Thunder

The air is thick with murmurs,

whispers swirl like angry rip tides—
Yet, I am compelled to break through

the silence of uncertainty,

the weight of an audience's heavy gaze.

I am a figure, a shadow cast wide—

Deep within me, I feel the wild pulse of truth; 
It beats like war drums in my chest,

but how the words struggle to rise,

caught in the storm of public eyes.

How can one speak when the earth trembles beneath?

When the winds of doubt blow hard and fierce?

When to speak is to risk a thousand slings,

a thousand arrows, sharp and unyielding?

The heart flinches from the threat,

Still, it yearns to rise, to declare its worth.

What is it to stand as a figure,

under the weight of unspoken expectations?

To know that every syllable, every breath,

could spark the fire of scorn or praise,

could tear the veil of comfortable lies,

or turn the gathered crowd against you.

The heart strains, seeking a balance

between truth and peace,

between the soul’s cry and the public's need.

And still, its voice calls, though shaken.
For what is silence but surrender?

And what is a public figure if not one

to bear the truth, come what may?

The struggle is not in the words—

It is in the stillness before the conflict,

in the knowledge that to speak is to fight,

to sever the silence of the crowd,

to rip through the clamoring noise with the sound

of what is real, what must be heard,

even when the weight of the world bears down.

So let the words come—

Let them flow like a river in flood season.
For though the stones may rise to meet it,

the river will carve its path,

And the truth shall find its place—

In spite of the cost.

In spite of the thunder that follows.

On a pleasantly sunny Friday afternoon, I offer up this hat tip to Mother Nature.

The sun, low and radiant,
spills through the window,
a patch of warmth on the kitchen floor.
It’s a quiet pleasure, this light,
like a hand on your shoulder
or the humming of a song
you can’t quite remember,
but still brings a smile.

Outside, the trees stand still,
their shadows stretching across the yard
as if they, too, feel the pull
of something gentle,
something slow and certain.
And I—
I stand in the glow,
letting it fill the room,
settle into my bones
the way an old hoodie feels,
worn but familiar.

There’s happiness in this,
not in the grand gestures
but in the quiet way
the sun touches everything—
a glass on the counter,
a cat asleep in the corner,
the dust flecks floating
like little prayers in the air.
It doesn’t ask for anything
yet, gives so much.

This is how we are formed,
not by the blinding moments
but by these gentle, steady hours
that slip by unnoticed
until, like today,
the light is there,
and you realize
you’ve been happy all along.

I won’t wonder why I rarely get dinner invites after this.

Dinner Invite

I was glad to get the invite,
like a dog wagging its tail for a treat,
but when I walked in,
the smell hit me.

Not the good kind,
but the kind that makes you wonder
what went wrong in the kitchen,
what went right in the graveyard.

She smiled, setting down my bowl,
"Hope you like it, it's my grandmother's recipe!"
I took a forkful,
tried to look human,
swallowed it whole
like a bad poem
I couldn't stop reading.

It tasted like disappointment,
like forgotten dreams,
like the kind of thing
you don't give to your enemy.
But I said,
"Oh, it's very... unique.
Really, very… interesting."

They all smiled,
like they didn't notice
the way my eyes 
were twitching,
the way my stomach 
was screaming.

The beer helped a bit,
but not enough
to erase the feeling
of being polite
and still wanting to throw the bowl
out the window.

I was happy to be there.
Really.
But if anyone asks,
I’ll say it was "delightful."
It’s easier that way.
At least the silence
between bites
tasted better
than the food.

This poetry thing always seems like a good idea and then I get started or stuck as the case may be. So I present to you this silly bit…

Something from Nothing?

I sit quietly; the screen is bare,
No thought to catch, no spark to share.
The world outside, it spins and glows
But here I am, and nothing shows.

No fleeting dream, no whispered thought,
Just empty space where words are sought.
The silence wraps its gentle shroud,
nary a thought in my mind but clouds.

I search for the muse, but none appears,
no inspiration to loose the gears.
The keys are quiet, the page is clean,
an empty space where none have been.

Perhaps, in nothing, something’s found—
In absence, silence does resound.
So here I write, without a theme,
A poem born from quiet's dream.

So I thought I might try writing a poem a day, which after today seems a little more daunting than it did yesterday. I did however get something written for today… enjoy.

The Favorite Mug

I’ve watched him for years—
the steady hand,
furrowed brow,
and tired smile
at the end of a long day
when the world outside the door
has quieted down,
and the room is ours.

We meet each morning,
a ritual of warmth,
the heat of hope rising with each sip.
He doesn’t speak much,
but his fingers,
calloused from decades of paperwork,
wrap around me with reverence,
like an old friend who has seen
too many years to count
and still holds on tight.

I’m there for the early mornings
when he shuffles into the office
before the children’s voices roar through the halls
before the phones start ringing
with problems for him to fix.
I see the lines on his face deepening,
the wear of time that can’t be erased,
not even by a warm cup.

But still, he carries on.
I’ve seen it—
the moments when a young person
knocks on his door,
nervous and wide-eyed.
He listens and encourages like it’s water
pouring from an endless well.

I see his eyes light up,
the cracks in his heart
mended with the smallest of victories.
I don’t mind my slow existence.
I’m just the cup—
faithful,
patient,
a silent witness to the years.

But in these moments,
I’m part of the story.
I hold the warmth
that helps him carry on,
the steady rhythm of his work
stretched across decades.

He leans back,
a tired sigh escaping.
I can feel 
the quiet pride 
and love for the job
that still lingers,
even on tough days.

For more than 25 years,
he’s guided them,
shaped them,
and taught them—
For a decade,
I’ve been his silent companion,
witness to the quiet battles,
the triumphs,
the exhaustion,
and the joy of a life spent
in service to something greater.

I’ll be here tomorrow
and the next
because no matter how he’s aged
under the weight of it all,
he still holds me close,
and still,
I warm his hands
when the world demands too much.