I am sitting in the dark, just finished a bowl of cereal, Trix if you want to know. I am listening to the rain and thunder. And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
I am worried. Worried for so many reasons. Worried for so many people. Worried about the days and years ahead. And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
Yesterday sometimes feels better than today. Tomorrow feels heavy and sticky, like the humidity that will soak my skin on my morning walk. Routines can foster a dread of the unknown, yet that is where we find the edges of who we are.
And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
I don’t understand so many aspects of this life. How Love never really wins, never lands enough punches to turn the tide. The judges always side with Hate. But when the bell rings, Love finds its legs, making it through another round. But I am tired. The temptation to throw in the towel gets harder to shred.
And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
I was originally going to title this post as “I attended a funeral on my 28th wedding anniversary while reading poetry.”
I also thought about the title, “What is life if all we do is die?”
Instead I dated the post, because it was yesterday, and now it is a memory. I read a book of poetry, had a lovely dinner with my wife, and have a program from the funeral. I am driven to write a blog post about why any of it matters. (Yes, I thought of writing a poem, but the muse is indicating this is a blog post about connecting dots.)
So let me explain the dots.
First, I am doing the Sealy Challenge: reading a book of poetry everyday in August. Yesterday I read Today Means Amen by Sierra DeMulder. Today I am reading Dragging Sand Creek for Minnows by William Kloefkorn. I’ll come back to the poetry later.
Second, yesterday was our 28th anniversary. We had dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, The Odyssey. (The best bread pudding dessert. It was lemon blueberry this time!) Of course we talked about the last 28 years, but the funeral we attended in the morning was the main conversation topic.
Third dot, the funeral of my wife’s aunt, age 83. She was the youngest of seven children. The church was filled with family. She had 10 children of her own, 27 grandchildren and 38 great-grandchildren. I am always amazed at the size of my wife’s side of our family.
The last page of the program summarized 83 years of her life. There was a table at the luncheon that had photo albums and the wedding album of her aunt’s marriage. Especially at lunch the air was filled with stories, and with tears and hugs.
August 1, 2026, was a day that reinforced the foundation of what this life is really about. Love expressed through living every day.
Here’s what I mean on a deeper level with the three dots. My wife’s aunt’s life was more than the five paragraphs on the back of the program, the family and generations in the church was evidence of what she did, how she lived.
The poems I read, and the ones I’m reading today, gave me a glimpse of the poet’s heart, of their lives. As a poet, I know the vulnerability of writing, of crafting a verse that reflects the heart.
Twenty-eight years of marriage. Our own six children, the ups and downs present in the everyday, the love it takes to build a home, to build a life. It takes time and heart.
There will come a day when someone will try to summarize my years on this earth on the last page of the program for my funeral. There will probably be some photo albums, too. And my children will share stories, and maybe even my best dad jokes or even read some of my poems. But that day will simply be the accumulation of the days I tried my best to live this life with love. Love of the written word. Love of my wife, children, and friends. Love of having ordinary days to show that love.
As a child of the 80’s and a music fan, I know the wonder and addiction of a great one-hit wonder.
A-ha, “Take On Me”
Tommy Tutone, “867-5309 / Jenny”
Big Country, “In a Big Country”
To name just a few. I can give you the first few bars of a one-hit wonder and you would be able to identify it… “We can dance if we want to / We can leave your friends behind.” I know you started to sing this outloud.
As a poet, I could live with having a one-hit wonder poem. I have about 300 poems published in books, unknown amount of original poems submitted for the weekly #BornBattleReady poetry challenge. And the scraps of paper, notebooks, that contain rough drafts and poems that just haven’t found a home and I can confidently say I have over a 1000 poems.
The world of poetry is vast, and many poets, like Emily Dickinson, William Blake, and Henry David Thoreau, just to name a few, became famous after they passed away. I would rather have a one-hit wonder than become famous after death.
No one can predicate a one-hit wonder (or any success for that matter). But if I could choose one poem to be my one-hit wonder I would choose one of my earlier poems, “Air Jordans and Big Gulps.”
“Air Jordans and Big Gulps”
i wear
AIR JORDANS
when I work
the graveyard shift
at 7-11
(24 hour convenience store)
They do not match the Smock
(a dull pepper green)
Or my name tag
(red stickered first name)
“i I.D. it’s my job”
i wear
AIR JORDANS
when I work
cleaning the nacho cheese
and chili dispenser
(free for your chips or dogs)
They do not match the bottles
(40oz. and up)
or the cans
(lined like a library)
“please have I.D. ready”
i wear
AIR JORDANS
when I work
counting cigarette cartons
and filling the shelves
(Camels are on special)
They do not match the coffee
(freshly made every hour)
Or the Styrofoam cups
(one lid fits all sizes)
“Must be 21 or older to purchase alcohol”
I think this poem reflects my style the best. There is a form to the poem, but yet stretches the theme creatively through that form. I do use everyday life as a theme to highlight the depth of living, which this poem does. And it is autobiographical. I still have the first draft of this poem on the inside of a cigarette carton I used to write it on during my graveyard shift.
I have better written poems. I have more heart wrenching poems. I have poems about my family, my children. Poems about fate. Poems written in poetic forms from the 14th century.
But one-hit wonders are powerful, unique, and addictive to listen to… to read in this instant. And I could die happy if this poem was my one-hit wonder.
I carried my box back to the car, still full of books, but minus a few bookmarks.
Yesterday I attended an author event, one I have routinely been a part of for the last four summers. There was a big change this year. The event was part of the town’s summer concert series. We were indoors just across from the bandstand. The room was full of indie authors and artists selling their projects. The street was closed off. There were food trucks, games for kids to play. A classic summer time event.
I gave away a few bookmarks.
From what I could tell, there were only two books sold. No artwork left the building.
I drove home contemplating this writing thing.
Now, I did get to talk to people. One person shared her story of losing her mom after reading my poem “While Death Waits.”
But still, the question of what I was doing ran through my head, through my heart. Something I’m pretty sure all indie authors ask at different times.
And deep down I know I will continue to write. I actually have a new collection of poems ready to go, just need to finalize a few things. I’ll keep flinching every time I get a rejection email (read one last Thursday). I am a writer.
Maybe today someone picked up their new bookmark and thought about the poet they met last night… of course they are using it in a book I didn’t write…
I would grab a cup of coffee or tea, this blog post is going to take a little time and try to connect some interesting dots… no, go ahead, I’ll wait…
OK, so the dots I am going to connect range from poetry, real life fact, and AI / technology.
First, Robert Frost’s poem “Mending Wall”. This is one of his most ironic poems. The depth of what is written and what is meant, or at least what a reader might even believe, is extraordinary. And that ambiguity hits the reader in classic Frost style with the ending.
If you’ve never read the poem, follow the link before reading further… really, I’ll wait.
I could (and maybe I should) write an analysis post about this poem, but I want to get to the heart of this dot I want to connect to other moments and the theme of this post. The plot of the poem is simple: Robert Frost and his neighbor meet to repair the stone fence that separates their land. This is a yearly event. One of the major themes is emphasized at the end of the poem, “He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’”
Dot two: My neighbor is building a fence.
Back to the poem and what the line “Good fences make good neighbors” might mean. The word choice is important, ‘Good fences’ and ‘good neighbors’. An important point to remember is that they are working together to mend the stone fence (also described as a wall in the poem). It is important because it highlights the balance of them living their separate lives, yet maintaining a neighborly relationship. In fact in the poem it states that Robert Frost contacts his neighbor about the day to repair the wall.
It is clear from reading the poem that they are not friends, but they are respectful, even if Robert Frost fails at getting to a deeper conversation with his neighbor. (I understand that, “Let’s Not Talk about the Weather.”) They are at least ‘good neighbors’.
Back to dot two. Our neighbors have been in the house less than a year. Most of our backyards meet. The fence will separate their yard from ours. I have never spoken to them. We have acknowledged each other while mowing or out gardening with a smile or a head nod. I do not know why they are building the fence.
Is it a good fence? Not sure.
I do recognize that I am not a good neighbor in the classical sense.
Which brings us to dot three.
Technology / AI and its effect on the idea of a good neighbor.
Part of the draw of technology, of social media, of even AI, is that it was supposed to break down the physical and personal walls of our lives. We could find community anywhere in the world. We could share ideas, our art, our hobbies, share ourselves to the world. And it can do that. I have people on X (the app formally known as Twitter) that would be good friends in real life. But I’ve never met them in person.
The ironic aspect is that the idea was no barriers, no walls, no fences… but that is not how the internet works. We have different fences, and I’m not sure they are ‘good’. We can live behind fictional handles / accounts. Now with AI, we can automate our very existence. Let it write or respond to email, let AI post on Instagram as us, or to a fictional account we create.
Sadly we are fencing ourselves in by not being ourselves, by letting ChatGPT think for us, by removing any of the work it takes to discover our talents. Even what we are not good at is an important step in becoming who we are. Technology is not a good fence. Being a good neighbor is about understanding who we are through our successes and struggles. Learning what is valuable to our souls. To understand that our neighbors are people who are trying their best to live their lives.
I do wonder why my neighbor is building a fence. Robert Frost’s poem delves into deeper themes (that I might just write more about) of this life. And I am using technology now with this blog post, but my goal is be a good neighbor for you reader, as you work on living on your side of this fence.
I love April. Even though life is busy with teaching, coaching, and just general dadlife, the challenge of writing a poem every day brings a welcomed level of stress. My students know I am a poet, and have asked to hear some of the poetry. I have also had the opportunity to just talk about poetry and creativity with them.
Today, I wrote a poem that was inspired by my walk. I had already composed and shared my poem for the prompt today (which was ‘home’ – you can read it on my X feed). As I reworked a section of the poem, I felt like the poem represented my basic philosophy of poetry. Now, I have written all kinds of poetry, have written in over 100 different forms, but since I have shared my creative process a number of times in the last year, I thought it would be fun to share this poem and explain how it fits my general philosophy of poetry.
Some background first. Some info from the poets I admire.
Robert Frost, states in the preface “The Figure a Poem Makes” that a poem should start in delight but end in wisdom. Later he expands on the point, highlighting how the wisdom is not always grand but the simple depth of living, that a poem “ends in a clarification of life.” If you are a faithful reader of my poems (and even my blog posts) you can see this revelation at the end of many of my works.
Langston Hughes is my favorite poet, and most people don’t know that early in his career he was criticized for what makes his work loved now, the reality of life. Lifting up the working class and street people of Harlem. And bringing them into the discussion of the social issues of our nation. But he also threaded a spiritual aspect into his work. Langston once said that poetry was “the human soul, squeezed like a lemon…” I do not write a lot about social issues, but I do try to squeeze my soul until it forms a poem on the page.
I am also a fan of the Romantic Poets, Wordsworth, Keats, Shelly and the likes. Nature and the common life were driving forces for their poetry, and mine. Which brings me to today. After my walk I sat down on my front step and jotted down the first draft of the following poem (which is presented in its final version).
“April 11, 2026”
The battle between seasons
is taking place on lawns,
yellow brown grass fights for ground
against lush green blades
that are backed up
by bright yellow dandelions.
The air smells of a rain waiting,
a tint of mildew,
heavy and sweet.
While the wind blows
its war horn
from the north,
cold and biting.
Warning that freezing storms
are still possible.
The sky a grey blanket
with no seems to be seen.
—
And I am walking through
the middle of it all.
My heart holds on to winter,
while my mind yearns
for the thaw of spring.
A war between seasons
for the right to call
this day theirs.
This poem, I think, represents my voice well. The first stanza is a picture of the day during my walk. Revealing the tension of the weather during the days between the seasons. There is beauty in nature, a power that touches our souls, no matter what the weather is.
Then in the second stanza I squeezed my soul. Revealed a spiritual tension that I hope connects with the reader. A wisdom that they can read and then say, “I understand that feeling, too.” And with that inspiration to highlight the richness of our everydayness, I used the date.
The one aspect of the poem that is missing from my style is the use of a poetic form. Which I played with the idea, but the poem felt truer as a free verse based poem. And I am learning to trust my poetic instincts.
I hope you enjoyed the new poem and getting to know me a little more as a poet as I shared my poetic philosophy. Here is to a great rest of April and all the poems I will write.
April is National Poetry Month, and many poets write a poem everyday. I am one of those poets. I use the prompt provided on the Writer’s Digest site. I read the prompt in the morning. Let it sit for a while and then find time to write the poem. During that time I also consider different poetic forms to use. I have written three poems so far in forms I’ve never used before. I like using this month to work on my skill set and to experiment a little.
I wrote a poem yesterday (April 7) that I really like. And writing the poem has backstory that highlights the creative process.
The prompt for April 7 was a Two for Tuesday situation: Dawn or/and Dusk. Robert Lee Brewer is the editor for the poetry section for Writer’s Digest. He is the one that provides the prompts, and Tuesdays have always been a double sided prompt.
My first reaction was actually lackluster. Nothing really jumped out at me while I had my morning coffee. I also knew that I would be helping monitor a room for the ACT yesterday. Our school administers the ACT for our juniors every year. My only job is to walk around and make sure ovals are filled in correctly, handle any questions. I don’t even say anything regarding instructions.
As the testing got started I was not thinking about the prompt, instead I had this idea in my mind from a book I recently read, Birds Art Life: A Year of Observation by Kyo Maclear. She ends a chapter with a line about how there is never a day without birds.
As I walked around the room (I walked over 10,000 steps during the ACT) a poem started to take root. During the break I grabbed a piece of paper and got the ideas down. During instructions and the small break I made notes or added lines.
Because I felt like I had different ideas that still connected, I made the poem into a four part work. I was excited to sit down after track practice to write it and share to the community of poets on the Writer’s Digest site (and other social media).
After dinner I announced I would be writing my poem. The family is used to these kind of announcements, it is just our fun way of letting me have time to write. I grabbed my computer, my headphones, and no poem. I searched my computer bag again. I swore I placed the rough draft in my bag. Nothing.
I almost drove back out to school to get it, but I decided to trust my memory and write the next draft. When I got to school this morning, I checked the final draft to the rough draft, it was almost the same poem. There was a line or two that I changed or added but I would have done that anyway. Second (third, fourth…) drafts always have a change, that is the fun part of writing. Trying to bridge the muse with the audience.
Maybe because the poem took extra work, had extra stress, I like this poem. And with that, here is my dawn / dusk poem:
On Aug 17, 2025, I got a new pair of shoes for walking.
I had an idea to wear them only for walking and to record my steps after each walk. I was going to try to make it a year, but due to different circumstances, I made it to the end of this month, 8 months total.
I walked a total of 549051 steps… 245 miles.
We all know the idiom, “Walk a mile in their / my shoes” as a reference to understanding someone. I took notes sometimes after a walk. During these last 8 months, I had a colleague lose two of their grandchildren in a car accident. My oldest son got married. I walked on Halloween but didn’t get to walk with my youngest daughter on her last trick-or-treat trip, she was at a friend’s house.
I walked through hundreds of grasshoppers in August. I walked in the school on nights when my daughter had musical practice. I walked on a 65 degree day in February. I took notes for poems, some that are still notes. I walked on Christmas day, reflecting on family and how time was moving so fast.
The miles simply represent my life, as they would for you.
As I totaled the steps, I noticed something interesting. No matter what the day, or the route I took (I have a couple of routes I walk in the neighborhood), no day ever had the same number of steps. Ever.
So no matter how many times I took my ‘medium route’ in the neighborhood, the step count was different.
I understand there are a number of reasons for the differences, but that proves the point that even in the routine of our life, each day is different. Has a different step count because of the smallest changes to how we walked through the day. How we lived that day.
Maybe to understand ourselves better we should pay attention to how we walk in our own shoes.
And so my idea for this blog post comes to an end as I transfer the shoes to work shoes.
Let’s see if I can express myself well in this blog post. I know as I sit down to write this that I will be challenged in my ability to express this abstract experience with this page and the words I choose to express myself with.
Let’s start with the idea of connecting dots. Faithful readers know I use this idea a lot. But it helps make connections to ideas or moments, even when they seem random.
Dot One
Did you notice?
Did you notice I was not there on social media, especially X? It is OK if you didn’t. I’m not sure anyone really did. My screen time is averaging 2 hours and 50 minutes a day for the last couple of weeks (at the end of this week it should be about 2 hours and 40 minutes).
At the moment, X is my 8th used app. It is even behind my Clock app. I did not disappear, I reposted, shared some info, but I didn’t really engage with people or share original content. And X went on without me.
Dot Two
Why I reduced my interaction with my phone and social media.
This is one of the tricky parts I alluded to in the introduction. I was hurt because of poetry. Rejection emails, poetry battles, and the loss of community hit my spirit hard. Every creative person goes through rough spots, the last three weeks have been brutal for me, in so many different ways. Emotionally it was like standing in the middle of a downpour as a blizzard swept in while an earthquake happened.
Dot Three
What did I gain from the last two weeks?
New Poetry. Ironic isn’t it.
I also gained an appreciation for my voice, for my style. It sounds funny to say this at this stage of my writing career, but I am always reminded of something Ray Radbury said in an interview late in his career. He said it took him 10 years to finally write a short story that he felt reflected his authentic voice.
I may not be popular, but no one writes like I do.
And I will keep trying to share my work, knowing that my email folder will be filled with rejection responses because that’s what we do, we create and share with the world.
Dot Four
What I really gained from the last two weeks…
The depth and quality of our life is found in how engaged we are in our own lives.
I read the article “The Lonely Death of George Bell” from the New York Times in 2015. (It is behind a paywall now.) It haunts me to this day. The quick summary of the article is that George dies in his apartment alone, and it took weeks before anyone noticed enough to investigate. Even his drinking buddies, whom he saw only at the bar, did not do anything when he stopped showing up.
We all get 24 hours in a day. And we, for the most part, get to decide what we do with that time. I’ve talked about this idea in different blog posts for years and connected to different topics. The small shift in understanding from the last two weeks is that how we engage with that time matters.
I didn’t stop living just because I was not on X. Dadlife has been in full swing, daughters are in tennis, and my third daughter was also in the school musical. I took my walks. I wrote poetry.
Twenty-four hours can go by without us doing anything, even if we are on a screen or not. Being aware, but even more importantly, choosing what and who to engage with builds the textures of our life. Gives us the colors, the heartache, and the words to live a life we can call art.
I am going to just warn you now, this post will ramble but try to connect the dots at the end.
I just finished my walk about 20 minutes ago. And I thought about a lot of things, had a lot of dots on the paper of my mind. But let’s start in the middle of my walk.
There is a small cemetery, Sunset Memorial Gardens, that I walk past on one of my routes through my neighborhood. Sometimes, I stop to sit and reflect. Today was one of those days. As I sat down on a bench the “Love Theme from St. Elmo’s Fire” started to play in my earbuds. St. Elmo’s Fire is one of my favorite movies, so it got me thinking.
I took a couple of pictures to share on social media. I tend to take unique pictures on my walk just to share. While I was taking the photos I noticed that there were two fresh mounds of dirt. One of the grave sites did not have a date on the tombstone, but the second one did.
This is when the dots filled my head.
Here I was standing by her grave on January 4, 2026. Janice was just days away from the New Year when she passed away.
I, we all do to a degree, take time for granted. I have a specific pair of shoes I use for my walks. I am in the middle of logging the steps I take on my walks in these shoes for a blog post when I get new shoes.
I am assuming I will be here in 6 months. That I will be able to walk, to listen to music, to think, and write poetry.
As I continued on my walk I was deep in thought about life. A poetic line came to mind, “There will come a time…” (I’ll share the poem later in the blog).
Thinking about the poem led me to something that has been heavy on my heart lately… about how much I have failed in accomplishing my big dreams. I let myself down all the time. I have books I want to write. I want to learn to play the piano (or at least write this song I have). I want to help people write better (this is an idea in the works).
But instead… I fail.
Like all of us, life tricks us into believing there is time. And the trick is that there is time… until there isn’t. And we don’t know when that time will end.
On the home stretch of my walk, I spotted an older couple walking their dogs on the golf course, at times holding hands waiting for their second dog to catch up.
It was a beautiful site and reminded me that no one knows how much time they will have. But we are all given a life. And we do get to decide on how we live it. Failing at dreams, walking on a 60 degree January day, or making it home to be a dad…when I got home my second daughter needed help getting her boomerang (she got for Christmas) down from the roof of the house.
Some dreams are so big they have to be accomplished everyday.
Ohhh, yeah, I wrote this poem while walking too. This is the draft from my notes. The final poem will be worked on later.
“There will come a time”
There will come a time
Because of a dead watch
When I will stop moving
My hands across my face
To check how well I shaved
To start a new day
There will come a time
Because of the sunset
That I will be encased in darkness
Like Orion
Dreams stuck in position
Of a constellation of the past
There will come a time
Because of the last page
That I will no longer
Be able to write
A single word of a poem
Or love letter for her to read
There will come a time
Because of the rules of LIFE
I will reach the end
Have no more turns to spin the wheel
Get an action card
Have a pet
Or fill my little green car
With people I love
One last thing, here is the song that played as I came home.
It is all Connected 