The Cheap Seats

This poem was written for a teacher, friend and co-worker - Dianne Marsh - who is retiring after the 2011-12 school year. I hope you can identify in these words someone from your own life who you admire for their perseverance, their integrity and their dignity. Long ago a sapling stood. Imbued with life - enriched by soil, born from sturdy, solid wood. With roots buried deep and straight and true, the young oak was fit to face any fury. So, duly fortified - it grew and grew. And as its stature soared, the growing oak reached out wary limbs. Seeking - searching out new horizons, aware of Nature's whims. For the maturing oak knew, that a chance whirlwind would gale, in vain efforts to fell it, but always to no avail. Still the whirlwind would blow from time to time, testing the oak's certainty, its steadfastness, its resolve, its climb. But the oak endured - it grew, it thrived. Once hesitant...

When I was young my family lived next to an area of land my brother and I rightly dubbed, "The Woods." To the eyes of someone barely four feet tall, it was an imposing piece of land, full of towering pines, jutting rocks and crisscrossed with trails only he and I knew. One particular corner of our domain included a patch of acorn bushes we converted into a "fortress." Access into this Gibraltar came only by way of knowing the secret password. The Secret Password. This phrase once implied exclusivity and excitement, even potential danger. Knowledge of the secret password meant you were included and could enjoy the privileges of membership.  Those barred from inclusion pretended not to care, but we knew better. They were dying to gain access into our Acorn Kingdom. Peeling back the layers of memory more than thirty-five years, I'm sure I never could have imagined then that I would be using secret passwords infinitely more as an adult than I eve...

I am a father. And as a father I know two things for certain. The first is that Father's Day falls on one of the four or five Sundays in June. Which one? I have no idea. The second is that Mother's Day is tomorrow, May 13th, the second Sunday of the month - always has been, always will be. Why is Mother's Day fused into my brain, while Father's Day (even though I've been in the club for nearly seventeen years) never seems to come into focus? Heck, even the juxstaposition of these Hallmark holidays on our calendar makes plain which is important and which is an afterthought. Even so, why do even us Dads acknowledge that it is the lesser of the two? Because every dad has a Mom. Besides being a father, I am also a teacher. For a long stretch of childhood I never thought teachers had lives outside of their jobs. Like me, you might have assumed the same. I now know from experience that students vaguely believe their teachers ...

I spent part of this morning feeling smug and self-satisfied. I’d written a little musing about the nature of time and how it truly is our constant companion throughout our life. We search for it, lose track of it, wish we could get it back and ultimately – if we’re lucky enough – make some measure of peace with it. All in all, I patted myself on the back for my cleverness. Occasionally, I re-read my newly published posts, polishing and editing a few words and phrases as I go. Tonight was no different except for the fact that I decided to change the title. Time Waits for No Man just didn’t feel in sync with the overall tone of what followed. So, I went into the blog and transformed it to Time Is on My Side . But after re-publishing, I discovered that I had deleted every single word of the post except the new title. I frantically hit the back arrow. Gone. I checked my Word documents. Unsaved. I was sick to my stomach. Time - ironically - had stopped. "Who's clever now,...

When I created this blog last January I was hoping people would read it. That probably sounds obvious, but I'm not sure all writers write to be read. Well - if I'm being honest - I do. So, to that end I did a little research and also spoke to an established, successful blogger. Both sources told me the same thing - don't use your blog to rant. Ranting turns readers off and leaves them looking as if they had just smelled a soiled diaper. Damn, clipped at the knees before I even started. So, I resisted my natural instincts. Instead, I wrote about topics I thought people would understand and empathize with - parenthood, aging, coffee, the pace of change. Whatever ranting I could sneak in was hidden beneath a mild dose of sarcasm. But with each successive post my inner ranter yearned to break free, especially because today's world offers so much to rant about. But maybe ranting is a young man's game? Perhaps they can get away with it because...

I used to think I was pretty smart. Seriously, ask anyone. But time - and a tribulation or two - has a way of humbling a person and making him realize that there is less and less he comprehends the older he gets. For a while - probably a solid decade - that bothered and puzzled me. I assumed more knowledge came with more birthday candles. Wrong. Oh sure, I now know what subprime means, have an intimate understanding of the phrase attorney's fees and have even been metaphorically kneed in the groin by the loss of collective bargaining rights. But I ask you, what did awareness of these and other grown-up terms ever do for me besides deprive me of sleep? Instead, I've turned my attention to knowing more about less. Hey, the synapses (or is it neurons - see, shouldn't I know this by now?) are only firing so fast these days - so why jam up the brain's expressways any further with knowledge that will only give me brain freeze? A...

We have been together now for Oh, so long. Has it been twenty years that my love has burned strong? During life’s joy, pain and cruel dark days, when I need you, you sustain me, and remain an arm’s reach away. I tried to “quit you” many times, Of that, we both know. Telling you, you were wrong for me, but over and over, I never let go. The bare truth is I ache for you, and suffer the void when you’re gone. Dreaming of your return, that always arrives with the dawn. Even now I can see clearly your light-creamy hue, and the surge of feeling again, that my love is brand-new. From your sugar-sweet taste hidden deep within, you return warm and inviting; I can’t wait to begin. How many ways I’ve had you I can’t begin to number. But your many scents and sensations shake me out of my slumber. In my bed - in the car, Or every room where I live, these places and more, you have had so much to give. You have belonged to...