Tag Archives: poetry

Open for conversation

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My old, Pair-a-Dimes for Your Thoughts, blog has some amazing comments on it. There were posts that would get 15-25 comments that would continue the conversation. There were bloggers who would blog response posts to yet further the conversation. Now my blog is just one of several places people see my posts.

I usually share the whole post (unless I hit the size limit) on LinkedIn, and I share excerpts on Facebook, as well as links on other socials, and these open the links in their apps, to keep you on the app. And so the majority of comments now are scattered across the internet rather than sitting under my blog.

What I miss about the ‘old times’ is that these comments and conversations added a lot of value to what was said. They still do, but they aren’t archived together and so they tend to be one-offs rather than full conversations. Still, I enjoy getting them, and love it when someone contributes something that really adds to what I say… contributes something of value, that enriches (or challenges) my thinking.

Manual Are posted a gem of a response to my post yesterday. I wrote a very short post, a rant really, about doors being locked when a store is open. Then on LinkedIn, Manuel responded with a beautiful poem that first of all probably took him a lot longer to write than I spent on my post. And secondly, captured my message better than I was able to express it. So here it is… (with permission and thanks to Manuel):

The Locked Door

I reached the store with eager stride,
A gentle pull, but locked inside.
The sign said “open,” yet it stayed,
This door that blocked the path I made.

I tried again, a second time,
But still the latch refused to climb.
A simple thing, an easy task—
To open wide is all I ask.

Doesn’t it speak to what’s in store,
This stubborn, unwelcoming door?
The message sent, though small it seems,
Can shatter trust and spoil dreams.

For what’s a shop that keeps me out?
It stirs up doubt, it breeds some doubt.
If I am here, then let me through,
And show me care in what you do.

Unlock the door, let me inside,
A gesture small, but full of pride.
For in that act, you say to me:
You’re welcome here, come in and see.

The smallest thing can set the tone—
To feel at ease, to feel at home.
So if you open, heed this plea,
Unlock the door, and welcome me.”

~Manuel Are

Promises to keep

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One of my favourite poems is Robert Frost’s ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’, and my favourite stanza from that poem is the final one:

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”

I love that idea of honouring your promises, and understanding that there is more in life to do. I especially value the idea of keeping promises you’ve made to yourself.

In my 10Lessons on Atomic Habits, specifically Lesson 8 – Habit Tracking, I say, “The calendar doesn’t lie. You be honest to the calendar, and when you look at the calendar, it’s honest right back at you.”

In this Instagram Reel, Chris Williamson says, “Stop breaking promises to yourself. When you say, I’m going to… wake up tomorrow at 7am, and when the option comes to hit the snooze button… don’t do it. There’s one win you’ve got for the day.”

How many times have you done everything in your power to ensure that you keep your promises to other people… and compare that to how often you will break a promise to yourself, and sacrifice your own personal commitments in order to fulfill promises and commitments to others. You stay late for work and then miss a workout. You worry about your kids eating a healthy lunch at school but don’t share the same concern for your own lunch. You cancel social plans to attend a meeting… compare the frequency of that versus postponing a meeting to do something social with friends.

The most important promises to keep are the promises you make to yourself.

Breaking Bland

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I don’t know what I’ll be doing today after work, but it won’t be what I’ve done the past couple days. For two days now I’ve come home, sat on the couch, and only really got up to eat leftovers and go back to the couch… and then to bed.

It’s easy. It’s lazy. It’s unproductive. And ultimately it’s unsatisfying.

It’s ok to do for a couple days, but I can’t let myself just default to this daily. Sometimes it takes intention to change. It takes awareness and also effort. A plan helps too, but honestly I don’t have one right now. That will have to change before I get home. If it doesn’t change I’ll probably choose the bland option of doing nothing much again.

~

Breaking Bland

Breaking a bland routine is to thrive, to feel alive, rather than satisfactorily survive.

It doesn’t need to be profound, exciting, or fun. It just needs to be an evening where I don’t get home from work and think, “I’m done!”

A walk, a talk, a task with a goal will do. A chore or ‘to do’ list item will suffice too. Perhaps a recipe with flavours that are new. A book, a podcast, a meditation, a conversation with you.

The experience need not be perfect, this I understand. I just want to choose something that is more than bland.

Hear the ocean breathe

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I could listen to the ocean all day.

Put some headphones on and enjoy the sound of a couple waves crashing

——

The ocean never sleeps, it’s always in motion. A rhythmic chorus of crashes, followed by the hiss of foam on sand. A heartbeat on the never still edge of shore. Another crash, another hiss, and another. And another. Speaking to me and asking me stay and listen… And another.

Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

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Lying in bed, ear against my pillow. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

My heart beats in my head. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

Soothing, calming, an orchestra of internal activity embodied in a single, reoccurring beat. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

A primordial drum, beating in each of us. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

Our personal metronome, our connection to musical beats. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

Listen to your heart. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

Listen to silence between the beats. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

The spaces between the beats are what makes the beat musical. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

Our personal connection between our thinking mind and our physical body. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

Our personal connection to the universe, and our very existence. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

I shift my head and can no longer hear or feel the beat. Sleep prevails in silence. I will forget the sound. I will not pay attention to my heartbeat again until my ear sits on my pillow in just the right way. Or when I vigorously exercise.

My heart will continue to work, to sustain me, to feed my cells with oxygen. I don’t need to hear it for it to work. I don’t need to hear it, but when I do it reminds me of how lucky I am. It reminds of how connected I am. It calms me and reminds me that I am grateful to be alive.

Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

Buh-dub. Buh-dub.

Buh-dub. Buh-dub…

A Dawn Remembered

I wrote this in my late teens, some time before summer, 1986, when I was still in high school.

___

A Dawn Remembered

Early morning I did wake
To gaze across a chilly lake
I then looked to the sky
That dropped a little lonely flake

The cold glistened in my eye
Though the furnace was nearby
My body felt what it saw
It made me shiver where I lie

The morning air, so crisp and raw
In its virginity was not a flaw
So pure and simple the day did start
That for a moment I stood in awe

This admiration is an art
That must come from your heart
This early morning I did wake
To watch this beauty fall apart.

What’s Truth

I wrote this on March 11th, 1985. I was 17. I’m digging up a lot of old writing, and while I find it a bit challenging to do so, I’ll share the poem below without editing it… I think I’d rather have it sit as an old work, not something re-worked because I’d change so much if I started editing now.

A poem by 17-year-old me:
—

What’s Truth

Everyone sees you a different way
Yet you the same from day to day.

You always worry about what they think
You feel paranoid with every blink.

You tell yourself don’t worry ’bout it
But inside you know that’s really shit.

You really worry and that’s a fact
About what they say behind your back.

People say things when not at face
You do the same with them in your place.

So why can’t people just be true
And tell everything right to you.

This separates man, from other life
The ability for words to cut like a knife.

Man is inable to be perfect
Because of feelings of love and respect.

These protect us from each other’s fire
So as not to hurt, we all become liars.

“Do you like my hat?”
“Yes I like it a lot.”
[It should be ripped to shreds and left to rot.]

What purpose was man put on this earth
What are his feelings really… really worth?

He cannot live in full honesty
He won’t care about this humble plea.

You know as you read that this is true
But you ask yourself, “What can I do?”

And it’s at this point that this dream
Starts falling apart at the seams. ~David

David: Did you like it?
Reader: Yeah, it’s kind a neat.
David: The truth…
Reader: …It’s good.
David: thanks?

Stillness

There is a quiet that comes from being still.
A silence felt with settled body and mind.
A calm that seeps in and starts to spill,
Over busy thoughts and plans left behind.

Stillness envelops, quiet reigns.
Heart rate slows, gradually slows.
Nothing bothersome remains.
The quite settles, like gentle prose.

Breaths deepen, eyes close.
Awareness of how the breath flows.

Stillness envelops, quiet reigns.
Only tranquility remains.

The cry of the bird

I wrote this in my Grade 13 year in Art class (‘Early 1986). It wasn’t an assignment, just something I chose to write near some doodles of a loon.

—

The cry of the bird

The beauty of the bird disguises the pain

But it’s call is not heard anymore

Unless you go north where it is slowly but surely disappearing there too

The pain is not that of the individual bird but that of the species

It cries out but nobody listens

The beauty is lost

Who can find beauty in a world of pain

Goodbye beauty

Goodbye bird

Goodbye pain

There is nothing left to feel the pain

Its life is over

The bird will not sing for our grandchildren

There will be nothing but a flying animal that they may some day read about in a book

An illusion on paper

That sings no songs

Feels no pain

Perhaps it may have beauty

But it is not the same

It is not the same.

_____
*Update: A friend sent this to me. I forgot that this poem was printed in our school yearbook.

Crossing the Thin Line

Have you ever noticed that sometimes it feels like the days slip by. You follow a routine filled only with preparing for work, work, preparing and eating meals, your commute, and preparing for the next day? Sometimes there is a thin line between existing and living. This line separates what feels like a Groundhog Day from some simple things that make life great.

—

Crossing the Thin Line

A genuine laugh.

A shared smile.

A deep conversation.

A thoughtful contemplation.

A short walk.

A long reflective pause.

A delicious lunch.

A worthy cause.

A kind gesture.

A little surprise.

A random purchase.

A twinkle in someone’s eye.

It can be internally driven, it can be externally motivated.

It can be deliberately sought after, it can be accidentally activated.

It’s not a chasm to cross, just a simple fine line… Between a day lost simply existing, and a life sublime.