"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat." Theodore Roosevelt

Monday, October 17, 2011

Poem for my wife

Assignment: Freewrite a poem


Desire, depth of which plucks into my utmost guarded string,

Wholly definition of self I hear in the reverbial melody it booms.

Louder than my name, this cantor I find that I find in all that I sing,

Yet so guarded I hold it, woven deepest into my darkest solitary room.


Knowledge of its name eludes even myself, its captor and creator,

A fear of its power cripples my hands from playing this chord.

Yet, I hear it’s echo afloat in music and mountains, this power greater,

I feel the harmony in union with these and those who too remain unexplored.


Held onto so surely, so rigid and taunt, I slip,

With her, the melody rings loud yet without any sting.

It sings in my laughter, it tastes on her lips,

This defining secret note weaves us together and we sing.


This harmony is not pure, or true, nor real

This chord is alone and searching out her who too sings this tune.

One day when I find you and my chord’s song you steal,

I will join you in concordance, our song at last not concealed.
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