"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

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Sky, Bar

"Assignment: Write a poem about a place. Use Iambic Pentameter."


The smoke curls into the music’s soft beat,

Crushed plastic cups amidst broken bottles,

Guitars scratch while lights flash on dancing feet,

Swaying as they sing, fair faces mottled.


Sticky air matches sweaty tabletops,

Grimy shoes crunching to midnight’s raw throb,

The next table neighbors taking more shots,

Smell, puke on the floor from Kelly the slob.


This is nothing like your green mountain trails,

Where air is crisp and stars smile not scream.


Vomit or pine straw, ash or fresh gale,

Not vodka, my dear, but taste the pure stream.

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