Write 43 poems about 43 people.

Whenever I am feeling stressed or worn down -
I seek out a place for me to just be,
A place insulated from strife and sad frown
Where I can pull off my mask and be me.
I can close out the world and forget my day
By making lists of life’s happy moments
Or capturing beauty by clicking away
With my camera and some commonsense.

Truth cannot hide from the shutter or the flash
Which reveals the lines hidden by shadow,
Masking the real visage but nothing too brash
Accepting the faults that only you know.
It’s in these pictures that have frozen in time,
An image that tells a true tale not tall,
Words are not needed as though you are a mime,
A photo that’s fit to hang on your wall.

It is in these moments that I find my peace
Letting go of the burdens off my back
And relaxing my shoulders in sweet release,
Cherishing a break from daily attack.
Wrapped in a warm blanket massaging my feet
Soothing my soul from the war just outside,
Healing my fresh wounds of this latest defeat,
Coaxing out my smile I had hid inside.

_{For Julie as a belated birthday present in the style of Ella Wheeler Wilcox, a Wisconsin native poet}

I want to talk about it
but I do not know where to start -
the words that come to mind bounce about
but do not find their place.

I want to be sure you understand
exactly what I want to say,
the meaning clear in both denotation
as well as connotation without bias.

Communication is not the easiest thing
when you cannot be sure you are understood.
You make an attempt, but are never sure
if you have built the right connection.

I am willing to try and try again
because I want to have that bond with you,
but I need you to truly listen to me
and comprehend what I say and mean.

_{For Crunchy Bread who sketched a squirrel for me, in the style of Dave Spicer, an autistic poet who has written about Asperger Syndrome}

The water churns to and fro
Sloshing against the jagged rocks
Tearing at them in a frothy brine
Unsure of where to go

The darkness hides the faces
Carved into the rocks below
Hiding their emotional visages
Without revealing true traces

The rocks crumble under force
Cracks forming beneath the surface
Weakness growing from within
As paths change course

But then a growing brightness shines
As the dawn crests the frothy waves
Illuminating the craggy rocks
Covered with brand new lines

The wrinkles show the stresses
Crinkled near the eyes
Perfection in imperfection
Through living daily distresses

The new dawn brings hope for peace
Through forgiveness of the past
Accepting morning’s gloriful friendship
Sadness now to cease

The lines that trace my face
Remind me of my mother
The way she smiles
When she laughs
The corners of her mouth
Turning slightly
Oh so slightly
Upward forming dimples
That accent the smile
That forms on her face
When she sees me again
After an all-too long absence.
No matter how old I grow
I will always be
Her baby
Like she was
To her mother before
And up my family tree.
I never have to go far
To be reminded
Of my inner child
For all I need do
Is to visit my mother
And I am a child again
Wanting her approval
Needing her love
And always finding it
Waiting
Wanting
Willing.

_{For FrancesD whose birthday was missed this year as a belated gift before she goes on her trip.}

Strong yet witty like a weeping willow
billowing in the wind supporting the child
as he swings on the vines over the babbling brook
convinced of his safety for the tree is firm
and rooted into the ground that pulses
with the life blood as the earthworms plow
paths throughout aerating to allow the bitter dew
a trough through which to flow bringing sustenance
not just to the tree but to all the creatures
of the ground who live for the taste of chewing foil
that crumples yet remains fully capable of protecting
of surviving, of surrounding with love.

_{In the style of Todd Colby for Lisa as a belated birthday present.}

Kim, my friend, don’t be stressed, with all the mess in your life.
Just look beyond the mess.
Just ignore the bitter strife.
Kim, my friend, don’t be stressed.

Kim, my friend, you can fly. I’ll help you organize.
That mess will go goodbye.
It’s order in disguise.
Kim, my friend, you can fly.

You can cleansweep your life.
Figure our what matters to you.
Time to let some things go.
Hey Kim, leave work on time.

Kim, my friend, stick to it like glue. Fly all the mess in your life.
Organized you won’t need a clue.
There’ll be no more bitter strife.
Kim, my friend, stick to it like glue.

_{In the style of Todd Park Mohr (of Big Head Todd and the Monsters) for Kinez as a belated birthday present. Sure he’s a lyricist, but lyrics are poems too right? Stylized on “Blues for Annie”}

L’inquiétude surmonte lui et des tractions subites à son coeur
Ses dents vibrent contre ses ongles comme le rat sonores
Il lutte vaillamment réalisant l’air vainqueur
Emprisonné il est par son hantise comme les esclaves des Mores.

Ses insécurités lavent au-dessus de lui comme un voile de mal
Ses ennuis de côté par de nouveaux amis peuvent être mise
Nous ébrécherons indiquer loin sa force comme une roche en cristal
Dans l’amitié ensemble son courage s’est assise.

_{In the style of Charles Baudelaire for Maxime on his birthday. I apologize in advance for the mutilated French grammar but it’s hard to make things rhyme properly when I’m 20 years out of practice.}

One can move faster
through time. One

can stand still
yet move closer

without moving
closing the distance

between true lovers
separated but for

the drop of a dime.
One can. One

captures another
among their

43 things.
One runs even faster

leading the way
through the thimbles

and sharp briars
of the dangerous

eight-fold path
setting a pace rhythm.

A man can find
his mate

and together
—like olives

and pimentos—make
melodic hymn.

_{In the style of Todd Boss for Fishboy, my pace setter.}

Bon mot pour vous who eats so well
With pic nic art in fear of rain,
Umbrella covers your coxswain,
More food choice gournals to do tell.

Bon mot pour vous who ne’er hath heard
The symphonic sounds of music,
An orchestral analgesic,
To dance the dance of the absurd.

_{In the style of Oscar Wilde for Arsene Lupin on his birthday}

Sweet bacon piled high upon the plate,
Mojitos spilling on the table beside;
The secrets that are shared
Over steamed puddings between spies in a garden.

Sauce so delicate like a floating cloud,
Pools form in a feng shui decadence
Bristling like zombies on parade
Over slivers of homemade organic sweet butter
Like synesthesia for the brain.

_{In the style of Ezra Pound for my shamrock shake Virgo ally}