jaredawashburn
I'm a family man and my life is devoted to three things: my wife, my son, and expressing and being true to myself anyway possible. / / I try to write poetry that reflects optimism, celebration of the self, individuality, passionate pursuits, loyalty to loved ones, devotion to the writers who have inspired me, and the powerful existence of life in all shapes, sizes, colors, genders, nationalities, and religions. / / I'm a teacher of British and American literature, Journalism, and Creative Writing at Red Land High School.
Creator, for you are that and more,
Of that precious life unknown before,
We celebrate, clap hands, and shower
With praises, for ‘tis you we admire.
The sounds of your child’s brazen cry
Do not dishearten, but with a sigh,
A breath, of acknowledged encumbrance,
And your power soothes into a trance.
As your child dreams on, you smile
A knowing kind of love, grace and style;
These are your modes of admiration
For the child of your creation.
Be godlike, preserver of nature;
Whenever your child is unsure,
Reassure him with your wit and charm,
Your tender care, to keep him from harm.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
We might all be able to achieve greatness,
But there can only be one greatest.
That title doesn’t include the many.
It doesn’t include the we or the us.
Sure, we can all fight hard,
Take what's coming our way,
Become stronger because of it.
We might be victorious, now and again.
We might hold the trophy over our heads
And shout and scream our triumphs to the crowd
And feel truly, utterly, absolutely great.
But that does not make us the greatest.
The media might herald our names,
Praise us, speak aloud of our greatness.
Others might follow us, love us, worship us,
Wish to be just like us.
Flocks of fans, declaring us the favorite.
But that does not make us the greatest.
We might make millions,
Accrue and accumulate wealth beyond wealth,
Seize land, buy power, pay our way.
Show it all off, the glitz and gleam;
A man makes money,
But the money really, truly makes the man.
But that does not make us the greatest.
We might be consumed by adversity
Yet come out swinging on the other side.
We might beat back all the others,
Emerge with our heads high and our fists in the air…
But that does not make us the greatest.
Who sets the expectations?
Who writes the criteria?
Who upholds the standards?
Who is the greatest?
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
“The blood jet is poetry, and there is no stopping it,”
So the tragic Sylvia Plath muses.
As the heart pumps and beats,
It is the ever-faithful metronome,
The tempo of my life’s song;
My blood flows, pulsating passions
From my center to my extremities.
These passions are best set to words,
Hence the source and origin of
My verse…
So, beat on, heart .
I have more words to share,
I have more passions to experience.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
Up went the roar of the crowd,
Ascending, volumes above, beyond
The everyday murmur of pestering silence.
A futile struggle to withstand its force,
Like a vast wave, rogue and raging,
Slamming nature, a slap in the face of feebleness,
This crowd roars…
Not anger, not anguish, or grief,
But a prideful scream of declaration;
The masses make it known, and known again,
Fists raised, pulverizing the air to a beat
Of human design, of togetherness, of solidarity
In the fight for those like us, a howl,
This crowd roars…
Stampeding feet berate the beaten earth,
Invigorated legs supporting pounding hearts,
To a beat, rolling with the flow,
Energy infusing the soul, encased in flesh, bone, and blood;
Marching onward, forward, processional strides
Declaring and making it known with battle cries,
This crowd roars…
Shouts of proclamation echo the strident resistance
With thunder, earth-quaking, walls crumbling, chains shattering
With thunder, dancing against the discordant system;
Proud warriors raising flags of protest
Amidst the roar, roister, and riots, rising reactionaries
Refusing submission, declining resignation,
This crowd roars…
Bounded together, by blood, by common cause,
Mingling masses of forgotten arise with a vocal
Outcry, intense, pulsing from the core (of us)
Like an infestation, infuriated, a torrent swarm (of us)
Flowing upwards, eroding all obstructions.
Declare, proclaim, announce, request, demand,
This crowd roars…
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
Incessant motion,
Relentlessly back and forth
Each and every day.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
Allen Ginsberg, a raving madman, a man beyond the borders of normal
once said, “Poets are ****** but see with the eyes of angels.”
His ranting howls, mere paradoxical clamorings (LOUDER).
His bootless, penniless, homeless cries, slight nonsensical musings.
His power subdued, his passion put-out, his well of enumerations run
dry…
Can you hear him?
(LOUDER!!!)
Are you even listening?
What do holy angel-headed hipsters like he see?
A myriad of star-crossed artists, poets, gurus, and monks?
A tired and beat batch of street corner hustlers, homeless and hungry?
A drunk in the back-room bar?
A stumbling, shadowy silhouette in the by-street (an enigma...)?
An old man, philosophizing to everyone and no one but himself?
A juke box stuck on repeat?
A young couple, making love with their feet under the table?
A trio of jazz musicians out back for a smoke?
A bar maid making minimum wage, or nothing?
A priest who's losing his conviction?
A down-n-out loner, dreamy, dazed, dashed,
staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass
(who will buy the next round)?
A nosey cop?
A rosey fop?
A belligerent racist?
A beat runaway?
A child begging? (there are so many...)
A fed-up fanatic? (too loud, too loud…)
A would-be protester-rioter-anarchist, giving up and going home?
A giggling girl, flirting, with her skirt hiked high?
A show-off with an inferiority complex?
A shy recluse, too afraid to walk through the door?
A power-hungry politician, his propaganda blasting through the static of
a detuned radio advertisement, paid for by (who are these people?)?
A struggle, never-ending, ever-renewed, always there, always alive,
but only seen through crazy, mad, angelic eyes.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
Who is not, cannot
Be the inspiration of
Those wanting to be.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
I wish you and I could have a chat,
A little talk to put my mind at ease.
I’m going into this without any fatherly advice.
I don’t know what to expect.
All I know is, I want to be just like you.
Will my son say the same thing to me
When he’s about to become a father?
I will try my best (that’s all I can do).
I miss you.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
I praise the reveler, the passer by who stops and shouts and sings.
There is much to revel in and much to sing and adore.
I too, despite my circumstance,
Revel and reveal my self.
My identity screams it, my little soul, being not so little, leaps over the
boundaries leaving behind dust that was once bricks.
Sparks ignite, and more revelers see me and join in.
Ignite, ignite, ignite...the fireworks of myself explode, red, gold, white,
red again, and blue to fade in smoke; a vaporous disappearing act,
met by applause and thunderous recognition, a standing ovation,
reverberating to my very core.
That, too, must fade.
Fade, but not disappear.
The rumble and aftershocks echo and last; myself lasts and lasts...
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
Seeking shelter under the moon,
(pale, grave, unjust)
It seems unfair that we
(the children)
Should suffer by the faults
(too many to mention)
Of those responsible men and women,
(elected or otherwise)
Quick to judge, lax in self-reflection,
(do they care?)
But, whatever the verdict be,
(pale, grave, unjust)
Here we are, alone, starving for remedy,
(sorry, no prescription coverage)
For solace to our weeping wounds.
(physical or otherwise)
Relief of the kindest human nature,
(a helping hand?)
We earnestly need and need and need…
(get a job, slacker!)
The voice of the Salvation Army speaker
(what’s the verdict today?)
Echoes the length of the shelter hall,
(a roof is a roof)
“No beds left, try again tomorrow,”
(bad luck or a curse?)
Over the clamor of hopeful guests,
(which was louder, his voice or the instant
shattering of my hard-pressed heart?)
And he turns, and he goes, and I am out
(the door)
Under the sheen of the moon, again.
(pale, grave, unjust)
One passer by gawks with a phony concern,
(should I ask with extended hand?)
But hastens his pace in planned evasion,
(why bother?)
As if I’m a disease.
(cough, cough…)
The moon looks down with a frown,
(yes, he too is sad)
At his pathetic subject, meager and small;
(where else to turn?)
He is the caretaker of us all, under his glow,
(pale, grave, unjust)
But, he too, will leave us at dawn.
(at the curb, at the end of the line)
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC