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Jared A Washburn Jul 2015
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.
A poem I wrote as a gift to my wife on her first Mother's Day (2011)
Jared A Washburn Jun 2015
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?
Jared A Washburn Jun 2015
“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.
Sylvia Plath is a writer I bring up a lot when I teach my Creative Writing class.
Jared A Washburn Jun 2015
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…
Jared A Washburn Jun 2015
Incessant motion,
        Relentlessly back and forth
                Each and every day.
Jared A Washburn Jun 2015
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

Can you hear him?


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.
A tribute to Mr. Ginsberg, one of my favorite madmen.
Jared A Washburn Jun 2015
Who is not, cannot
        Be the inspiration of
                Those wanting to be.
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