#writingprocess
Started writing it two decades ago,
Using a pseudonym for first/last time,
To protect the guilty and innocent,
In this autobiographical work.
Life got in the way of reliving it,
Work, wife, parents with health issues, now gone,
Back burners full of overflowing pots,
The sands of time quickly sifting through my fingers.
Serious writing projects completed,
A dozen plus books published,
Others yet to come, new lectures to plan,
New courses to develop and to teach.
My story untold, lessons learned unfurled,
But not not written down to pass down my truth,
About things I know much more than I'd like,
And others should learn, in old age and youth.
Place bound for now on an imposed lockdown,
Chained to my desk like galley slaves to oars,
Taping lectures, attending Zoom meetings,
Depression abounds, if not joy or sleep.
So I'm back again, reliving the past,
In memory still green, though browning in parts,
Taking poetic license where I must,
But gently as a child's butterfly kiss.
Nearly nine thousand words today for just,
One day's events that sowed a thousand seeds,
That sprouted, flourished and died or were pecked,
By hungry vultures out of existence.
Remembering a day in my career,
When I still viewed the world with bright, clear eyes,
And had not opened doors I could not close,
Or walked by closed doors I should have opened.
My world and heart were then innocent, pure,
Full of good intentions waiting to burst,
From a chest that could hardly hold them back,
Foolishly thinking they could change the world.
The painful memories I now drown in,
I will not disclose. The pain I've given,
The pain I've received, I'll whitewash away,
To protect myself and those I have loved.
I'll limit my journey to work alone,
Describe what I've learned that others should know,
Weave the personal with transparent thread,
The professional with thickest red yarn.
I'll search for an agent when it is done,
As I'd like it read, unlike indie books,
And I believe it will find a market,
For it will reveal some essential truths.
It will teach much more that all need to know,
Than my life's work: Lectures, books, articles,
Poetry, fiction, blogs, presentations,
Hope I can write it before my life ends.
My sand's running out, tick tock cries the clock,
Hope lockdown provides, end to writer's block.
Author's Note: I began writing my novel under a pseudonym as the first stanza states, but abandoned the idea and published it in 2021 under my own name--the same as my other 16 books that include textbooks, reference books, fiction and poetry collections. The novel is fiction based on my experiences at a time and under circumstances that closely mirror those of the protagonist in the novel, with mostly subtle, minor poetic license for the sake of the narrative (in the novel, not the poem). The undercurrent of criticism of both for-profit and not-for-profit higher education is anything but fictional for reasons explored in the narrative alongside humor, drama, romance and real professional highs and personal lows. The lessons I learned about my personal strengths and weaknesses, about leadership by example, and about the worth of swimming against the current when the cause is just, no matter the consequences served me well in the rest of my still vibrant academic career in other postings as a twice-tenured full professor in private and public universities, and as a division dean, chairperson, and program director. They serve me still for which I will always be most grateful.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 6:37 PM UTC
I've lived in 1987 for the past two months,
Every waking moment and in my every dream,
When sleep would finally come called by exhaustion,
As is still the case although the work is now done.
Idealistic young lawyer,
In his first posting as a dean,
In a for-profit business school,
Naive voice crying in the wilderness.
Worked very long hours,
To change what was wrong,
Achieved great success,
Which all came to naught.
Made friends while tilting at windmills,
Stubbornly refusing to accept,
That which could be changed through simple hard work,
That I believed would make real difference in others' lives.
A classic clash of missions and visions,
Provides the factual drama--theirs, to maximize profits,
And deliver an education at the lowest possible cost,
Mine to be in the business of changing lives for the better.
I implemented meaningful changes,
That brought unintended consequences,
I found unacceptable, and personal conflicts,
That caused me to resign while still on excellent terms.
And I learned critical lessons,
Not just about an industry I did not know,
But about myself, my strengths and my weaknesses,
And about love that brought joy and pain that I can still feel.
I wrote through the night, composed at the keyboard,
Sleeping only a few hours when my vision blurred,
And I could not focus any more around 8:00 - 10:00 a.m.,
Then back to my keyboard and my previous life.
Ghosts long thought buried rose, warm flesh and blood,
Old battles fought anew, old brown paths grew verdant,
Cold cinders rekindled, closed doors opened wide,
Beckoned me to live for a time in what might have been.
Scars long ago faded opened up anew,
The heart cried tears of blood, and fiction,
Much too close to truth flowed onto the page,
Chasing sleep away long after the writing was done.
After two decades of gestation,
I've now given birth to my first child,
The afterbirth has been cleaned,
She is all pink, warm, and oh so cuddly.
I fell in love with her the moment
I stared into her huge, bright, old-soul eyes
Her strong, tiny hand is now wrapped
Around all of my heart strings and will be for life.
Now I'm searching for a literary agent
Sending tiny snapshots of my little girl
Hoping they will love her
But knowing they may not.
If I can't send her off to finishing school,
I will home school her, teach her all I know,
And ready her as best I can to face the world,
Where she may not thrive but will always have my love.
If all goes well, I will give her a sister to play with,
In a year or so if life will allow it,
My heart is large and still has room,
For more wounds to open that only they can heal.
You can hear me read this poem at https://open.spotify.com/episode/6ZXcfWliUSgnQR1htuMPJd?si=d6_tmk_HR7-y2QL9cjBRMw
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 11:19 AM UTC
_To rhyme or not to rhyme_—
that's a question for the next line.
In a figure of speech, a poem is a direct
comparison to how I really feel, think—
it's a metaphor to my pen’s speech.
__Listen:__
I dance with my words, make missteps
through misspellings; I never planned
to rhyme, yet rhythm finds its way
underneath my feet.
My pen — _the poetic device._
Dec 14, 2025
Dec 14, 2025 at 3:49 PM UTC
Not a lot of my
Poems are complete
That is because I
Can’t compete
With those who
Think clearly
Or who construe
Words quickly
Nor those that
wage a war
So as to combat
What’s in their core
No I will not
play to win
as I wasn’t taught
To look within
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 12:01 PM UTC
sometime it is
in the act of writing
that we create the sense
of what we want to say
as if the process of articulation
when we are fishing for the proper words
is generating meaning
inventing itself in its own genesis
leaving the poet amazed
sometimes even the readers
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC