Tag Archives: poem

King Pen Since Then 

Before I went into airplane mode
Before I went into airplane mode

Before I had paper. Before I had pen.

I wrapped clouds around my finger. Cotton candy on a stick.
That’s where the habit of me wetting the tip of a pen before I started writing originated.

The sky was my canvas. How I pulled words out of thin air.

My eraser? The wind can be so dramatic. Always a huffing and a puffing when I make mistakes.

But the sun was like a chandelier. It highlights everything great.

I never landed on the moon, but I have rode pass it on my bicycle.

I was caught between a rock and a hard place like E.T.

But when I saw trees covered in toilet paper I knew I made it home.

I put my foot in the door and left it there for an hour before I walked inside.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

I see little yes in the hallway. Big yes in the kitchen. Yes men in the living room.

I know. I know. Some dads go to the store and never come back. But don’t call it a comeback. I’ve been here for years.

It’s just my mind that likes to disappear.



Shout outs:


You Need A Vacation … From Yourself (Public Birthday Post)

Look on the Passport Bear page. This was going to be my my own drawing of the bear holding the passport. It's unfinished because I upgraded my OS in the middle of drawing and Yosemite is incompatible with my Bamboo software. WTF! #Downgrade
Look on the Passport Bear page. This was going to be my own drawing of the bear holding the passport. It’s unfinished because I upgraded my OS in the middle of drawing and Yosemite is incompatible with my Bamboo software. WTF! #Downgrade

Dear Har-old,

Every year, between my birthday in October and New Year’s, I give myself what I call a “holiday period.” For three months, I try not to judge myself quite as harshly as I might during the rest of the year. During my “holiday,” I might have a drink or smoke a cigarette or sneak a bite of fish or stay out too late at a party, even though I know those actions aren’t contributing to how I ultimately want to live my life. But by giving myself that “break,” I’ve found it relieves some of the pressure I might feel during the rest of the year every time I turn down a drink, or don’t order the fish, or leave a party early. So while I might not always be a perfect yogi, or a perfect vegan, or a perfect father, I try not to feel guilty or anxious about the slipups I have during my “holiday,” or frankly, the slipups I have during the rest of the year too. I’ve learned that there’s no value in an emotion like guilt. It’s like empty carbs. They might seem to fill you up at the moment, but in the end they’re going to slow you down.

Remember that from Do You? This concept has been on my mind for a while and I was going to build off this and write this huge post about taking a vacation from yourself, but you need a complete relocation. Move and don’t come back. Not even to pay “Har-old” a visit. As I was brainstorming on how to expand on Russell Simmons’ idea, I started thinking about snakes and how they shed their old skin for new skin to symbolize their continuous growth. Poetry was born. I wrote this for you. It mirrors your current predicament. I hope you like it. Call it Skin I’m In. 

I was between a rock and a hard place
Rubbing my head against the rough surface
My already stretched skin splits from my face
To the noise that makes predators nervous
It’s like taking off a sock inside out
Goodbye parasitic relationship
This new skin will not be your fucking couch
Lived rent free off your host, where was the tips?
Only left when I was watched like a hawk
My fresh new skin symbolizes my growth
Not just physically but mentally sharp
Recognize I’m anaconda in both
Rebirth is something I cannot avoid
Why a snake is my umbilical cord

Happy Birthday!!!

I Love You!



Letter Y

Dear Har-old,

Frank Bettger said, “To become enthusiastic-act enthusiastic. Force yourself to act enthusiastic, and you’ll become enthusiastic.” Fortunately, you don’t have to force the act. Natural. Your enthusiasm is so contagious it affects those around you when you let it be an outward expression. Your enthusiasm works constantly within you. I want to see you get mad and pound your fist with excitement. This poem will help with that. This is another poem I ran across in Frank Bettger’s How I Raised Myself From Failure To Success In Selling. Stanley Gettis repeated this poem almost every morning for twenty years. It helped him generate enthusiasm for the day. This poem was written by Herbert Kauffman and has a good title . . .


You are the man who used to boast

That you’d achieve the uttermost,

Some day.

You merely wished a show,

To demonstrate how much you know

And prove the distance you can go . . . .

Another year we’ve just passed through.

What new ideas came to you?

How many big things did you do?

Time . . . left twelve fresh months in your care

How many of them did you share

With opportunity and dare

Again where you so often missed?

We do not find you on the list of Makers Good.

Explain the fact!

Ah no, ’twas not the chance you lacked!

As usual-you failed to act!



P.S. L stands for loser. The Y is the letter champions resemble when they raise both their arms. Victory baby!


If I Could Just Get Organized!

Dear Har-old,

I ran across this poem by Douglas Malloch while reading Frank Bettger‘s How I Raised Myself From Failure To Success In Selling many years ago. Read it and reread it until you know it by heart. It did something for Frank. It did something for me which means it had to do something for you. So, let it do something for you. You know what that “something” is? That something is self-organization. You have to do a better job at managing Har-old and his time. This letter is continuation of My Butt Itches. Here is Douglas Malloch’s poem:

There may be nothing wrong with you,

The way you live, the work you do,

But I can very plainly see

Exactly what is wrong with me.

It isn’t that I’m indolent

Or dodging duty by intent;

I work as hard as anyone,

And yet I get so little done,

That morning goes, the noon is here,

Before I know, the night is near,

And all around me, I regret

Are things I haven’t finished yet.

If I could just get organized!

I oftentimes have realized

Not all that matters is the man;

The man must also have a plan

With you, there may be nothing wrong,

But here’s my trouble right along;

I do the things that don’t amount

To very much, of no account,

That really seem important though

And let a lot of matters go.

I nibble this, I nibble that,

But never finish what I’m at.

I work as hard as anyone,

And yet, I get so little done,

I’d do so much you’d be surprised,

If I could just get organized!