I take things personally. It's not just business. Nice counts. Business is done between men and women. People. Everything is personal. Don't fool yourself. Don't take the cop out of thinking you can treat people shabbily and pawn it off on the business. You are as you do.
Enough said.
P.S. I do want to design a T-shirt that says 'All about the nice' -- I am tired of the masses that think that being nice is overrated. What's happened to the world?
Friday, August 21, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
North Wilmot Road
Every year we go on vacation for a week to a family camp in Wilmot, NH. It's mostly with the same families, so we've really created a bond. On the Thursday of the week is the camp talent show. Each year, I write a poem that centers around the camp. The below poem depicts driving down North Wilmot Road and arriving at camp.
North Wilmot Road
We arrive in a caravan of SUVs, the metalic shine cooled by the dust of North Wilmot Road.
Around the last bend, we are welcomed by yawning tiger lillies and a crooked farm house, nodding 'You're home."
We unfold from our cars and hug the hugs of comrades re-united.
The breeze stirs the spicey pine and we break into blossom.
In single file, we shoulder our loads; flip flops crunching in the gravel path. Artists, bankers, students and missionaries.
We are young and old, rich and poor, tendon and bone.
We are pieces searching for a whole.
For precious days, we swim and sing and run farther than we thought we could.
We walk together in dawn's dew-kissed grass and under the stars wonder at the heart-broken loon that wakes the night.
We peer at our children who look different in ways that we cannot yet name.
It is only later we understand that we witnessed our children seeing us differently and a journey just begun.
Time runs away and our hearts fill with sweet longing.
Around the fire, eyes meet and speak what words cannot; of spaces in between.
****************
The problem with vacation is that it ends... now I can only long for the next time. Hope all is well. Write more soon. No work on the novel -- so hard to find time...
North Wilmot Road
We arrive in a caravan of SUVs, the metalic shine cooled by the dust of North Wilmot Road.
Around the last bend, we are welcomed by yawning tiger lillies and a crooked farm house, nodding 'You're home."
We unfold from our cars and hug the hugs of comrades re-united.
The breeze stirs the spicey pine and we break into blossom.
In single file, we shoulder our loads; flip flops crunching in the gravel path. Artists, bankers, students and missionaries.
We are young and old, rich and poor, tendon and bone.
We are pieces searching for a whole.
For precious days, we swim and sing and run farther than we thought we could.
We walk together in dawn's dew-kissed grass and under the stars wonder at the heart-broken loon that wakes the night.
We peer at our children who look different in ways that we cannot yet name.
It is only later we understand that we witnessed our children seeing us differently and a journey just begun.
Time runs away and our hearts fill with sweet longing.
Around the fire, eyes meet and speak what words cannot; of spaces in between.
****************
The problem with vacation is that it ends... now I can only long for the next time. Hope all is well. Write more soon. No work on the novel -- so hard to find time...
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