Thursday, April 29, 2021

Poetry is an art form. It allows poets to create images for people to picture life as they see it. 

 

Their words can guide you through a world you might never have imagined. Let them take you on fascinating adventures and . . .

 

 

Treasure The Moments

 

Poetry is the art of putting words on paper, thereby allowing the poet to paint murals depicting life as they see it. The portrait drawn can tug at your heartstrings and make you realize beauty can emerge even out of the rubble of life. Challenged to see elegance where you might never have looked can open your eyes to life’s possibilities and miracles.

 

Love poetry. Appreciate a poet’s work, without passing judgment. Revel in their thoughts and experiences. Enjoy the world’s from which they come and the moments of their lives they commit to paper.

 

Welcome their reflections on family, friends, and community and the privilege of sharing the richness of these intimate revelations. Get a true sense of the importance of loved ones, the meaning of friendship, and the building of community that gives poets the strength to thrive.

 

Be amazed at how they confront life’s issues and delineate creative ideas for change and to overcome obstacles and achieve success. The boldness with which they address their personal challenges will enlighten you and cause you to think about how you could embrace change in your own world.

 

As they delve into times in their life to remember, precious moments surface—the realization of dreams and aspirations and the overcoming of trials and tribulations. Their wonderful lives jump off the paper and draw you into both their past and present, giving you the opportunity to travel with them through time.

 

Sharing their experiences, as they present them in explicit and colorful terms, will add meaning to your life. Treasure these moments that inspire, enlighten and, at times, confuse you, but open your mind to life’s vast array of possibilities. 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, April 28, 2021

April is National Poetry Month. Poems are born from the imagination and inspiration of poets.

 

Through their words, poets guide you on journeys that challenge your mind and touch your heart. Dare to follow these . . .

 

 

Dream Chasers

 

Blending past, present, and future, poets chase a sometimes elusive dream.

Mixing fantasy with reality, fact with fiction, worlds collide, so it may seem.

 

Getting to know others may come from this portrayal—the poet’s point of view.

These word masters often express thoughts, which lead to finding the real you.

 

Seeing is believing—the poet creates images with words, written and spoken.

Dreams come alive. Through these animated pictures, sleeping eyes are awoken.

 

It’s a crime many don’t comprehend and often reject the poet’s word.

In some circles, poetry is ignored or thought to be utterly absurd.

 

Three wishes, at times entwined as one, to learn, grow, and be, flow from the poet’s page.

Opening one’s mind allows access to the tools and wisdom of the poetic sage.

 

A valuable lesson learned may come from heeding the poet’s discourse.

Avoiding these words and visions shaped may prove to be society’s loss.

 

Blending past, present, and future, poets pave the road for achieving life’s dreams.

Dream chasers, all, enticing believers to bask in the sun’s light, reach for the 

    stars, and follow moonbeams.

 

 

Copyright © 2011 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Tuesday, April 20, 2021

Many marriages begin without a hitch. After the vows are recited, love is in full bloom.

 

However, even in the best marriages, the road can become bumpy, as you will see in . . .

 

 

Do You Love Me?

 

Some questions go unanswered. Although frustrating, even sad, this seems to be part of life and, in particular, love. Such is the case in the lives of Max and Martha Slepper. Martha sat on the bed staring off into space. She heard a rustling noise in the bedroom doorway. With a tired look in her eyes, she turned her head and gazed at Max, who just stood there in silence.

 

“Max, you look like you’re lost. You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Just bothered by the reality of life and a question that’s been bugging me. Do . . . you . . . love . . . me?”

“We’ve been married fifty-six years. Doesn’t that mean something? We’ve raised four wonderful children. We have a beautiful house, where we raised the kids—so many good memories. Did you here the buzzer on the clothes dryer?”

“What? I asked you a question.”

“And I asked you one. Did you hear the buzzer?”

“I really don’t care. I don’t know how I’ve put up with you for fifty-six years. I just want an answer to my question. It’s not hard. If you love me, just say it.”

“You put up with me because you love me. Right? You do love me?”

“Huh? I don’t know anymore. I can’t even get a simple answer to my question. I’m going to the kitchen to get a coke. I need a good dose of caffeine.”

“But . . . I love you, Max. Do you love me?”

 

Max didn’t respond. He turned and trudged down the hallway, leaving Martha sitting on the bed bewildered. Her heart palpitated. She wanted to run after him . . . put her hands around his neck and strangle him, for he started this whole thing—not her. Then tears welled up in her eyes, as she whimpered, “He does love me. Doesn’t he?” At that moment, Max appeared in the doorway. Their eyes met, and he muttered, “Yes.”    

 

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Thursday, April 15, 2021

Leadership can be challenging and, sometimes, intimidating. Even the strongest leaders need stability, as they face their patrons.

 

Support is attained in many ways, as becomes evident in . . .

 

 

The Chair Of State

 

The chair

sits empty

at the front

of the room,

stationed

before the crowd.

 

People gathered

mingle,

ignoring

its presence.

 

Not yielding

to this indifference,

the chair

maintains

its post.

 

With the resolve

of royalty,

it displays

both strength

and pride.

 

Then, the leader

takes a seat

upon the throne,

casting a glance

outward

toward a sea

of faces.

 

The chair

sits erect,

poised

and in control,

while the person

fidgets

and tries

to maintain

composure.

 

The throng

of anxious onlookers

awaits

a proclamation

from the occupant

of the chair.

 

With head raised,

the leader

makes eye contact

with the audience,

holding

onto the chair

for courage.

 

Then pushing

upward,

the orator

uses the power

of the seat

to stand erect

before a legion

of followers.

 

Applause reverberates

throughout the house,

as words

of wisdom

spew forth

to those assembled.

 

Once the message

is transmitted

to the avid listeners,

a smile

of accomplishment

appears upon

the speaker’s face.

 

The chair of state,

the seat of power,

becomes stronger

than ever.

 

For while leaders

may wobble,

vacillating,

as they face

the world,

often giving

conflicting information

to the audience

before them,

the chair

of state,

the foundation

upon

which leadership

depends,

continues

to maintain

its stature

in front of the room.

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Tuesday, March 23, 2021

2021 VOICES OF LINCOLN POETRY CONTEST

 

 

Poets wanted. The 17th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest begins in April, National Poetry Month. The contest theme is “If Life Were A Game Show, What Would Poets Say?” Both adult and young poets are encouraged to enter.  

 

Contest Rules and Entry Form can be downloaded here or requested from Alan Lowe, Contest Coordinator, at slolowe@icloud.com.

 


Monday, March 22, 2021

College sports play a vital role at four-year colleges and universities. They create enthusiasm, both on and off campus, and can generate significant income for an institution.

 

Coaches are hired for their ability to win. But what if they don’t? They may be seen as providing a . . .

 

 

Lack Of Direction

 

     I heard talking outside my cubicle. Then a male voice called to me over the top of the enclosure. Looking up, I saw my editor, Frank Warren, a retired pro basketball player, peering over the six-foot high cubicle wall.      

     “Well, Jillian, how’s the piece on Coldby College’s men’s basketball coach’s ‘last hurrah’ coming? His exit from the court last spring, when he announced this fall’s starting line-up, caused some heads to turn. Your article will memorialize the event.”

     “Almost finished. Did some background research, interviewed the coach, and got the whole story—all thirty-three years of it.”

     “Good. Get it to me by the end of the day. We have a deadline to meet.”

     I looked back at the story on the computer screen that I, Jillian Ashe, wrote for Ardent Sports Magazine. The headline, in bold, capital letters read, “LACK OF DIRECTION.”

     Coldby College, a small, private, coeducational institution, located in the little town of Middlebury, population 2,731, sits at the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Northern California. The liberal arts college, named after George Winton Coldby, opened its doors in the fall of 1983.

     Our story begins in the spring of 1984. Coldby had a dream. He envisioned building an institution that would give student-athletes the opportunity to focus on their studies, without the pressure to excel in their sport, a practice they were not likely to find at other colleges and universities. 

     Coldby had a special interest in basketball, as he had played in both high school and college. And so, as president of the college, backed by the members of its founding Board of Trustees, he conducted an extensive search for a basketball coach who could make his dream come true.

     The search produced considerable interest. He received over fifty resumes for the position. However, one stood out from the others—that of Sebastian Jules Rule, a thirty-year-old, with a Ph.D. in Sports Psychology, who also had excelled as a point guard on his college team.

     At the interview, Rule impressed Coldby and the Board with his emphasis on his athletes’ academic achievement at Roseville Academy, a private high school, to such a degree that the college hired him without giving serious consideration to any of the other candidates. It was not until after he accepted the position that Coldby and the Board realized the six years he coached at Roseville had produced just one winning team. However, every player graduated from the Academy and had been admitted to a four-year college or university.

     Rule’s tenure as the coach of the men’s basketball team began in the fall of 1984, the second year of the college’s existence and the year in which he recruited the college’s first team that would debut in the fall of 1985. As the years went by, Rule’s teams more often than not struggled on the basketball court. In his thirty-three years, the team had six winning seasons, made it into the postseason twice, but never won a championship. However, as expected, 92% of his players graduated with Bachelor of Arts degrees, an amazing feat in light of the fact that graduation rates at other institutions didn’t exceed 65%.

     During the latter years of Rule’s “dynasty,” the world began to change. In the summer of 2014, George Coldby became ill, struck by the latest flu bug going around. Early one evening in late August, when all signs seemed to indicate he would recover, Coldby took a turn for the worse. Rushed by ambulance to the hospital, doctors did all they could to save him. However, he died early the next morning. 

     At the funeral, three days later, Board President Jess Wishington whispered to Board member Jordana Wilkes, “Jordana, now that Coldby is gone, things have to change with the basketball team. The alumni are saying the team has had a lack of direction for the past thirty years.”

      “You’re right, Jess,” murmured Jordana. The reason Rule is still here is because Coldby protected him. They both put academic success above winning.” 

     Another Board member, Marcus Garrish, overhearing the conversation, which had gotten louder, chimed in. “Yeah, we have to get Rule before the Board and give him an ultimatum.” 

     “What kind of an ultimatum are you referring to, Marcus?” queried Wishington.

     “Win or else . . . That has to be the new direction for the program.”

     Coldby had stepped down from the presidency of the college two years before his death. Martin Palmer, his Executive Vice President for Academic Affairs succeeded him. Palmer, a bit of a wimp, abided by the wishes and decisions of Coldby. Getting him to move the college’s basketball program in a different direction might not be easy. However, it had to be done.

     On the Monday after the funeral, the telephone rang in Palmer’s office. He picked it up and groaned, “Hello, Martin Palmer here.” 

     “Marty,” the voice on the other end of the line echoed. “This is Jess Wishington.”

     In a somewhat weak, raspy voice, Palmer replied, “Yes, Jess, what can I do for you?”

     “We’ve got a bit of a situation that needs to be addressed, Marty. And it’s pretty urgent.”

     “Situation. Urgent. What are you talking about?”

     “Rule, the basketball team, and its losing ways. We need a winner. We need a leader to provide direction for a ‘winning team.’ So many years of losing has gotten out of hand. We need to give Rule an ultimatum. Win or move on—retire.”

     “But all the kids graduate. Everyone gets a degree. That’s the way George wanted it. That was his dream.”

     “Coldby’s gone, and his dream went with him. It’s 2014. College basketball is all about winning, and we’re not winning. Student and town turnout at games is pathetic. This has got to change.”

     Wishington hung up, leaving Palmer a bit shaken. However, he did succeed in getting him to call a special Board meeting for Friday to let Sebastian Rule know the lack of a clear winning direction would no longer be tolerated.

      When Friday arrived, the entire five-person Board ambled into the President’s Office at 10:00 a.m. sharp and sat down around his huge oval table. It seemed like hours passed, as Palmer and each member waited and fidgeted in anticipation of the coach’s arrival. At 10:15 a.m., Coach Rule came rumbling through the door.

     He stared at the five Board members and President Palmer and blurted, “What the hell do you want from me? The phone message said we had to discuss changes in the basketball program. What changes are we talking about? And why the urgency? For heaven’s sake, we just laid George to rest.”

      “Calm down, Sebastian. We do need to talk, and now is the right time,” Jess said.

     “About what?”

     “The lack of direction of the basketball program.”

     “What the crap are you talking about? The direction has been clear for thirty years. Why do you have a bug up your ass now? Look at my graduation rates. My kids go on to make something of themselves. Stay off my back and let me do my job.”

     “Sebastian, we’ve got to work together. Our fans have stopped coming to our games. We need to get them back, and winning is the answer. You’re no longer a one-man show. You answer to the Board and you’ll do what the Board asks you to do,” Jess snapped.

     “Or what? You going to can me?”

     Jess regained his composure and spoke in a slow, deliberate tone, “In respect to you and your years of service, Sebastian, we’ll give you three years to give us a consistent winner. If you can’t perform by the end of the 2016-2017 season, we will replace you with someone whose goals and direction fit those of the Board and the college.”

     “That’s it? You’re giving me, Sebastian Rule, an ultimatum? You’ve got to be kidding.”

     With a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, Rule, who never sat down during the meeting, glared at the Board members and President Palmer, who had remained silent throughout the inquisition. Without saying another word, he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

     Three years passed and the team’s winning fortunes didn’t change. The college paper, the Centurion, cried out in the latest issue that the basketball program still suffered from a “lack of direction.” It became clear to all concerned—Sebastian Rule had to go.

     Behind closed doors, in early-March, the Board made the decision to dismiss Coach Rule from his position. After notifying President Palmer, the college’s Human Relations Office made the final arrangements necessary to discharge the coach.

     While this was happening, Coach Rule, not known for being stupid, knew the team’s dismal record the past three seasons meant his tenure at the college would soon end. But since he had not been advised that a decision had been made, he believed he might have one “last hurrah.”        

     Since the entire starting line-up would graduate in June, he alone would choose the replacements. So with little fanfare that spring, he recruited the new starting team, which would play next season, with or without him. In doing so, if it was direction his superiors wanted, it was direction they would get.

     When he completed the recruiting process, Rule called President Palmer. The phone rang twice and Palmer answered, “Hello, this is Martin Palmer.” 

     “President Palmer,” Rule stated in a polite manner. “The starting line-up for Coldby College’s 2017-2018 basketball season has been chosen and you need to make the necessary plans to announce their selection.”

     Palmer hesitated and then said, “Coach Rule, maybe this shouldn’t be done this year.”

     “But President Palmer, the college’s tradition has been to introduce the newly recruited athletes to the student body, faculty, and staff at an assembly held in the college’s sports arena in mid-May, the year before they will join the team. It would be a mistake not to do this for next year.” The phone went silent.

     Then to Rule’s surprise, Palmer replied, “Okay, I will make the arrangements.”

     As the crowd entered the arena on Wednesday morning, May 11, the noise level was deafening. President Palmer moved to the podium and addressed the audience gathered before him. “Ladies and gentleman. Please, everybody, please be seated.”

     The crowd sat and quieted down and President Palmer continued. “At this time, it is my pleasure to invite Coach Rule to the podium to introduce the young men who will represent Coldby College during its 2017-2018 “winning” basketball season.

     Applause erupted throughout the arena, but when it quieted down, Coach Rule was nowhere to be seen. Bewildered, the crowd stared at the empty podium. Then Coach Rule, followed by two drummers, marched out of the corridor between the bleachers and stopped in the center of the arena. He bowed to the crowd and moved to the podium.

     Removing the mic from its stand, he bellowed to the masses assembled, “It is my great honor to introduce the ‘new directions’ of the Coldby College basketball program. Please turn your attention to the bleacher corridor to my left.”

     Heads turned toward the corridor and awaited the emergence of the young men who would transform the basketball team into winners. As the players started to enter, the crowd became wild with excitement.

     The coach’s voice resonated throughout the arena, “And now, I give you the future starting line-up for Coldby College. At guard, 6’3” Jaden West. At guard, 6’4” Maxim East. At forward, 6’9” Kareem North. At forward 6’10,” Antonio South. And, last, but not least, at center, 7’1” Benjamin Compass.”

     Then, as he had entered, Coach Rule disappeared down the bleacher corridor, never again to coach on campus, but certain he had left the college with no “lack of direction.”

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Monday, March 15, 2021

The road through life is not easy to navigate. We often struggle to find our way.

 

We draw on the past and envision the future, as we journey . . .

 

 

Toward The Light

 

People have mysteries,

tucked beneath the surface.

 

Hidden treasures known to them alone—

stories of times past, theirs to protect.

 

In the shadows, dreams remain hidden—

desires unfulfilled.

 

They walk a path meandering

through the unknown.

 

Darkness prevails,

cloaking answers they wish to find.

 

Promises made, but not always kept,

adrift in a sea of disappointments.

 

Signs pointing in many directions,

forcing decisions to be made.

 

Truth elusive, they seek their destiny,

and walk alone toward the light.

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Saturday, March 13, 2021

Grandchildren are a special addition to a family. As a grandparent, they bring joy into your life.

 

When they are brothers, they can be quite similar, yet very different at the same time, as is the case with . . .

 

 

My Three Grandsons

 

Some call them a trio, while others say they are “three of a kind.”      

We call them a blessing, one that is often hard to find.

 

The oldest brother is witty, bright, and engaging, too.

He is a challenge to be with, as he may know more than we do.

 

Pursuing his interests in communication and filmmaking,

He will be attending college next year—a remarkable undertaking.

 

The second boy is warm and caring, thoughtful and able.

A conversationalist, with a good sense of humor, he is someone you 

    enjoy having at the table.

 

An excellent student, with his first driver license in hand, he will go far.

He appreciates his wonderful girlfriend and excels at playing guitar.

 

The third, the youngest of the three, can take your breath away.

Smart and athletic, he has a promising future, most would say.

 

At twelve, he is unafraid of speaking about his weaknesses, so it seems.

He uses his courage and strengths to pursue his dreams.

 

We wish for such charm, passion, and ability to be part of our family.

But seldom does our wish come true in a “package of three.”

 

The brothers have earned the praise of their parents, grandparents, 

    and others, as well.

Our prayers have been answered, as the three, the marvelous trio, excel.

 

Their youth has been filled with exciting adventures and accomplishments galore.

Family and friends admire who they are and what they have done, as they look 

    on in awe.     

 

A fantastic future awaits them as they make their way down life’s road.

Yes, they are a trio, “three of a kind,” a blessing to behold.

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Friday, March 12, 2021

Brothers share a common bond. As such, they try to support each other in good times and bad.

 

At times, the right thing to do may be to let your brother stand on his own two feet to address his problems. However, in doing so, you always maintain your . . .

 

 

Brotherly Love

  

I wondered

what my ten-year-old brother had done,

as he sat at the kitchen table

with tears in his eyes,

a pained expression on his face,

and his fists clenched.

He seemed to be muttering

something

under his breath.

 

As I stood in the doorway,

I thought about approaching him,

but the look on his face

frightened me,

so I froze,

and did nothing.

 

Then he started

to bang on the table,

with such force,

it rocked back and forth.

 

“They’re coming to get me,”

he screamed.

“This can’t be happening.

Stop it! Stop it! Now!”

 

I wanted to yell,

“Who is coming?”

But I didn’t have the courage

to do so.

I just remained

silent.

 

Then his eyes met mine.

I started to look away,

but knew

that wasn’t the right thing to do.

 

So I moved toward him,

put my hand on his shoulder,

and tried to comfort him.

He stared at me,

In a way

that made

my twelve-year-old body quiver.

I shook in fear,

expecting the worst.

 

But it didn’t happen,

as I thought it might.

He grasped my hand,

held it tight,

and pulled me toward him.

 

We embraced—

an expression of love

that made us

both feel good.

And then we parted,

without uttering a word.

 

I never asked him

what had traumatized him,

and he didn’t talk

about the incident.

 

Neither of us

told our parents

what had occurred.

We laid the episode

to rest

and went on with our lives.

 

Eight years passed.

I sat beside my parents

and watched my brother,

dressed in cap and gown,

as he walked to the stage

in the high school gymnasium

to receive his diploma. 

 

He shook hands

with the principal,

who handed him

his treasured document,

and walked

off the stage.

 

As he came toward me,

he had tears in his eyes,

a pained expression on his face,

and his fists clenched

around his diploma.

He seemed to be muttering

something

under his breath.

 

Then he dropped the diploma

on the floor

and began to shake uncontrollably.

 

“They’re coming to get me,”

he screamed.

“This can’t be happening.

Stop it! Stop it! Now!”

 

The memory

of that day

eight years ago

returned

in the high school gymnasium.

“This can’t be happening,”

I moaned.

 

My parents sat stunned

at what had occurred.

They clasped hands

and said nothing.

 

My brother’s eyes

met mine,

as they had

at age ten—

pleading eyes,

begging for help.

 

I started

to move

in his direction.

but heard voices,

echoing in my head.

 

“You can’t help him.

And if you try,

you will never

see him again.”

 

“Never?”

 

“Yes. Never!”

 

Unable to move,

I whispered,

“I love you.”

 

Eight years later,

I began

my internship

at Monroe State Hospital

to become

a psychotherapist.

 

As I sat

next to my mentor,

a patient

entered the room.

Our eyes met,

and he murmured,

“I love you.”

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.