Category Archives: Personal Stories

When Writers’ and Artists’ Lives Are Simple

Clouds over blue water

You hear so much yapping about a career in writing and art being a hard life. Shoveling coal for a living is a hard life, but when you are doing what you were put on earth to do with your life–and that is to write or paint–your life is simple, for then you have answered the most crucial questions of all: “What shall I be? “What shall I do? Then you ask, “How do I do it” and that is your craft, that is your art.

My blog is intended for writers and artists. Three million Americans identify themselves as writers. 2.7 million Americans identify themselves as artists. Of course, the blog also reaches millions of people in foreign countries who also identify themselves as artists and writers. To date my blog has been looked at by four hundred thousand writers and artists, the majority Americans, and others from even the least populated mountain and island kingdoms.

 

 An Example of What Happens to Writers as Their Lives Unfold: The Opportunities that Appear

I will use myself as an example of a writer whose career over many years I can describe. It may be of value to writers and artists to compare to their own careers. Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life is my best and my favorite book. It was written to help people. The main beneficiaries of Fighting To Win are discouraged people—broke, out of work, disappointed with their career or life, etc. Fighting to Win lifts them up.

Many people–probably most– struggle to find direction for their lives, but some people know from their earliest years the life, the career, they will pursue. I began writing professionally at eight–$25 for a story published in Jack & Jill. I didn’t know then that eventually in my career as writer I would, as many writers do, evolve into writer/poet/book marketer/public speaker/blogger. I decided on the way home from school on a rainy day that my goal when I grew up would be to be a writer so I could write beautiful words like “lovely,” “sea-faring,” and “proficient.” That goal has never changed through the publications of twelve books that are not self-published.

Ninety percent of a writer’s talent is inborn. That’s why writers needn’t attend the Iowa school of writing, but are generally self-taught. Some writers who write surprisingly well when they are very young are prodigies. There are artist prodigies too that draw and paint beautifully like much older artists. They master perspective when they seem too young to have mastered it .Mozart was a music prodigy, composing at four. Baryshnikov was a prodigy in ballet. He was the greatest dancer of his era because he could leap highest.

An early blooming prodigy can perform something before being taught to do it. For example, a young writing prodigy can write a story that has a plot, characterization, themes, tension, mystery, a strong conclusion though they have not been taught those features. The remaining ten percent of a writer’s expertise is skill and technique that comes from study, a ten percent separating great from good, and a phase that introduces the need for hard work, even among the most naturally-gifted.

As in every field, sweat-and-toil hard workers out-perform  lazy or listless workers. You cannot rely on natural talent alone to bring high success. Without drive and intelligence–however naturally talented you are–you will not go as far as you could.  Each day writers and artists should hope they have talent and tell themselves. “Today I will be energetic. Today I will be focused.”

A career in the arts is in keeping with my Welsh heritage. The Welsh entertain each other with stories and songs. I completed three degrees in American literature and taught Self Development in a university graduate school. At age twenty I had a short story published in a major literary journal. At twenty-one, a highly-regarded writing teacher said of my paper, “Teachers wait their entire career for a student who can write like this.”

I knew nothing about publishing and sent the entire manuscript of Fighting to Win to a publisher who called me and said they wanted to publish the book. I asked what kind of changes they wanted made and they said, “None. The book is a perfect book.” That statement soured me. Surely no book in first draft form is that good. I wanted a more demanding publisher who would encourage me to write my best. I turned the offer down. Having some doubts about the book I wrote an entirely new draft, starting from scratch, consuming a year.

I made an agreement with an excellent literary agent. I owe him a debt of gratitude.  He was energetic and honest, and placed my book Fighting to Win with Doubleday. After the success of Fighting to Win, another publisher said they wanted me to write a book for them. “What do you want me to write about?” I asked. They said, “Whatever you want.” So I wrote Waging Business Warfare for Scribner’s publisher, a book that The Wall Street Journal said would change the way companies do business. Both books climbed the best sealer charts. Fighting to Win was also a best seller in Sweden. Waging Business Warfare in France and Japan.

Writer or artist, you have to distinguish yourself from the crowd. You have to get known.  I’ve had many appearances in the national media on publicity tours and on my own. The books and my name became known in North America and foreign countries who purchased rights. I discovered that I am a good interviewee for marketing books, which is really sales. I have trained people in selling technique. The goal of a writer marketing to the broadcast media is to be invited back. Ideal is when the host of the show says “Call whenever you have something you want to talk about. We’ll put you on right away.”

Having written a book that becomes known by the public changes the author’s life forever. If you’re an author you’d better like the book since you and it from the publication date to the end of your life will be inseparable. You will be known as “So and so, the he author of….”   

A New York publisher, I didn’t know, head of a major house who “had read everything,” generously called me out of the blue to tell me  she had read Fighting to Win and found it “One of the  two or three best books of any type–prose, poetry, biography, history, arts etc.–I have ever read.”

Then I took on a new career: public speaking in auditoriums in North America and Europe to audiences of thousands about their self-improvement, based on the content of Fighting to Win. I discovered a talent for public speaking to large audiences that I wasn’t aware of. Long ago I was afraid of public speaking, but now I enjoy it as much as I do writing, and the income is impressive. Many speakers/writers earn more money from speaking than from writing.  The writer who can also speak is lucky. It is quite a shock to writers accustomed to working alone to find themselves on a stage addressing three, four, five thousand people who have come to hear an author’s wisdom.

Later I began this blog, designed to stimulate thinking about the important roles of writers and artists, especially those who hope to excel, a goal I share, placing emphasis on research and prescriptive how-to advice.  I wanted to think of every aspect of writers’ and artists’ work life and write something practical to aid them. Each blog is an essay pertaining to the life of writers or artists–their necessary knowledge, their moods, their challenges, their discouragements, and so on. My most popular post is “The Characteristics of Creative People.” There are now 141 essays.

A major change in this writer’s life was turning, later in life, from writing prose to writing poetry. Since then there has been a stream of publications of poems and great joy. I wrote a book of poetry about  adventures I had at seventeen when for six months I lived the life of a hobo hitching rides on freight trains: The Poetry of Riding Freight Trains Across America.

Philip Roth said eventually people won’t read novels anymore because with such busy lives, growing busier, they don’t have the many hours needed to read a novel. A poem can be read in a few minutes.

Gold and white clouds on a blue sky

In Bliss

When you spend thousands of hours working hard over many years as many writers and artists have, and think of your craft all the time since childhood, writing and painting and other arts are the simplest  tasks of your time here on earth. Dancers find a similar joy in dancing, actors in acting. When unhindered, such craftsmen write, paint, act, and dance in bliss.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

Fighting to win Amazon

Click on book image to order from Amazon.com

or

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fighting-to-win-samurai-techniques-for-your-work-and-life-david-rogers/1119303640?ean=2940149174379

 

Order Waging Business Warfare: Lessons From the Military Masters in Achieving Competitive Superiority

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or

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Filed under Artists, Developing Talent, Human Potential and Achievement, Fame, Fighting to Win, Motivation, Personal Destiny, Personal Stories, Public Speaking, Publishing, Right Livelihood, Writers, Writers' Life

Writers and Painters Are Inspired by Spiritual Moments

I think every writer and every painter has been inspired by rivers or mountains or valleys or such sights of the natural world. This post tells the tale of a bird.

Blue mountains with trees, cloudy sky, river and grassEvery writer and painter has in their memory at least one moment and one thought or image that captures their imagination and provides inspiration for their work. Every writer and every painter reading this post remembers such a scene and such a pristine, unforgettable moment that occurred in their youth, middle age, or old age.

They return to the scene innumerable times in their imagination where a storehouse of words and images are kept because that scene and that moment are breathtaking. However long they walk the earth they will never forget that day, that moment.

Spiritual Moment: Bird Rising From a Field

I was out in western United States, 1,500 miles from home. I had been thumbing car rides and boarding freight trains starting from my Midwest home in Chicago. From travel I was filthy with dirt, dust, grease, and cow manure from box cars, flat cars, and coal cars, and why should I care? I wasn’t trying to win the heart of a lovely dark-haired girl with a captivating smile. I was alone and I was on the road where you rely on your brains and your luck under circumstances when life is arduous.

I don’t remember where my traveling buddy Nick was, but he was not with me. He might have gone on to New York. I don’t remember because it was a long time ago. We were seventeen, just out of high school, in a period of a few precious years when we humans have a hunger for experiences we’ve never known because we are granted the pleasures, the adventures, and the intrigues of life so briefly.

The Bird’s Ascent

For a long time as I waited for a ride from the first car to stop there was no movement anywhere in sight–just total stasis, and no cars on the road at the moment I saw the bird. There were no sounds, just silence. I felt no loneliness as you often feel on the road alone, and no fear at all though I was far from home and young and had a treasure of only four dollars in my pocket to sustain me. Where would I eat and sleep tonight? Tommorow night?

The world of riding freight trains is dangerous, populated by many dangerous men you learn to be aware of. If something were to happen to me and I were to die in this unforgivable way of life no one would ever know what happened to me. My parents would grieve for their lost boy the rest of their lives. But I felt safe there that day; every feature of that day was perfect: a perfect day. The setting around me was like a painting–there were fields of unmoving wheat as far as I could see that were gold in the sunlight, the sky an indigo blue. The purest white puffy clouds drifted westward on a breath of wind.

Behind me and to my left there was a crackling sound and the cry of a bird. I immediately turned and looked in that direction. It was a big bird, larger than a hawk–pitch black in color, the wings shiny–with bright vermillion on the underside of the wings. The bird rose slowly out of the field, its wings fluttering noisily as if crying to the wheat, “Let me go. Let me out.”

field of wheat in front of a row of trees in the background and a light blue skyThen there was a sound of a wind thrashing the wheat fields, rippling the fields in great waves like breakers tumbling upon a beach. Looking, listening, alone, no fear, feeling joy, free, that was the loveliest moment in my life. Only I had seen the bird. There was no one near enough to see it, only I–the bird with the flaming red wings coming from out of the field against a background of no other movement but the wind-blown fields, and no one else on earth to witness its flight.  I now in a car bound for California saw in the bird the beauty that from childhood a writer is always hoping to convey in their writing, the beauty a painter always hopes to paint.

Here is my poem that is inspired by that bird:

Mystical Bird

I admire rising from the field before me
A magnificent black bird whose wings open wide
And show a brilliant vermillion on the underside,
That shrieks with delight as it takes flight.

To live as happily as I wish I might
My soul must be
As a bird that rises joyfully
From fields of gold.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

Fighting to win Amazon

Click on book image to order from Amazon.com

or

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fighting-to-win-samurai-techniques-for-your-work-and-life-david-rogers/1119303640?ean=2940149174379

 

Order Waging Business Warfare: Lessons From the Military Masters in Achieving Competitive Superiority

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Four True Close Calls

My Life in Jeopardy Again

I’ve had numerous close calls,
Starting in childhood when the fire
Department rescued me
And the neighbors stood
On their porches and cheered,
Then being saved from
Falling off a mountain cliff.
Then many other close calls that make my
Wife shudder to hear me talk about.
I could write a book about close calls.

 

When You Grow Up In Chicago

Chicago is the home of great
Financial institutions and universities, but
City at nightWhen you grow up in Chicago as I did
You coexist with gangsters. You know their
Names and nicknames and you
Read the papers about them and hear about
Them, or they live in your neighborhood.
Chicago is the city of neighborhoods.
I dated a famous gangster’s sister–a lovely girl–
But her family lived in shame. Her brother was
Slain because he double-crossed other gangsters,
His body found bullet-riddled as double-crosser’s
Bodies usually are.

 

Here are four close calls I’ve had.

 

In a North Side Chicago Bar at Two A.M.
Gangland Killer

In the bar at 2:00 A.M. on the fading
End of a magnificent summer night that had been warm
But turned pleasantly cool like a breath of October
Were four people who had nothing in common:
A waitress, a bartender, a drunk man, and I.
The waitress and I were twenty-two or three then,
She was pretty, her complexion as fresh as clover.
Her periwinkle blue eyes made you recall a sky you once saw.
Both of us were as care-free as the magic of our youth,
She younger than wherever her life would lead, I not yet
The writer I would soon be. We never knew each other’s name.

She was fearless when she said to
The surly drunk man everyone all night had been afraid of
And kept their distance from because he seemed to be
A dangerous man, “Sir, I can’t serve anyone who has
Had too much to drink. Do you understand? ”
She had manners. She was a nice girl.

The drunk man then spit in her face and I
Went over there and chastised him, saying to him
That he must apologize to her,
That in civilized society you don’t spit on people–I said,
“That’s something everybody’s supposed to know,” and he
Cursed me and growled that he now intended
To kill me.

Pissed, I stood in front of him and said,
“Go ahead pull out a gun right now
And shoot me.” He cursed me again and furiously
Stormed out the front door. Then the bartender
Said to me that I had picked the worst possible man
To antagonize: “When he said he would
Kill you he really could. He is a murderer.
He tortures and kills people. That’s what the man does.
That’s his profession. This is serious.
He’s in that car at the curb waiting for you to
Come out. If I were you I wouldn’t plan on
Living a long life.”

The waitress and I hugged goodbye, never
To see each other again, then slipped
Out the back door and down the dark alley
Laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation–
“How will we explain this to anyone?”–
Running for our lives.

 

Freight trainWhen I was seventeen I rode freight trains across America for six months for the sake of adventure, living the way hobos live, and had close calls daily, my life continually at risk.

 

 

Nature’s Cruelty:
The Bitter Cold of Night

Cold settles savagely on Utah’s
Great Salt Lake desert late at night.
I had reached the desert by freight train
After a scorching day,
The red sun pulsating in the sky
Like a throbbing heart. The temperature then
Fell precipitously. Then there was an ice storm.
Then nothing to warm me, exposed to the open air.
How in the unspeakable cold of interminable night I suffered,
Hoping not to freeze to death by morning and be
Found in a boxcar as stiff as a six-foot plank of wood,

 

Shot at, Chased By Dogs

When my freight train reached Kelso-Longview
The railroad police were waiting,
Holding the leash of a German shepherd
In one hand, waving a gun in the other.
Shouting and running, I, youngest, running fastest,
Hobos leaped or fell from the cars and dashed
In every direction, chased by the cops
Firing their weapons everywhere.
As I ran I laughed at how out
Of my element I was, far from Chicago, and how ludicrous
The whole scene must appear–a hundred
Running hobos and bulls, men firing revolvers,
Other men praying not to be shot,
Ferocious dogs snapping at my heels,
Shots grazing my head.

 

Milk: The Ordeal of Thirst

The freight train we caught hadn’t stopped
Going on three days and our canteens
Were empty. We were worried about water.
We had never been as thirsty.
We were losing hope. How long can a
Human live without water? When would
This train stop, free us, and let us live?

I fell asleep in the heat and dreamed
That I opened the refrigerator
At home and saw every shelf loaded
With bottles of milk.

Waterfall with water that looks like milkThen in a second dream
I saw waterfalls of milk spraying
And roaring down like Victoria Falls–
Streams of milk, rivers of milk–

An ocean of cold milk. My friend asked if I was
Still alive and I answered that I was.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Milk.”
“Milk?”
“Milk.”

The train stopped
And I jumped off onto ground.
I found a providential water pump
And filled our canteens–the
Stream of water from the pump
Pouring over my boots.
We drank the foul tasting
Egg water and found it life-saving.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

Fighting to win Amazon

Click on book image to order from Amazon.com

or

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fighting-to-win-samurai-techniques-for-your-work-and-life-david-rogers/1119303640?ean=2940149174379

 

Order Waging Business Warfare: Lessons From the Military Masters in Achieving Competitive Superiority

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More Gentle Poems by David J. Rogers

Here are a few of my recent poems on the theme of gentle poems in a troubled world.

 

Moonlight and Ice

Driving alone, not feeling lonely, I thought of the
Obligations fathers and their children have to each other.
I thought of the Japanese word On, meaning our duty,
What we owe. I was headed to the Mississippi River
Before dawn on a cold December day. Along the road
Were patches of ice, dark farm houses–everyone
Sleeping–frozen lakes, and small icy ponds.
Walking out on the sheet of ice that the Mississippi
Had become I reached a place visible in the moonlight that
I thought was right and I kicked a hole in the ice for the ashes.
No one in sight, I said a prayer aloud for my father.
How grief blurs one’s eyes and clutches one’s throat.
The sun came up as if it had risen like a golden flower from
Out of the earth. Then the landscape grew bright, ice glittering
In sunlight.

 

Pitch Black Nights

There are nights so dark
Out here on this mountain top
I can’t see anything.
But the air is alive with
Sounds I lie back, listen to, and try to identify.

 

One Day’s Peace of Mind and Heart

Could I have but one day’s peace of mind and heart
I would choose this lovely fall day with Diana.
The colors of the crowns of autumn’s trees
Are so brilliant today as to open our eyes from sleep.
As light in weight as a maple leaf a south wind
Brushes across the surface of the lake we played in
As children, rippling the water, ringing a red
Sailboat’s bell. Over us now fly six gulls
White as lilies. Their shadows cross Diana’s face.
Everyone agrees her face is beautiful,
And her gray-white-silver hair is beautiful, and
Green eyes, and the appeal of her voice, so soft,
The appeal of her kind, endearing thoughts, the appeal
Of her every quality–these things overwhelm me.

 

Images of Natural Life While Walking Through a Forest with a Friend

In the underbrush along the path we followed grew
Morning glories, wild flowers, lilies of the valley, azaleas, and
Asters. In the trees above, squirrels preened on their hind legs,
Then sprang and leaped from branch to branch. A nervous chipmunk
Made its departure into the lush chipmunk world.
A small female white-tail deer waited courteously for us to pass,
A puzzled expression in her bulging eyes, and then bounded
Free as a wind across the path. We were so close we could touch her.
Then a full-grown, majestic male with more serious eyes appeared,
Strutting across the path as though a banker.
Grasshoppers still damp with morning dew dried themselves
In the sunlight and we took care to step around them.
A yellow finch, its head bobbing, chirped sweetly. Insects
Squabbled in the air. The fragrance of clover
Was everywhere.  A wind swept across the river in front of us.
The leaves of the trees seemed to whisper.

 

Going Home the Last Time

I will go back now to where I grew up,
The place and the people,
Arriving as the sun
Sets in a perfect pink and orange sky
Above the church where my father sang.
I will smell working-class six o’clock meat and potato dinners
Down the streets and pause to watch hawks circle above
The chimney of my house
Just as another generation of hawks did in my youth.
Neighbors will trudge home from work, in no hurry, quiet,
Alone or in twos and threes with their
Crumpled lunch bags folded in their hand.
Then before leaving forever, I will sit on the stairs
Of my long-ago home listening to crickets in the hedges
Chirping their praise of summer nights.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

Fighting to win Amazon

Click on book image to order from Amazon.com

or

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fighting-to-win-samurai-techniques-for-your-work-and-life-david-rogers/1119303640?ean=2940149174379

 

Order Waging Business Warfare: Lessons From the Military Masters in Achieving Competitive Superiority

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Writers Write About Things that Happen to Them

Hourglass in front of orange cloudsGiven the gift of exceptional powers of memory, writers never forget so that they might write years later about events that compose their lives.

 

My Youth:

The Night Racer of My Childhood

I have not forgotten a strange boy who on summer nights
Appeared standing tall and stiff on the pedals
Of his bicycle and silently raced up and down the street
Where I lived, a puppy in a paper bag in the basket yapping.
As he rode the street an eerie train whistle blew plaintively
Although there were no tracks and no trains anywhere near.
The superstitious thought the whistle the cry of archangels.

 

Ice Cream Man

A bevy of children
Proffering handfuls
Of nickels and dimes
To the wizened Ice Cream
Man in exchange for
A delicious bar thickly crusted with
Brittle dark chocolate
Or nuts,
Or both.

 

Giant

Giants are heroes of children.
Every child would like to have
Their own giant, one who drives a car
From the back seat,
Long arms holding the steering wheel,
Long legs reaching the pedals–
A substantial giant.

When I was a boy in Chicago a giant
Sat in the seat next to mine in church
And we talked and I liked him.
He is cited in
The Guinness Book of World Records
As earth’s tallest person.

There is a replica of him
In the wax Museum in London
That I visited, and when I stood
Close to it, I seemed back years before
In church with Mr. Koehler
Towering eight feet two inches.

 

Childhood: A Period of Summer, Sunlight, Flowers

Morning Glories

Sitting on the window sill
Watching people
Exchanging stories
Over white and purple
Morning glories
Growing wild among clover
On the flanks of the hill

 

Jobs:

Public Speaker: Trippingly off the Tongue

I have come far from high school
When I was terrified to give a speech–
So full of fear.
Now I speak to audiences of thousands–
Eight thousand in Paris–and when I finish
They stand and applaud, a shy
Boy who now, a man, has no fear of public
Speaking whatsoever–no nerves –only pleasure, joy
Speaking artfully and addressing audiences that want
To know what I am thinking.
I feel I have accomplished something.

 

Professional Writer:

The Object in the Streetlight: A Writer’s Birth

Working so hard on abstract
Problems–being so sick of them that
My brain ached, I, troubled, anxious, going out
For a walk alone, without my lady love,
Hoping that the cool late night air
Might be therapeutic and could clear
My thinking so that I might decide
Calmly if a writer’s life could provide happiness.
Near the beds of flowers, flat on the pavement–showered
In the white light of a street lamp–was a single
Object which I picked up from the ground:
A book–of all things a book–
The symbol of the life I had been avoiding. I had to laugh.

I then felt this book I had found, which some person had lost
Or angrily thrown to the ground,
Had been purposefully intended for me
By the ineffable wisdom of the stars, by good fortune,
As a sign, a portent, a clue, a key.
And that what this epiphany of the book
Meant was that I could not escape my pre-
Appointed destiny that suited the architecture
Of my genes, the juncture of talents, gifts, desires, qualities–
Not striving to become any of the five thousand entities
Others are suited to be, but that are alien to me,
Becoming thereafter one thing alone–a being gluttonous of words,
A writer-poet-orator-essayist-teacher–a fish content,
Self-possessed, without further anguish,
Swimming in seas of language.

 

Business Traveler: People You Meet When You Travel For Work

Woman of the Night

If I tell you that in the hotel elevator
At two a.m. she touched my arm and said,
“I’ve been looking for you all night”
In a sweet voice and with a friendly face
You would have an idea of her lonely
Profession, but no idea what kind of
Woman she was, nor how pretty.

 

Flight Through a Storm

The plane seated only four passengers,
Two businessmen, a writer, and a nun.
Before we left the ground
I asked the pilot how it was “up there”
And he said “The winds are very bad”
And I knew I was being a fool and
I shouldn’t fly that day. But I was in
A hurry to get home. The plane was
Thrown about in the wind like a toy and
We were all scared. The nun was clutching
A crucifix and whispering prayers. She asked
Would I please hold her hand and promise her that
We were not going to crash. I took her hand
And promised. The winds soon died as though
They were exhausted, and we four–friends now–
Left the plane in good cheer.

 

Soldier: The Trains of Fort Jackson, 1965

There were long trains and some days and some hours longer still.
They came into U.S Army Fort Jackson, South Carolina round the clock,
Carrying young soldiers who were sent there to learn to fight
In the jungles of Viet Nam.  Their families lay behind them
In the cities, farms, and towns of the South. They stood at the open
Windows of the trains, the wind troubling their hair, their eyes large
With astonishment, trying to comprehend the enormity of
What they were about to face.

 

Family Life: Children and Their Fathers

I thought as all children think of their fathers
At that age that he was a great man. He had
Made a life out of little achievements that
Were magnificent to me–had made a paper
Weight, had painted a wagon, could change a tire.
Then he felt he had done something, and so did I,
A man who would live in anonymity, do the best he
Could, be remembered a little while and forgotten,
A father like every other.

 

Grocery store clerk at twelve: Lyric for Angela

At seventy-five cents per hour
I am a twelve year old
Professional bagger of cans
Of pineapples and tomatoes,
Weigher of potatoes,
Stocker of shelves
So the labels artfully frame
For the customers’ eyes
The Gerber baby,
The Scott tissues,
The orange carrots,
The vivid green peas.
When I am near Angela,
The dark-eyed store owner
Who favors me
My heart beats faster.
I cannot breathe
When I am near Angela.
As she works she sings.

Her spirit enfolds and singes me
As with hot tongs.
She smiles with
Such sweetness, gentleness,
And goodness she breaks my heart.
Her hair, her voice, her hands, her
Presence bring
A quality into my life
Which I know to be love.
My youth is purer,
My memories more
Lasting because of her.

Angela’s husband is awful
To her and treats
Her cruelly.
I vow that one day I will
Whisper to Angela,
“Why don’t you run away?”
But I fear she will not
And that after I have gone
To high school and college
And am grown up
She will still be heard
Singing in the aisles
Of this little store
Like a bird in its cage.

 

Adolescence: Racers

My father drives the family
To the beach, parks, and then
Says “Go,” and he and I race.
We race from the car to the sand
Where the family will happily
Spend the afternoon in the sun.
He always wins the race because
He is a racer and much older and
Stronger and faster than his son.

But I am a racer too, and through
Those years of finishing second I
Am growing stronger and faster,
And when I am fourteen I beat him.
Running that race we are even
And then I pull ahead. A strange thing
Happens:  as I approach the
Sand, I don’t want to win. I don’t want
To beat him. I slow down so that he will win again.

When we stop he says, “You needn’t slow down, son.
You are a faster racer than I am now.”
I never forget those words or that race.
I go on to win many races and set
Records, win trophies, medals, and ribbons.
I achieve more in racing than he ever did, and
Perhaps more in life than he did, but in
His prime and my youth he was
A racer who could beat me.

 

At the age of Seventeen riding freight trains across America with a friend for six months and writing about our adventures.

Setting Out

Nothing in this world will burden me.
Fields of crops out to the horizon.
Breathing in winds that rejuvenate like milk.
Waving to hikers come out from the city.
We can go east or west, south or north,
Not caring in the least where we are or where we are bound,
Through experiences we are not accustomed to, some dangerous,
Discovering what we are made of. We will climb onto boxcars
And jump off a thousand miles away and ride the lines with
Strangers with their lives to tell us about, relying on luck to take us
On adventures we will remember forever.

 

Shot at, Chased by Dogs

When our freight train reaches Longview-Kelso,
The railroad police are waiting,
Holding the leash of a German shepherd
In one hand, waving a gun in the other.
Shouting and running, we youngest, running fastest,
Hobos leap or fall from the cars and dash
In every direction, chased by the cops.
As Nick and I run we laugh at how out
Of our element we are and how ludicrous
The whole scene must appear–a hundred
Running hobos and bulls, men firing revolvers,
Other men praying not to be shot,
Ferocious dogs snapping at our heels.

 

Family Life: The Death of My Young Sister

Until I die I will feel the immense weight
Of grief for you, and now you are gone
I ask your forgiveness for any sadness
I ever caused through thoughtlessness or selfishness;
And wish you to know that I intended
No harm and am so terribly sorry.

 

Late Middle Age: Age: Going Home After Long Absence

I will go now where I grew up and visit
The people I miss the most–
My sister Sharon, my parents,
A few friends, all gone now.
I will arrive in the evening as the sun
Begins to set at the end of the street
Above the church where my father sang.
I will smell working class dinners and
Watch the night hawks circle above our chimney.
Neighbors will come home from work.
Children will put their bikes away.
I will remember my younger self running a race
To the corner by the mailbox and back.
(Whenever was I not running?)
Then I will sit on the stairs and listen
To crickets in the hedge chirping
Their praise of summer nights.

 

Romance, Love

“Meeting Diana”, Knowing in an Instant I Would Marry Her
I saw her across the room
And put down my book and went to meet her.
Her name, my name.
Black hair. Green eyes.
Elegant. Exquisite. Young.
The most beautiful woman on earth.

 

Lady With No Needs

D’elia–the self-sufficient
Lady of twenty-five–my age too–
Who has no desire for wealth
Though she is not rich,
And although the most pleasing
Rendition of a beautiful woman–
The eyes, hair, breasts, and face of a beautiful woman–
The mystic bearing and mood of a haunting woman,
Her skin’s softness and its shades, her lingering perfumes
She has no interest in applause, the stage, or film,
Which might be her professions had she wished,
But prefers a life untainted by fame,
And has:
No need of friends. Without friends she is not unhappy.
No need of a father at home in Dallas who disparages her,
No need of a husband she has no feelings for,
No need of anyone, but has never felt lonely.
She has no need of me,
But when I leave her, her lips tremble.

 

Greenwich Village

I saw you
Looking at me
Knowing I had
Looked at you,
No chance ever
To see you again
Or you to
Look at me again
With your enticing eyes,
You who had I
Known long ago
I would have run
My finger over
So carefully
And cupped
In my hand
Like an orchid.

Beauty Beyond Words

Whenever I see Sidney she
Steals my breath. Walking,
Her lithe body sways and
The sun shines bright on her wild, black,
Stormy-looking hair, engendering in me
A sense of her sophistication, and not coldness,
But rather inaccessibility, delicacy, refinement,
And intelligence. For that’s the impression
Women whose beauty is beyond words make
Upon me.

Unfathomable, Troubled
Unfathomable,
Troubled,
She entered
My life so
Suddenly
And I hers
That
Neither was prepared.
Three unexpected
Years together
Seemed a moment.

 

Pretty Ballerina

You danced
For me alone
So beautifully
Pretty ballerina.
Would you
Dance for me
Again
Were I to ask?

 

In the Company of the Most Beautiful Girl

We stopped for coffee one night in a little café
Up in North Platte, Nebraska. Outside it was
Cold and gray. We went inside, out of the rain,
And sat at the counter and waited for service. In a few minutes
We saw the kitchen door swing open and a waitress
About our age come out. She poured our coffee
Carefully, biting her lower lip, her finger on the top
Of the pot, not looking at us, and our eyes large,
We watched her closely. She had long, lovely-shaded
Amber-colored hair that flowed like oil and tossed from
Side to side. She smiled so gently, so exquisitely, that
I was numb. It was my opinion that she was the most
Beautiful girl we had ever seen in our lives and Nick
Agreed.

We stayed as long as we could just to look at her and
Be around her. When we paid up and left at closing time
We said goodbye to her, regretting we would never see
Her again, and she blushed and smiled at us in a friendly
Way, her eyes bright. We were warmed by the sincerity
With which she said, “Good luck, boys.” The thought of
Her would make us happy for a long time.

 

© 2024 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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Gentle Poems in a Troubled World

by David J. Rogers

 

A Writer Loves to Work:

What has night to do with sleep
When you are a writer?

 

As I Lie in Bed at Night

I lie in bed listening.
Soon the sounds
White and blue coffee cup and saucer near a windowOf spoons against coffee cups
And the low drone of speech
From the kitchen cease
And my parents go to bed.
I hear the whisper of
Their slippers in the hall.

Of my family I think in my child’s
Way they are all of them–each of
Them–good people, devoid
Of malice, and I am fortunate to be
Among them.
Why have I been so favored?

“Whoever you are please treat us kindly.
Spare us please from pain or
If sparing us is not possible so apportion
Suffering so that none of us is asked to bear
More than we should be required to.”
I fall to sleep. I dream.

 

Swimming in Space

Nightly, I have been swimming in space,
The safest, serenest place,
Stroking through eternity
Gracefully, smoothly, effortlessly,
Since childhood.

Alone,
Far beneath what’s above,
High over what’s below–
Towers and cities and rivers and seas–
Gusts of silver wind I breathe.

Content, blissful,
I leave my body behind
And float as aimlessly as air
I am the air,
No destination in mind.

I am as free as I think
It is possible for me to be.
I am immortal.
I am beautiful.
I will pass this way again.

 

Butterflies, Flowers, and Lovers

Green and brown butterfly on a leafButterflies, you and I,
Fluttering over gardens–
Our little world–
From flower to flower
In search of that one who is to us,
Though perhaps to no one else,
The loveliest flower,
And when we find that lovely flower,
Then we are content forever.

 

 

 

One Dog, Two Cats, a Squirrel

My dog and cats are dead now
But the squirrel who loved them
Comes every morning to sit on the fence,
Expecting them.

 

Night to Day

The solitary moon glows,
The glittering stars glow.
The sun rises daily over city lawns–
The pallor of dawn.
So my life passes into and
Out of my thoughts.

 

Waiting For a Bus on Christmas Eve

I am ten, my little sister eight.
Excited, we are looking out
The living room window.
Slush
On the street,
Soft and hushed.

Down the street,
Before the red brick fire
House, clanking chains lashed
Around softly humming tires
Splash past.

A warm Christmas Eve,
End of day.
Grandma and Grandpa
With gifts
On their way.

Look, there they are
What do they have
In the red and yellow bags?

A doll with golden hair.
A Louisville Slugger.
Books.

 

Midwest Winters

In late October among clouds in the shapes of bells
Withered leaves spread out on dying grass
In the sorrow of fading light
Unwelcome memories fill a Midwesterner’s thoughts
With premonitions of gray, raw, implacable winter.

Too soon cruel, inevitable
North and West winter winds apply their treachery
To frigid fingers, feet, and faces.
Eyeballs freeze in their sockets.
Wailing medieval demons of winds howl
Across cities, towns, fields, silos, prairies.

Laarge snow-covered tree at the side of a snowy expanseSnow drifts smother every highway,
Street, river, and stream.
Everything everywhere sparkles with frost.
In a weary succession of cold monotonous days
Citizens beat a path from home to work to home,
Hungry for warmth, pleading to see any color
But the white of snow.

There is no more hateful damnable
Rapacious ferocious and treacherous
Winter than right here in the Midwest.
Where winter punishes us for adoring summer.

 

Summer Evening

After dinner when the weather was good, the fathers,
Some in gaudy suspenders, to a man seeking peace,
Left their families and went alone outside in the yard to smoke.
The glowing tips of their cigarettes or bowls of their pipes
Hovered like red ornaments suspended from invisible strings
In the darkness. The men nodded cordially to one another,
But only rarely went to their fences to speak. They stood
Stationary and solitary in the middle of the yard gazing
Up at the field of glinting stars, being reminded of
Their own inadequacy, their own insignificance,
Feeling in their souls the overwhelming rapture
And wonderment of being alive on this earth. In a little
They shredded their cigarettes or tapped out their pipes
On the soles of their shoes and watched the embers
Drift into the grass.

 

My Mother Doing the Laundry

Monarch of the
clothes pin,

servant of the
breeze;

white sheets
muttering,

white shirts
fluttering

on the
line.

Mother at her
loveliest

on the gray creaking
porch

on a sunfresh
afternoon.

 

Memories

Flickering portions of you
That accompany the people who love you,
Fastened around their heart
Forever.

 

Cool Wind

And I thought how lovely
It was to feel
Through an open window
A cool wind on a hot night
Such as this
And to see let in
Between the window shade
And the window sill
Leaves’ shadows dancing on
A midnight floor

 

Disguises

We are all so complicated and sealed up
In the disguises we wear
That we can know intimately in one lifetime
Only a person or two, and they not always,
But only in momentary bursts of understanding.
All the others we reduce to a few strokes:
That woman in the garden is lovely,
Has a lovely smile,
Owns a lovely dog.

 

The Death of a Loved One

Death leaves nothing when it departs
But still another vacancy in the heart.

 

Mushrooms White and Brown

At the base of this tree–sycamore I think–
Maple? (I don’t know) grow
Mushrooms–little umbrellas
White and brown.

 

Wind at the Beach

Suddenly a wind strikes up.
Into the air ascend three hundred white gulls.
Waves rise up from the lake,
Lunge and plunge like a field of gray-green
Wheat that then collapses on the shore,
Splaying into streams that sink into the sand
Slowly, as though unwilling to disappear.

 

 

© 2024 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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or

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Reflections of My Life in Poetry by David J. Rogers

Where Among Dreams She Had Often Walked

Shore of white sand in front of blue waterSmall and delicate, fair as a flower,
A woman on this earth who
At thirty-seven of her years passed
Away. Since her absence from the visible
World she has lived in many of my memories.
She died too soon to be aware of much of
My life, and I will not be able
To tell her about it, nor she to share her
Thoughts of what her life might
Have been had she grown old where
It ended: in beauty far across the pitching
Blue sea, along rows of white-sand beaches
Where among dreams she had often walked.

 

Chicago’s El Trains

At eight years–
My place of birth.
Walking through
The viaduct
Under the el platform
And into and out of
The cool, spread shadows
Amidst the thunderous
Rattle of the trains
Overhead that make
The earth and my heart
Tremble

 

The Welcome Inn

Lantern in front of a door with an old bell and a welcome signWe enter that tumult of sweat and whiskey, amidst the
Glow of the red bar lights and clouds of floating smoke
And stand next to a tattooed woman snapping a
Bull whip and wearing a black satin cape with red lining
And see a man pull a pistol on another man. The
Second man snatches the gun from the first and
Slugs him over the head. He turns to us
Disgusted with his friend, supine on the floor, and says
“He’s always doing that,” and that is the end of that.

 

What Are We To Do?

What’s the use trying to say what I feel?
How does it happen? How is it concluded
That this person should be happy, that one not?
This one healthy; that one ill; one blessed, the other
Troubled; he–undeserving– to live a long
And happy life; she who in her life has hurt
No one to die before she has fully lived?
How is it decided that this one should be put
Together with that one and that they should
Love each other all their days, but that another
Shall despair in loneliness. What happens to us
That we become the people we are, and
What are we to do now?

 

Judy Wazorick

We were in grammar school together.
She had a blue eye and a brown
And sat in the last seat of the last row.
She was very shy, but when I looked at her
She smiled at me.
Now I see she won’t be at the reunion,
And I am so sad because Judy Wazorick
Orange butterfly on pink flowersHas passed away.

 

Butterflies, Flowers, and Lovers

Butterflies, you and I,
Fluttering over gardens–
Our little world–
From flower to flower
In search of that one who is to us,
Though perhaps to no one else,
The loveliest flower,
And when we find that lovely flower,
Then we are content forever.

 

The Girl in Greenwich Village

I saw you
Looking at me
Knowing I had
Looked at you,
No chance ever
To see you again
Or you to
Look at me again
With your dark eyes,
You who had I
Known long ago
I would have run
My finger over
So carefully
And held
In my hand
Like an orchid.

 

Awaiting the Arrival of Dawn

A bare tree on a gentle hill infront of an orange and blue skyI delight in darkness and know that a bond
Intertwines me with everyone who exists
Or ever has, or will; and know too that some
Yet unknown purpose to my life beckons fondly
And that one day I will discover it.
So I dream of splendid things through
Each day as my life flickers away.
I welcome the luminous skies above and the
Magnificence of morning–and I will all
My life while awaiting the arrival of dawn.

 

A Man Like Every Other

I thought as all children think of their fathers
At that age that he was a great man. He had
Made a life out of little accomplishments that
Were magnificent to me–had made a paper
Weight, had painted a wagon, could change a tire.
Then he felt he had done something, and so did I,
A man who would live in anonymity, do the best he
Could, be remembered a little while
And forgotten. A man like every other.

 

Lightly Falling Snow

In the mountains, near the snow line, a blue
Haze is draped in grandeur over the land,
The summits surrounding us stupendous
.We have a snowball fight and then lie exhausted
And breathing hard in the snow while laughing
And making angels with our arms and legs.

We then come to an inn set far back from the road
Across a gravelly parking lot surrounded by tall trees
That are black with rain that fell last night.
We go up the long wooden stairway to a landing
With roughly-hewn wooden tables and chairs. But it is
Too cold to sit outside and so we go in.

The dining room is empty but for a waiter leaning
Against a wall. The tables are set with white linen
And gold utensils, and dressed as we are we seem
Out of place. We sit at a table by a wide window with
A good view of the mountains. The waiter comes over and
We order coffee.

From the window, Nick, the waiter,
A bare tree with falling snowAnd I watch a lightly falling snow.

 

Bedtime Prayer of a Little Boy

Of my family I thought in my child’s way–
They were all of them–each of them–good people, devoid of malice,
And I was blessed to be among them. Why, I wonder, had I been so
Favored. I thought, “Dear Lord, keep us safe, and please treat us kindly.
Spare us please from suffering or so apportion it so that none of us is asked
To bear more than one should be required to.” I prayed, as always fast,
“God bless Mom and Dad and…” and I fell asleep beseeching God.
The day ended then, and I dreamed and in a moment another dawn broke.

 

Hobos in a Clearing

We reach the crest of the hill at dusk.
Below us, like the camps of infantry,
Burn the scattered fires of forgotten men,
Each a separate picture.
They live in the open or in
The opulence of tarpaper lean-tos against a tree,
And migrate as punctually as geese.
They wear black–perhaps it is the soot of freight trains–
And squat on their haunches like crickets
Beside the snapping flames.
Streams of smoke trail off high into the trees
And embers flicker and fade, flicker and fade
In the harsh bite and sparkle of the wind,
And glow bronze on the men’s untroubled faces
Late into the night.

 

Ice Cream Man

A bevy of children
Proffering handfuls
Of nickels and dimes
To the wizened Ice Cream
Man in exchange for
A bar thickly crusted with
Brittle dark chocolate
Or nuts, or both

 

LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS

Lyric for Angela

At seventy-five cents per hour
I am a twelve year old
Professional bagger of cans
Of pineapples and tomatoes,
Weigher of potatoes,
Stocker of shelves
So the labels artfully frame
For the customers’ eyes
The Gerber baby,
The Scott tissues,
The orange carrots,
The vivid green peas.
When I am near Angela,
The dark-eyed store owner
Who favors me
My heart beats faster.
I cannot breathe
When I am near Angela.
As she works she sings.

Her spirit enfolds and singes me
As with molten tongs.
She smiles with
Such sweetness, gentleness,
And goodness it breaks my heart.
Her hair, her voice, her hands, her
Presence bring
A quality into my life
Which I know to be love.
My youth is purer,
My memories more
Lasting because of her.

Angela’s husband is awful
To her and treats
Her cruelly.
I vow that one day I will
Whisper to Angela,
“Why don’t you run away?”
But I fear she will not
And that after I have gone
To high school and college
And am grown up
She will still be heard
Singing in the aisles
Of this little store
Like a bird in her cage.

 

A Wagon, an Old Man, and Old Horse
(A Scene from Edgewater, Chicago, 1949)

Keeping to no particular schedule other than
It be daylight nearing evening, from down the alley
Through sunlight and shade, always from the west,
Never the east, comes the old disheveled
Rag Man–appearing to be a rag himself.
He sits high atop a large horse-drawn, creaking wagon
Loaded with junk, his gruff, metallic voice preceding
Him by half a city block:  “Rags, old iron.”

As the wagon nears, I hear, faintly at first, and then
More clearly, more purely, more emphatically, the
Mellow clomp, clomp, clomp of the shod hooves
Of the old brown mare whose head hangs low, neck bowed,
And swaying slowly to the rhythm of her gait.  She elevates
Her head as high, as majestically, as a queen of horses
Who is a about to speak and shakes her harness
Chains musically but uncomfortably and opens wide her mouth
To gulp the air. Then I hear her snorts as she struggles
Futilely with her bit and notice her bulbous brown eyes
Glazed with an expression of weariness and sorrow,
And the sunlight glistening off the thick sheet of sweat coating
Her flanks and the sinewy twitching muscles of her legs.

The sounds of hooves grow soft, then softer, and vanish,
Not to be heard again until another afternoon I witness the
Elegant procession of a wagon, a man, and a horse, and
Hear a voice bellowing, “Rags, old iron.”

 

On A Beach on a Wind-Blown Day

Beach with children running into the wavesSo there it is, laid out in my mind: that moment in our lives,
That day in July. We are told that memories recede, grow fainter,
Fall to tatters, but I remember that afternoon that
Has persisted through all the successive years, recalling it
Just as I lived it. Though it is intangible and lies in memory alone,
Nothing else is as real; everything vanishes in comparison.
It is with me when I bend to tie my shoelace, or ask for a fork. Or
Fall asleep:  my sister on the beach gripping my hand not to be
Swept away by the swirling, angry wind, and she standing on her
Tip-toes on a little stool down the aisle in the stacks at the dusty library,
Reaching for Little Women; my realizing in that instant, watching her,
That she was irreplaceable; I couldn’t do without her. So with her
In front of me on her red bike, I on my blue English racer, the two
Of us hurtled down Chicago streets at dusk. Her black hair flowing,
We raced–a glorious day when we were young.

 

Nurse’s Goodbye to Her Patient

I saw my sister’s favorite nurse up ahead
In the parking lot and called her name and she stopped
And turned around and I ran and caught up with her.
I expressed my gratitude to her for the gentleness
She had shown my sister. I told her I would never forget
Her kindness and thoughtfulness, and that I
Would remember her all my life, as I have.

She told me
What a good patient Sharon was, how despite her suffering
Sharon had never complained and was always so nice and
Had good manners, and how it would make her very sad
When she would have to say goodbye to her.

That night I left for home.

 

 

© 2024 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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New and Revised Poems by David J. Rogers

DELIA POEMS

 

She and I (In the Manner of Catullus 84-54 B.C.)

If ever there was a young woman who is self-sufficient and
Requires nothing beyond herself
And has a heart that like stone will never break
It is Delia. While she likes me and I like her and we are content together,
It is apparent that she doesn’t need me any more than I need her.
She calls her other affairs “flings” and when they
End they end. They are brief, none intense.
She says she feels more deeply about me than she is
Capable of feeling about anyone else, yet
For her and for me love is as elusive as a bumble bee.

Watercolor of woman's face with paint dripping in pink, yellow, blue and green

The Difficulty of Recalling a Past Romance`

Why when we gave ourselves to them
So passionately, tenderly, proudly
And for that period with them
Thought only of them and they committed
Themselves to us can we not now recall
Through memory’s thick gray mist what
They were like?

 

An Affair Begins and Ends

Unfathomable,
Troubled,
Delia entered
My life so
Suddenly
And I hers
Neither was prepared.
Three unexpected
Years together
Seemed a moment
Yet ended
Abruptly
With her flowing tears.

 

Goodbye

But that last night I was firm and told Delia
That I must be leaving forever
In a few minutes.
She was surprised and did not
Understand what had happened
Between Friday and Monday
That from now on the woman
On my mind would be someone else,
And that shortly I would be gone entirely
From her life.

 

Meeting Diana

I saw her across the college cafeteria
And put down my book and went to meet her.
Her name, my name.
Black hair. Green eyes.
Elegant. Exquisite.  Young.
The most beautiful woman on earth.

 

GOING HOME AND OTHER POEMS

Going Home

I will go back where I grew up and visit
The people I miss the most–
My sister Sharon, my parents,
A few friends, all gone now.
Colorful drawing of a city residential neighboorhood I will arrive in the evening as the sun
Begins to set at the end of the street
Above the church where my father sang.
I will smell three hundred six o’clock dinners and
Watch the night hawks circle our chimney,
Neighbors coming home from work,
Children putting their bikes away.
I will watch my younger self run a race
To the corner and back.
Then I will sit on the stairs listening
To crickets in the hedge chirping
Their praise of summer nights.

 

Awaiting the Arrival of Dawn

I relish waking early
And feeling that tingle in my waking body,
The chilly air lying so comfortably on my skin,
The enchantment that only a five in the
Morning holds for me.
I feel the growing anticipation
Of a remarkable day waiting ahead, of a
Remarkable life thronging with possibilities.
The knowledge doesn’t frighten me that
We are all marionettes dangling
Between the vast and sacred past and the vast
And sacred future.
I delight in darkness and know that a bond
Intertwines me with everyone who exists
Or ever has or will; and know too that some
Yet unknown purpose to my life beckons fondly
And that one day I will discover it.
So I dream of splendid things through
The seasons as they measure out my life.
I welcome the luminous skies and the
Magnificence of morning–
And I will all my life
While awaiting the arrival of dawn.

 

The Printers

The one skill they all shared
Was that they were masters
Of the big presses–
Rough good-hearted men
Who lived like vagabonds
Leading solitary lives in Chicago
Boarding houses with broken
Chairs and tables and nine or ten
Paperbacks with crimped pages.
The soft-spoken one named Aaron
Had made and lost fortunes
In investments many times
And currently was penniless.
He worked in monogrammed
Pink, blue, or gray shirts with stiff collars
And French cuffs and
Never spilled a drop of ink on them.

 

A President’s Death

Poor Professor Johnson,
I pitied him–his deep feelings.
A dignified man, a scholar,
Teacher of eighteenth
Century British poetry,
Couldn’t speak but to
Say go home, there would
Be no class today.
On the subway someone
Had a portable radio.
No passenger speaking,
Everyone listening in shock,
The tinny, crackling
Radio voice telling us over
And over as though we
Wouldn’t believe him, that
The President I felt I knew
Though he was rich and I
A student struggling with
Illness and poverty,
Had been shot.  Professor
Johnson went home and read
Alexander Pope’s masterful
Couplets through tears.

 

Her Yellow Bathing Suit

With rapturous eyes and golden tan
She was the loveliest girl
In the neighborhood.
She had freckles, was Irish,
Had an Irish name–McGuire.

She liked me.  At her door
She took my hand.
As we walked to the beach–
Her hand so soft–
We sang of happy things.

Her hair was parted
And drawn back with
Thin red ribbons
Except when she swam and let her
Long hair free to float as it wished.

I can’t forget her face
Which made everyone stare as she approached and
Still after she had passed, and that
Rendered plain every other girl who,
Jubilant, dove headlong into the frothing waves.

When she turned her head
She did so gracefully, like a
Bashful doe hiding in a thicket. That day
She was wearing a
Gold necklace with tiny links.

Everything she did; everything she said,
Her every feature, enchants my memory,
Particularly the yellow, yellow,
Yellow of her yellow bathing suit,
The only yellow on the crowded beach.

 

A Writer’s Epiphany: The Object in the White Light

A lighted lantern in front of a tree at nightWorking so hard on abstract
Problems–being so sick of them that
My brain ached. Troubled, anxious,
Confused, sleepless, I went out for a walk
Hoping that the cool late night air
Might be therapeutic and might clear
My thinking so that I could decide
Calmly if such a life would provide happiness
Or if I should choose a style of life
More conducive to peace of mind.
The dim streets empty, restful, a light rain,
The whistle of a distant train,
The bell on a boat ringing,
A woman on the boat singing.
Near the beds of flowers, on the pavement–showered
In the white light of a street lamp–a single object:
A book.
Perhaps this book I had found, which a scholar may have lost
Or angrily thrown to the ground,
Had been purposefully intended for me
By the ineffable wisdom of the stars, by good fortune,
As a sign, a portent, a clue, a key.
And that what this epiphany of the book
In the pure white light in the rain
And the shrill whistle of the far-off train
Meant was that I could not escape my pre-
Ordained destiny that suited the architecture of my genes,
The juncture of talents, gifts, desires, qualities–
Not striving to become any of the thousand entities
Others are suited to be, but that are alien to me,
Becoming thereafter one thing alone:
A being gluttonous of words, a fish content and
Self-possessed, free of anguish,
Swimming in seas of language.

 

The Fathers in My Youth

After dinner, when the weather was good, the fathers–
Some in gaudy suspenders, to a man seeking peace–
Went alone outside in the yard to smoke.
They stood stationary and solitary in the middle of the yard,
Gazing up at the dazzling field of glinting stars,
Being reminded of their own inadequacy, their own insignificance,
Feeling in themselves the overwhelming rapture and wonderment
Of being alive on this earth on this night.

 

Long Day

I’m still at work though it’s getting late.
I’m using an orange as a paper weight.

 

The Memory of Pain After a Long Illness

There is no memory
Like that of pain–
Impossible to share
And futile to compare.
There is no memory
Comparable to that of pain.

 

 

SIX MONTHS RIDING FREIGHT TRAINS ACROSS AMERICA WITH A FRIEND

 

Overview

We zigzagged back and forth across the country.
We heard the cries of hawks echoing through canyons and watched
Eagles circling like feathery kites above the great, austere
Shapes of mountain peaks. And always in the background
We heard the unceasing clackety-clack of the swaying trains.
We prowled train yards and for many hours
We sat on box cars, our legs dangling,
Gleaming railroad tracks under us.
And we felt deeply the fearful stillness of big cities
In darkness–their gloomy late nights. We saw
Women selling stuffed armadillos, a beautiful woman
Eating apricots at a picnic table, and evening after evening
Saw the sunlight fade.

 

A Place to Sleep

We slept on box cars and flat cars,
On benches in parks and playgrounds,
And in laundromats and on motel lawns,
Railroad box cars in alternating orange and yellowThe gaudy, intermittently-flashing lights of the vacancy
Signs keeping us awake. We slept without bedding
On creaking bed springs that cut your back torturously
Like knives in foul-smelling small-town two-bit jails that
Put us up for the night and fed us along with the prisoners.

 

Crossing a River in a Boxcar on a Rainy Night

A downpour had struck up suddenly and surprisingly
As our freight train was pulling in. Waves of cold rain rushed
In one side of the boxcar and out the other sheet after
Sheet. Flashes of lightning illuminated the entire sky
And cracked like gun shots in a shooting gallery.

Then the rain stopped just as
Suddenly, the lightning ceased, and the wind died. The
Sky had already cleared then and was tinged with a mellow
Violet at its edges. A wind, warm and refreshing in the cool
Night had come up from the south. We had
Crossed the Mighty Mississippi on a
Shaking railroad bridge that early September night.

 

Thoughts of Home

Often toward evening under skies appearing low enough to touch,
I thought of Chicago: the beaches, Sheridan Road, night falling, city
Lights starting to glitter, the people I loved.

 

A BOY’S ADOLESCENCE

 

Grocery Store Clerk/Delivery Boy

How I loved being twelve and
Out on a grocery delivery to an old
Neighborhood widow on streets whose every bump,
Hill, and crack my wagon was friends with–
No one with me to boss me, no problems to concern me,
And there feeling I was in a garden
Delighting in the air, golden
Sunlight, and glorious shades and shapes of
That tiny patch of the earth that fortune
Had so generously allocated to me for my pleasure,
And sounds beyond number that sang in my young ears.

 

Lyric for Angela

At seventy-five cents per hour
I am a twelve year old
Professional bagger of cans
Of pineapples and tomatoes,
Weigher of potatoes,
Stocker of shelves
So the labels artfully frame
For the customers’ eyes
The Gerber baby,
The Scott tissues,
The orange carrots,
The vivid green peas.
When I am near Angela,
The dark-eyed store owner
Who favors me
My heart beats faster.
I cannot breathe
When I am near Angela.
As she works she sings.

Her spirit enfolds and singes me
As with hot tongs.
She smiles with
Such sweetness, gentleness,
And goodness she breaks my heart.
Her hair, her voice, her hands, her
Presence bring
A quality into my life
Which I know to be love.
My youth is purer,
My memories more
Lasting because of her.

Angela’s husband is awful
To her and treats
Her cruelly.
I vow that one day I will
Whisper to Angela,
“Why don’t you run away?”
But I fear she will not
And that after I have gone
To high school and college
And am grown up
She will still be heard
Singing in the aisles
Of this little store
Like a bird in its cage.

 

© 2024 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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Poems Mainly About People by David J. Rogers

Cool Wind

And I thought how lovely
It was to feel
Through an open window
A cool wind on a hot night
Such as this
And to see let in
Between the window shade
And the window sill
Leaves’ shadows dancing on
A midnight floor.

 

The Silence That Settles So Softly

Silence has settled as softly
As pollen on her hospital room
As visitors take their magazines
And as quietly as moths
Go out the door, leaving
Us to face this night alone.

“How fast life goes, Dave,” she says.
“It’s no longer than a mosquito’s life.
Why does it go so fast?”
A little room, a bed,
A pair of eyes; someone watching,
A young woman very ill.
Night has come, the day is gone.
Over the city shines a blue light.
Chrysanthemums stand in a vase.

She asks, “How do you explain life?
What does a person live for?”
It is probably happiness.
Yes, that was it all the time,
The happiness one feels.  No one
Could say she hadn’t known exquisite happiness.

I feel such love toward her that could I,
I would die for her
And am so regretful that I cannot suffer
Her pain for her, and am powerless to help her,
And that she soon will be gone entirely from my life
And from this world.

But now, dear sister,
Close your brown eyes.

 

Phoebe Leads Quite a Life

My friend Phoebe the writer leads quite a life.
She tried to explain why in affairs she chooses men that are out of character.
She said: “I read in George Eliot’s biography a perfect description
Of myself not as I seem, or would want to be, but as I really am:”
She quoted Eliot:
A retiring woman of gentle disposition and orderly habits.
A very cautious woman who chooses courses of action she cannot rationally defend.’

 

Sounds Beyond Number

I’ve run down the front stairs and
Out into the neighborhood
On my seventh birthday.
No adults who love me restrain me.
I am as free as the wind.
About me: the air and sunlight; the clouds,
The church tower, Lake Michigan, the cityscape
That good fortune has allocated for my pleasure
During these years of my happy youth.
These languorous streets of mine,
Mapped indelibly in my mind, are shaded by
Cool poplars, sycamores, and elms this sunny October day.

Familiar cars pass, and in the hedges
Crickets whose voices I recall are out in noisy numbers.
Bob the panhandler is dozing in his favorite doorway.
His mouth is closed but his lips flutter.
Machinists, teachers, clerks, and mechanics
On their way to somewhere else pass me by without a word.

Odors of bubbling tar are in the street where men
Soaked wet with sweat and without shirts
Work diligently in the torrid noon sun.
The silver-painted wagon I am pulling rattles
Among other street sounds beyond my counting.
They ring in my receptive ears
Like the jingle- jangle of festive bells.

 

Mister Koehler

When I was a boy in Chicago
Every Sunday the tallest man in the world
Sat in the seat next to mine in church–8’2”
The disparity in our height was
An object of humor, but not to me.

He had difficulty walking because he was so tall
And his spine was weak.
He shuffled between two wood canes,
Bent over, frail, his arms quivering, his eyes cast down
So that he would not fall.

He drove a car. He was a salesman.
His car had no front seat,
Only a back seat where he sat,
His long arms reaching the steering wheel,
His long legs the pedals.

There is a replica of him
In a wax Museum in London.
He is cited in
The Guinness Book of World Records
As earth’s tallest person.

He was too tall to have a long life.

 

Woman Sitting at a Table
In a Restaurant on Broadway
In New York City

I saw you
Looking at me
Knowing I had
Looked at you,
No chance ever
To see you again
Or you to
Look at me again
With your mystic eyes.
You who had I
Known long ago
I would have run
My finger over
So carefully
And cupped
In my hand
Like an orchid.

 

Young Woman in the Pontchartrain
Hotel, Detroit, Michigan

If I tell you that in the elevator
At three a.m. she stopped me and said,
“I’ve been looking for you all night”
You would have an idea of her lonely
Profession, but no idea what kind of
Woman she was, nor how pretty.

 

In the summer before the often cruel cold Chicago winter each year of my childhood there came in a truck the coal-shoveler who would appear in the alley to do his job. On the way to school I would walk past him carrying my books and would look at his tall pile of coal and wonder “How in the world will one man be able to shovel all that coal?” When I returned home the coal would be gone and the coal- shoveler–his work done– would be sleeping, waiting to be picked up, or he would be gone until reappearing when I would be a year older.

 

The Silent Coal -Shoveler

Behind the apartment building
Where I lived with my family and
Beside a mountain of coal
Toiled the always silent, always alone,
Never-speaking, never-grunting,
Never- complaining
Muscular black coal-shoveler.
From chilly dawn
To the end of afternoon
While I was at school
Or at the playground
From the alley
Behind my gate
Across from the church,
That cadenced scrape
Of his shovel
Between coal and pavement
Could be heard, and chunks of coal
Thumping, tumbling noisily
Like pieces of thunder
Down the wooden chute
Into the dark cellar.

 

Encounters in the Natural World

When I was a boy my father, brother, and I would leave the city and hike in the forests north of Chicago, where now, in a thriving suburb, I live with my wife.  I remember our last hike:

In the underbrush along the path we followed were morning glories, wild flowers, lilies of the valley, azaleas, and asters. In the trees squirrels preened on their hind legs, then leaped from branch to branch. A chipmunk made its departure into the lush chipmunk world.

A small female white-tail deer waited for us to pass, a puzzled expression in her bulging eyes, and then bounded across the path. We were so close we could have touched. Then a full-grown, majestic male with more serious eyes appeared as though it had come up from the ground.

Grasshoppers still damp with morning dew dried themselves in the sunlight, and we took care to step around them. A yellow finch, its head bobbing, whistled sweetly, and insects squabbled in the air. The fragrance of warm, sweet clover was everywhere.

A wind rippled across the river in front of us and the gold leaves on the trees along its banks rattled. The sun bright, the trees cast long, thin shadows that in the wind swayed on the water like a company of dancers.

 

Jim, Jim, I’ve Remembered You Often

Jim, Jim, I’ve remembered you often,
My roommate in college, a tortured
Red-headed business major so caught
In the grip of a terrible addiction to
Alcohol that, when desperate, he
Drank anything, including:
Lighter fluid
Hair tonic
Motor oil and lubricants
Gasoline

I had been studying all night when I heard Jim
Staggering up the stairs after a night ending at dawn at County Line, the dump
Where he often wound up after hours. There nothing was prohibited.

He was trying so hard to appear sober crossing the bedroom floor,
But his hands were shaking. His legs were as stiff as brooms.
I watched him compassionately without speaking a word

As I would watch an injured cat or dog, hoping that he would
Be able to do what I could see he had in mind to impress me with–
Hoping that he would be able to hang neatly on a hanger

Without any help the blue jacket he was holding in his right hand.
But the hanger slipped tragically from his grip and
Clattered on the wooden floor.

Then I saw what I cannot erase
From memories of my college years or of Jim:
The expression on his face of shame.

A False Assumption

Some people fall into a trap. They assume
That because the woman or man they desire is beautiful
And seems to be their ideal that they also possess fine qualities
Such as intelligence, kindness, and decency,
But often soon find them lacking virtues without a trace.

 

The Death of Judy Wazorick

I remember Judy Wazorick fondly.
We were in grammar school together.
She had a blue eye and a brown eye,
And sat in the last seat of the last row.
She was shy, but when I looked at her
She always smiled at me.
Now I see she won’t be at the reunion,
And I am so sad because Judy Wazorick
Has passed away.

 

Wings

Two seasons each year–spring and fall–
Flocks of familiar geese flutter down
From the sky to dine on the grassy field outside my home,
Waddling, pecking, bickering like
Children or thieves–then a truce–
Only a misunderstanding:
All is forgiven, friend. Departing
They assemble for the flight
In perfect order, poised, silent; air quivering.
Then torrents of ascending wings–wings.

 

There Were

There were pleasant, guileless women I liked on sight,
And women with the look of dreamers that I knew were
Full of dangers, but couldn’t resist and didn’t try very hard to.

There were women with long, raven-black hair that flowed like oil,
And plain, sincere, friendly women, and women who smiled
So gently, so exquisitely, that I was numb.

There were women who acted as if they were personal friends of God,
And light-hearted women, and women whose mood never changed,
And women with deep voices and treacherous eyes.

There were young, ugly-duckling women who were just about to be beautiful,
And attached women who enjoyed being fallen women, as well as a
Playful, petite woman full of horse-sense and laughter.

They and others brightened my life and are a pleasure to remember.

 

© 2023 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

Fighting to win Amazon

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or

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fighting-to-win-samurai-techniques-for-your-work-and-life-david-rogers/1119303640?ean=2940149174379

 

Order Waging Business Warfare: Lessons From the Military Masters in Achieving Competitive Superiority

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A Book of Spiritual Wisdom To Help Discouraged People

Face of a sad-looking light brown and white puppyThink of the last time you were discouraged. You were knocked off balance and became weakened and vulnerable. Possibly something you longed to happen did not happen, or something you dreaded happening did happen. Then you were discouraged. Courage is a thing of the heart. The word “courage” derives from couer,” the French for heart. To be “dis” couraged is to lose heart. You were never too young and will never be too old be to be discouraged. You don’t outgrow discouragement.

 Bordeaux Mastiff dog happily running through waterAction is the most effective antidote to discouragement To rid yourself of being discouraged strive to be a person of action. The happiest and most courageous people in the world have a preference for action. Rarely are they discouraged. They are too busy to be. In high spirits they persist through difficulties, overcoming setbacks, resisting gloomy moods, never losing hope. That is why they are so happy. The samurai of ancient Japan were the most action-obsessed men and women who ever lived.

 

An Example of What Happens When You Are Discouraged

Good things can come out of bad things. So life taught me.

When you are cheated out of money, it is usually because you were too trusting, and I was to the tune of a sixty thousand dollar loss at a time when sixty thousand dollars might just as we’ll have been six million. I had a wife and four children and I was not rich. I had performed work in good faith, and then did not get paid. My spirit was taken out of me, my once firm faith in peoples’ decency was now shaken, and I couldn’t find Library with shelves full of bookspeace. So I began to search for solace and wisdom.

I had to think. I had to decide what to do now. I was so miserable and angry that I decided, being a writer, to put together a research-based book that would help me recover and would also appeal to other people who were battling the pains of discouragement.

The product of what I thought would be a one year creative venture was to be a book about which people would say, “It saved me from despair. It gave me hope. Once I was discouraged, but now I’m not.” In the book there would be no anger, bitterness, or vengefulness toward anyone, even the two evil men who had taken food out of my children’s mouths. Just good sense, good feelings, and good writing.

White and grey Japanese pagoda style building with blue sky and green treetopsI chose as the basis of the book the spiritual insights of samurai warriors of ancient Japan. It may seem that the psychology of people like that who lived four centuries ago  in a foreign country would have little to say to you, yet if you are interested in ways to strengthen yourself spiritually, that is the place and era to look for information. Samurai had introduced the teachings of Zen into the Japanese culture. Zen was “the religion of the samurai.”  Many samurai were poets.

Were you to acquire the skills of the samurai that the book I wrote is concerned with, the following benefits–the changes in their lives readers told me about–would occur:

Your resilience in recovering from discouragement and other setbacks would be remarkable

Your commitment to your major life’s purposes would be miraculous

Your powers of concentration would be exceptional

You would be afraid less often; old fears would disappear

 

Committing Yourself to Action

Puppet or doll of saurai warriorSamurai were models of action-oriented people. The essential feature of the samurai “Way” (way of life) is action. (That a discipline is a Way is indicated by the suffix “do.” The samurai Way is “bushido). All samurai spiritual insights and training were designed for one reason: to equip the person (a samurai or you) to make up their mind quickly and firmly and to go into action confidently.

Samurai were consumed by making a decision and taking steps to achieve their goals, and doing so with little time between the urge to action and the action itself, just as the flame appears immediately when you strike a match. A text that guided samurai says, “The Way of the samurai is immediacy. It is doing things NOW.” Another says, “When things are done slowly seven of ten turn out poorly.”

You will have ideal results if like a samurai you commit your entire being when you take action, putting all of your physical, spiritual, and psychological strength into the acts your life requires you to perform– an author writing a book, a sales person making a pitch, a public speaker addressing an audience, a parent listening to a little child as she speaks to you, etc.

Hold nothing back in reserve. Clear your mind of all distractions. Forget everything else. Forget yourself. Forget the impression you are making.  Forget winning or losing. Forget fame and wealth.  Forget setbacks. Concentrate solely on performing the action beautifully. Behave as though your every act is the last of your life.  Behave as though this is what you will be remembered for.

Are you a person of action or are you waiting for someone to save you?

 

Writing a Successful Book

Clickable (to Amazon page) image of cover of Kindle edition of Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and LifeI was fortunate to find a good agent who had faith in the project and in me, and we proposed the book to a publisher who accepted it. There would be an advance in two payments. That was good; I needed the money. I laid everything else aside,  not having time to waste, and was excited by the process I loved–studying, reading, writing, revising, using my brain, having insights, then “aha” revelations.  I found that the sections that gave me the most trouble  and took the most time invariably proved to be the most popular when the book was published. That was a profound learning, I worked twelve to fifteen hours a day for two years to finish Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life.

Fighting to Win’s popularity began slowly. There was a minimum of initial publicity. But then the book found its market–men and women looking for strength, a new beginning, and an escape from discouragement. It caught fire in one city after another, racking up sales in the United States, Japan, and Europe. When my article “Fighting to Win” appeared in Success Magazine it was the most read feature Success ever published.

 

Being Discouraged Is Contrary to Good Mental Health

Smiling, happy-looking young woman with short blond hair and sunglasses with yellow and white tulipsEvery day’s goal of healthy people is to be happy, to love and be loved, and not to be discouraged. But there are many impediments–opponents. In the arts among artists and writers I know so well, and in everyday work and personal life, like a samurai in battle, everyone encounters those opponents. Some are outer opponents–an outrageous person who’s hard to get along with (a harsh critic of your writing or painting, for example if you are in the arts), personal crises, setbacks, failures, Etc. People who steal from you.

But most opponents are inner psychological “dragons” in the samurai vocabulary, powerful opponents such as obsessions, anxieties, fears, and worries. Usually the inner spiritual opponents are the most dreadful. Every person has talents. If you surrender to dragons it makes full realization of those talents impossible. You won’t become the person you had the potential to be.

Golden-colored dragan headAll samurai training was designed to overcome those dragons so that in your everyday life you will progress smoothly from experience to experience, challenge to challenge, achievement to achievement, happiness to happiness.

 

Be Ready for These Five Dragons

Samurai were trained to overcome five universal spiritual blocks to action, and developed many methods for doing so, as Fighting to Win prescribes. If left alone without dealing with them, these blocks will fester and lead some people to discouragement. Those main inner opponent dragons are described in Chapter Two of Fighting to Win. They are:

  • Fear–of any kind (Everyone is afraid of at least one thing every day)
  • Being afraid to take risks. (That fear makes people timid and cowardly)
  • Thinking too much and not acting at all, or not quickly enough
  • Doubting yourself (the main dragon of many people, particularly people in the arts.)
  • Hesitating

Deep pink and white lotus blossom on dark backgroundAcquiring wisdom from the samurai Way suits people who wish to overcome discouragement and are able to make use of insights and techniques from any era or culture that will help them. What strikes me is the ease with which readers of the book adapt those insights from centuries ago to their current everyday living.

Writing is said to be therapeutic, and that was certainly true of my experience writing Fighting to Win. I overcame my deep discouragement and was happy to find that the book helped many people overcome theirs.

 

© 2023 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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Filed under Blocks to Action, Conquering Blocks, Eastern Philosophy, Encouragement, Fighting to Win, Overcoming Misfortune, Personal Stories, Samurai Techniques