My wife posted this on her Facebook yesterday:
‘I created something today and was grappling over whether it was good enough. . David responded, “It’s good enough… why do you think it has to be perfect? Do you think God is a perfectionist?”
“Probably,” I replied.
“No, He’s not. He can’t be… He created us.”
Touche!’
After I thought about it, I changed my mind and wrote this free verse:
Because God IS
just
perfect,
He made us
perfectly
imperfect,
so we can learn
and grow
and become.
Hello, friends and fellow poets and creatives! Hundreds of you follow my WordPress poetry and creative writing blog here at CyranoWriter.Wordpress.com. Some of you have followed me for decades! You’ve visited my 7200+ creations more than 100,000 times. And I’m grateful.
BUT this was always a dot WordPress blog, not really my own. So, as with all good things, there must be an end … before there can be a new beginning. And so it is with this blog. BUT … the creativity won’t stop. I’m just MOVING all my work to my own, personal blog. Continue to follow my work at CyranoWriter.com/Creativity. As the LDS Hymn says:
“Come, Follow Me!”
IMPORTANT! IF you’ve followed this blog, you will need to follow that CyranoWriter.com/Creativity blog — otherwise you won’t get any updates of my new work (and, I promise, there will be at least one a day, or more!)
Warm up your yodeling chords, break out your Alphen Horns and Swiss Cow Bells, and gather round while I (loosely) translate a funny poem I heard a long time ago, while serving as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the Zurich, Switzerland mission.
The poem deals with, of course, the story of Wilhelm Tell, the famous patriot who found against the Habsburg (Austrian) empire and their evil representative, Gessler. I don’t know who the poem is by — having lost my copy of a copy of a cassette tape decades ago — but the funniest part of the poem, as I remember it, goes like this:
Sein Sohn rief
“Komm schiess
mir doch ein Apfel von die Birne!”
Der Pfeil traff toedlich …
einen Wurm,
der in den Apfel wohnte.
Erst still,
dann brach ein Sturm des Jubels los!
“Ein HOCH zu Dir, Willy Tell!
Jetzt geh’n wir ein trinken, gel?!?!!”
Roughly translated:
His son called
“Come on! Shoot
the apple from my head.”
The arrow was deadly …
to a worm
that lived in the apple.
At first, it was quiet,
then broke forth a storm of jubilation!
“Three cheers for Willy Tell!
What do you think!?!?
Three cheers! Now let’s go get a drink!”
What strange twist of fate reminded me of this poem? Well, first, it’s Swiss Independence Day (More Cowbell!) Second, as I was peeling and slicing my free freestone peaches (refer to my other videos and articles about the peaches and what I’ve learned here on NaturesGuy.com, and then this fruity article, and then this article on experiential writing on IdeaMarketers.com (since it has to do with writing and creativity), I discovered small worms in the center of the peaches. Yes, I cut them out. (At least I hope I did!) But that’s what reminded me of the phrase “der Pfeil traff toedlich/einen Wurm, der in den Apfel wohnte.”
From the inside, through my 90’s shaded-design oval door window, it looked like recent Georgia sunsets: Cool, golden, breezy, comfortably worthy of a front-porch sit for a spell. I knew the frogs would be chirping and croaking and screeching melodically, there might be a whip-or-will or mocking bird or mourning dove singing joyfully at the setting sun, and various and sundry unidentified bugs would be rhytmically scraping and creeking and thrumming and whatever they do, lacing a deep-layered cacophony of sound like a grandmother’s old, well-worn quilt over the newly-mown hay and lawn and the soon-to-be-harvested gold-and-black-tassled corn in the field just beyond the broken-in-half hickory tree.
Surprise.
Stepping out onto the porch, the evening’s still, stiffling air laid on my face and arms like mold in a plastic bag full of what teenaged boys might call “garbage cheese” — not quite rotted into limberger, but still stenchy and pungent enough to make me want to avoid taking a deep, rich breath.
No breeze.
Instead, as I stood still and watched the sunset dapple through the aged oak and hickory trees, as I tried to revel in the natural symphony I’d expected, the damp-dank humid humors of the evening felt as if I was at the end of some God/Satan spraygun of tangible air-mist-grime-pollen. And no scents. Nothing to make breathing the languid vapors worthwhile. No sense of reward or joy or revelation. Just deep cotton-like vapors filling my nostrils and throat and lining my lungs.
I sat down anyway, rocked slowly the way one should on a Southern porch in late July, and waited for an evening breeze to come and wash away the fog-like depth of the moment so I could, at last, completely see-hear-taste-smell-feel-sense all-in-all around and through and in me.
And a distant owl hooted.
When unexpected/
nature clouds your mind, be still./
She’ll clear your senses.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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