You’d never guess I have
anything to do with maturity.
I just don’t look the part
and that suits me fine.
I’m all about surprise. Oh,

don’t get me wrong, I have
nothing to do with anybody’s
resolve or refusal to grow; I’m just
one of the underrated influences
sent by God, or as some

more fashionable
than I would say, fate.
But I’m the one who does
the job, knows who sent me,
and I’m no accident.

My nickname is Needle, and
my point makes the tip
of Sir Galahad’s lance
seem as blunt as a boxer’s glove.
The space I pierce sometimes

would defy detection
by an electron microscope,
yet I’m often present to
prick one’s balloon the size
of a dirigible. You know from

experience I have a sense
of humor and can be as ironic
as a rainbow . . . my message
as clear as a firehouse bell:
Stop. See what you’re missing.

Look at you
with all your seams
holding you in to
perceived perfection,
when you’re really a
fat lady in a corset
who’s been rolled.

Ok, that may be harsh—
speaking about your physique
that way—but the truth is
you’re caught up endlessly
in a doofuss game where,
more than anything,
you’re hurled like the
regurgitation of a drunk—
one way or another—
a masochist to be sure.

You let yourself be rubbed raw
by a monomaniac at target practice
who’s so fickle he couldn’t care less
when you die of only a dirty face.
He just demands your subservience
of convenience till you’re spent.

Batters want no more than to—
you guessed it—batter you,
and when they’re lucky enough,
from their view,
to do it well,
you become an egg-shaped victim
that ends up in the greasy clutches
of a frivolous collector
and braggart who couldn’t
care less what you’re made of.

Think again about all those times
that you’ve been drilled into the dirt,
stained by the grass,
bunted into ignominy,
tossed around between innings
in brainless ceremony,
and when you show up
at a play of the game
the least bit early or late,
you forfeit acclamation
among the attendees and
divide them between
manic bedlam or abject
depression and expletives.

I can’t help but remind you,
if you’d given more thought
to your shape and exhibited
more patience, you could
have grown into a cannonball
and blown a hole in something.
Even if you’d been only a runt
you could have been a B-B and
blinded somebody in one eye
or at the least hurt a puppy.

Yeah, I know, there’s always
the bean ball, but where’s that
gonna get you with 40,000
people watching?

Not to mention TV.




Copyright© 2009 by Allan J. Cox All rights reserved

She sits in the far corner of the room,
looking across . . .
and her eyes stick to
the edge of the door,
half-open.

She buckles from its hard right angle,
its knife of a crease
reaching from its top
all the way to the floor—
as if it were pressing against
the full length of her body.

This leaves her with a
bloodless, bruiseless wound,
the signs of which
are only inside.

Isn’t this light sentence odd since this door
is heavy as lead, ominous dark chestnut,
thrusts out a door knob that weakens her hand
and closes with the finality of a tight latch—
the kind that clicKs.

Light, you say?
Her wound, like ours,
is mostly of transition—gradual,
but not light.
Oh, how we could bore each other
with what we didn't but should,
have but shouldn't.

Could you believe this leaden door’s edge is her gate to joy?

Close a door.

Open a door.



Copyright© 2009 by Allan J. Cox. All rights reserved

I, Collaboration, go to the field.
When I work with those who sweat,
there’s no spoiling our efforts.
When people shed their false selves,
their fears of being known in a
way not known before
and become spendthrifts with their gifts—
gifts they doubted, but which, because
of me, they now claim boldly,

the clearing appears.
Imagine your task—outreach,
school, business, friends, governing,
health, recreation, communication—
and that you have brought together
a small core of people who want
to do right and bring their

talents to it.
I insist, if I am to be present,
and mark my words—if I’m not, you’ll likely fail—
that we have this understanding:
We not only don’t expect to agree
on any issue that matters, but we won’t

permit that.
Think about it—what’s more absurd than
we gather bright, caring, well-trained,
done-their-homework contributors and
expect them to be of one mind on

issues of significance?
I’m not a concept. I’m to be grasped, in your face,
a little god, even, and just like the Big God
of the Old Testament, I’m jealous.
My devil and yours, too, should we choose
to go to the field together,
is, hear me, do hear me—

consensus.
Oh, come on, I know consensus is a given
in all discussions these days,
but I’m telling you, it’s poison,
lacks courage and insufficient spadework.
Some decisions make themselves because we
can give them time, let them evolve.
Others are made by people who see things

because I’m there.
Lowest common denominator maneuvering
and group-think—real issues getting passed over,
and biting us in the ass later. That’s what

consensus is.
So let me say it straight,
now that you’re moving toward me:
Ripening won’t come without true voice—
or as one sandpapery toiler puts it—
without fierce conversations.
Free-handed, we sow the seed of

the fertile field.
When I’m present, there’s no dumb idea.
But are you ready for the paradox?
Our trust in each other, complete,
so that when your idea is dumb, and a toiler
has no hesitation saying so, you’re not offended,
nor is she next day when she tries to flap

her broken wing.
Here’s the secret: Pouring out your heart—
and anyone doing the same—may not win
the choice at the table’s head this time,
but make no mistake, your pence pushes
clarity forward, a work worthy

of the gods.
Do you want my mantra?
I give it freely, knowing its worth.

Collaboration without consensus
is the soul of organizational truth.

Copyright © 2009 by Allan J. Cox. All rights reserved

I am your root.
I have no name.
I have many names.
I am what makes you real—like no other person.
Here in the dark, I can fool and flood you with imagination.
Who are you meant to be?
What journey awaits you?
Stay with me
and you’ll take within your grasp
three sustaining stones,
satisfied they’re your truth
and please you inside . . .

I am: _________
Life is: _______________
My life purpose is: _____________________

Look, there, at Sam.
He walked with me in the dark,
crafted his plain understanding:

I am a participant
Life is a full arena
My life purpose is to play well with others

Sam is a global treasure,
at home in his work,
gift to his people,
guide to his customers,
friend to cultures.

Long lost,
young years a shambles,
early work life blighted by hurts and betrayals,
two marriages withered and dissolved.

I waited.
The drought nearly killed us
both.
He came to himself—meaning
he came to me,
and said, in time,
“Life lived real
is life lived in surrender.”

I’m not in your life

to be a herald of career,
hobbies,
image,
reputation,
whatever,
whoever,
wherever—but,

the resonance
of the way you live
each day.

“What is rooted is easy to nourish,”
says the Tao Te Ching.

Be attentive.
What is your life’s love?
What does it want from you?
Surrender to it.
Nourish yourself in me.




Copyright © 2009 by Allan J. Cox. All rights reserved.