Waves of Life: A Collection of Poems

By Don Mueller

Thoughts About our Friend Don Mueller

Where you meet someone can make all the difference.

I met Don on a bicycle, going up a hill, both our shoulders sagging under the effort. Age did not matter. Career didn't. Where you lived or what you had. None of it. It was the effort, the focus, the comradery that can only come from shared ende

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Aug 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885904995

Don Mueller

Don Mueller was born in 1946 and grew up in suburban Detroit, Michigan. He graduated from Redford Township High School and went on to earn degrees from Albion College and, after being drafted and serving in Viet Nam, Michigan State University. Being unable to find an advertising opportunity in the Midwest, Don headed to Hawaii, found his first job, and eventually became a partner in the firm of Peck, Sims, Mueller, which became one of the most successful advertising agencies in Hawaii. Don had been a college swimmer, took up running for conditioning and after moving to Hawaii added cycling. He hung out and trained with a cadre of close friends who pushed each other and competed regularly. In his 40s, at the zenith of his competitive life, Don was a top triathlete for his age group in North America. After some setbacks, Don moved to California where, for a number of years, he owned a high-end audio and television installation business. Early in 2021, Don learned from partners that a long-delayed business opportunity in Hawaii might finally materialize. In June 2021 Don returned to Honolulu and lived on Waikiki Beach overlooking the ocean he loved. For a decade or more Don had been in declining health. During his last months, he wrote most of the 100 poems in this collection reflecting on his life. Until the very end, Don possessed a positive spirit and remained thankful for the life he had lived. Don's life ended and he began his next journey in January 2022.

Book preview

BEING A POET

Reaching for the moon

you knew it was only a hop,

jump more to the stars

ONE HUNDRED POEMS BEFORE I DIE

I came to poetry late, a wannabe

Robert Frost, but too intimated by the form,

crippling feelings of inferiority to those more

facile with words, wondering if I could ever

find a voice of mine alone, not merely a

poor imitator of others.

Speaking one's truth is a first step.

For me, the hardest. You can’t hide behind

invulnerability. Otherwise, your words are frauds,

poseurs disrobed and disregarded by even a causal

reader.

Finding forgiveness, acceptance, and understanding

for myself, realizing I was just a man, no better or

worse than anyone else, I was able to write.

Credit my Muse. For some reason, she took a liking

to me. Was it my age? My failing heart? My urgent

need to express myself in a brutally honest way?

It doesn’t matter. I welcomed her offer of assistance.

Gently, she took me by the hand, and I began to write.

Hesitantly at first, until the words began to flow like a

deep well of water, a few wet drops in the beginning.

Now a steady stream as she reliably primes the pump.

Together we explore disparate paths that lead us to

unexpected places. Soon we had subject, archetypes,

categories covering a broad range. Each an exciting

journey of observation, self-discovery, and new-found

pleasure at play with words.

So now, I write. It doesn’t matter what time of day or

night. A line takes shape in my creative room, and soon

it's joined by others.

Inspiration is everywhere. Was it always? Waiting for me

to notice? The shy, pretty girl, hiding in the corner, waiting

for someone's smile and an offer to at least one dance? And

when she did, you found she glided and hovered above the floor.

You hold her hand, so she doesn’t float away. A soft white

cloud returning to the sky.

One hundred poems before I die. Over half-way

there. It's a race to finish, before I am finished.

If I never cross the line, it doesn’t matter. With

everything worth doing, the journey its own reward.

THERE I WAS HALFWAY

out the door when I

thought I heard a whisper,

softer than a sigh.

My Muse was asking,

"Are you going to invite

me in? If not, I’ll move on."

She's like that. Doesn’t

like to be taken for granted,

or worse, ignored.

Returning to my desk,

with pen and paper, I began to

write.

She gives me the first line

like an actor who forgot

the script and each one thereafter.

In the end, a gratifying gift,

deftly wrapped for divine

reflection.

A POET'S NATURE

What compels one to write poetry,

perhaps the most challenging literary

discipline of all?

There are certainly easier ways to express

oneself. Yet, a poet is stubbornly persistent.

Insistent. Driven to find perfect words and

phrases to encapsulate an emotion, an image,

an experience in his unique voice.

An audience always welcomed as a bonus,

never a goal. Poets selfishly write for them-

selves. It's a desire that burns deeply within.

When it comes together, the feeling is holy,

cathartic. One feels like an alchemist or

magician transforming an idea or thought

and giving birth into words that can be

rolled sensuously on the tongue, savored,

shared, even committed to memory.

Irrationally optimistic inspiration will come.

Poets are hawks circling high above, patiently

waiting for an idea to show itself. Never

swooping down to clutch it in our talons.

Instead, we hold it in the palms of our hands

as gently as a golden retriever holds a bird.

Reverently. With gratitude.

Writing for hours on end, no regard for

time of day or night, like a poker player,

they play the hands dealt, knowing

inspiration is a melting snowflake, an

evaporating rainbow, a balloon drifting

away on the wind.

Their respect for the art refuses to allow

this to happen, knowing it is a gift to be

nurtured and respected. Treated like the Holy

Grail.

I, too, am a poet. Words I never thought I’d

say. Never believed would be worthy of the

mantle. My work may be unremarkable,

pedestrian (hopefully, never trite), it comes

from the common well-spring we all draw

from. A need to let an idea breathe with life.

Others judge their worthiness. That's not

my role. I do this for me. Nurturing my soul

as nothing else can, I am blessed. Maybe

others will say I am worthy. Only by sharing

unflinchingly. Naked before the world. Exposed.

There's no other place I’d rather be.

WRITING A POEM

It begins naturally. With inspiration.

Where do inspirations come from?

For me, it's a tree bearing fruit. Not

just one fruit, but ones with every kind

imaginable.

A thought. An idea. A word or phrase.

Something you observed. A memory

or experience. An emotion. Maybe it's

a theme or a favorite archetype you like

to return to like an artist painting

different combinations of color using

the same geometric shapes. Picasso liked

to do that.

Walking by, I pluck one that appeals

to me in the moment. It's best to keep

it uncomplicated. Writing the piece is

daunting enough.

Yet, when there's clarity of what you

want to write, words flow freely. The

challenge is writing fast enough as they

tumble out.

This is when the magic happens. Your

mind thinks you’re going in one direction,

when suddenly it veers down surprising

paths you never considered.

How does this happen?

I can’t explain. Yet, this is the source

of joy in writing when you surprise