Lotus

It is not in spite of,

But rather, because of,

The manure and storm and burying darkness,

That the seed awakens.

Pushing through the crap,

Extracting what is needed,

Past the rocks and mud and hindrance,

Into the sunlit world.

With the muck below,

Still a reminder and cause,

Of life previous and struggle and change,

Petals open revealing beauty.

Deeply Trite

Free advice is often worth much more than its price tag, but also sometimes less.

When people say “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…”, it means they are about to insult you.

Friends who treat their family members poorly will eventually treat you poorly.

If you think that you are better than someone else, you’re wrong.

Being successful is great, but being thoughtful is better.

Mindfulness only develops with practical application.

There are few better feelings than cold little hands on the back of your neck.

You cannot escape the fact that, eventually, you will resemble your parents more and more, and your children less and less.

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” can be a very stupid mindset.

Sometimes you are incorrect, sometimes you’re not.  Knowing the difference is immeasurably valuable.

Responsibility is heavy, but the more you carry the stronger you get.

Everybody knows the dice are loaded.  Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.

Happiness happens while you’re laughing.

4th or 5th

The musty, green scent of algae on concrete, damp and slick, mingling with the tar up on the roof and down in the teacher’s parking lot.   Slamming double doors expelling turkey gravy and rice filled pre-teens, laughing and shouting their way around two lefts and then right into either echoing locker rooms or bathroom.  Passing both, double doors again, then take care ‘cause the tiles are slick when your rubber soles are wet, lockers slamming, big-kid combos I keep forgetting, and dad’s class on the right by the steps down, only not his class anymore.  Out the front, down the wide steps and through the parted green seas of blue-green to the silent bell still calling children to class, pausing at the sanctuary to shoot a few, minding the puddles but not the rain.  Keeping to the crunch of gravel, not the field – quicker but slicker – dodging ditches and watching for Dangerous Robert Vanzant, scratch that with rocks from the side by the briars and the Jehovah’s Witness’ house, smelling like sewage, to be thrown like little king-to-be David’s.  Sidewalk jumps up from the mud and it’s the home stretch, pool table and filberts on the right, Jesus’ best friend behind, best lawn in the hood to the left.  Jump the fence or run round, either way watch the thorns, and crab grass down the gravel drive (a double bump in the back seat of a cheap car when you’re almost asleep) across the lawn, up the step, left hand the doorknob and hip bump the sticky hinges…home.

Broke or Broken





Having nothing, I am broke.

Having everything, I am broken.

Power is confinement.

Weakness is freedom.

Control is a figment.

Servitude is influence.

Future is worry.

Past is regret.

Now is contentment.

Noise is static.

Silence moves forward.

Ignorance begins.

 Knowledge begets ignorance.

Having nothing, I am broke.

Having everything, I am broken.

Mortality

From robust silvery-grey,

Standing amidst the torrents and the gently falling mist,

To brown, and then rich maroon.

The minutes, hours, days take wing  

Unnoticed except in reflection. 

 Old man arbor,

Bearded with lichen, stooped, yet towering,

Watching his daughters.

The seedlings metamorphose,

Sprout to sapling, drinking in the sun.

A sign, fastened with burgundy,

Gray, worn canvass, painted with uneven script,

Announcing a station, a lowly caste.

Resplendent in the gold of sunset,

Bronze covering  items of little value.

Ingested words, jargon meal,

Smattering of specificity, mental images, laid to page,

A bitter offering, dissatisfying, served cold.

Of what prayer are they born,

And to whose ears supplicate?

Riding a Broken Bike

It constantly amazes me that people choose to ride from place to place on a malfunctioning bike.  Stranger still, they seem to think that getting a new paint job, or perhaps attaching a shiny new horn, will make the ride smoother.  True, people they pass do notice how the light plays over the arresting outer coat, and the noise from the horn does turn heads, but an observer's focus only pauses on these things for a moment.  If I could transcribe the internal monologue of these voyeurs, it would probably be something like this:

"Wow, nice paint job, and the horn sounds sweet...I wonder if he/she knows their bike is broken?" 

It makes me wonder if I need to check out my ride.  Am I rolling on flats?  Has the chain come off while I'm hard at work putting on a cushy new seat that will keep my gluteus maximus comfortably covered?  I guess that when it comes right down to it, the only thing that keeps me from joining the ranks of these finely festooned, yet faultily maintained travelers is the company I keep. 

Don't take me wrong.  I am most certain that there have been more than a few times that passers-by have checked out my travels with a wry grin and a mental note to construct a quaint story about the biker they saw awkwardly pushing a rickety two-wheeler.  I even bet their friends got a kick out of it, and rightly so.  I'm even more certain that while on these painfully slow and tiring escapades, I had companions along for the ride atop equally jacked-up steeds, chatting with me about how dashing we must look.  Insert a "hindsight is 20/20" cringe here...

I guess I'm just fortunate that, for whatever reasons, I have been able to hear the advice of those riding nicely maintained machines.  An interesting note about these wily sojourners – their bikes are never flashy.  Always well constructed, sturdy, and balanced, but never gaudy.   They’re willing to help you out, as well.  Not in the “Hey buddy, here’s what you’re doing wrong” sort of way, but mostly in the “Are you interested in a smoother trip?”, noninvasive way.  It seems to help that they constantly are referring to the owner’s manual.  Duh!

That’s it.  I guess I shouldn’t waste time getting mad at broken bike jockeys.  It’s difficult not to at times, especially when you see that they’re leading a caravan of new-to-the-road cyclists and they seem to be oblivious to how close they’re riding to the edge of a cliff…but I digress.  Sooner or later they’ll figure out the problem, or their legs are going to give out.  I hope it’s the former, rather than the latter.  Time will tell.