Bully for You

P1160348I dream of sharing safely

my thoughts, my fears, my self,

without the terror of being ganged up on

taken down and pummeled

with editing fists.

I know the power of the crowd,

the attraction of the target,

the death scent of ostracization.

“Kids will be kids,” you may say,

not wanting to interfere.

You were once a child.

Perhaps you smelled the bloodlust.

Perhaps you relieved yourself by

bruising the young spirit of another.

I don’t doubt you suffered yourself.

Too many years I made excuses

for your bad behavior.

My compassion forgave you because

your father was an alcoholic,

you didn’t have much money,

your grades weren’t as good as mine.

Of course, you were more popular.

I had to forgive if I wanted to survive.

Later, we became friends.

Isn’t that the way of children?

Bucked Off

Just kind of tired. Little sleep last night.

I didn’t really get bucked off and don’t plan to be. The holidays trampled me under foot and left me a pulpy, breathless orphan, alone in my experience.

Once I get more sleep I’ll find my way back.

I can always dream…

The years have passed. Life waxes autumnal. My hair is brown now only because I visit the supermarket shelves and survey the assortment of light brown hair dye, probably for longer than I need to, before I toss a box into my shopping cart. Then I use it. I let it go gray for a while. It was pretty, but my brief and current foray back into professional life prompted me to maintain the facade. That’s not a really good sign, is it?


Langston Hughes1902 – 1967

Hold fast to dreams 
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

I kept that on my desk when I worked at the Chatham College library. I was devastated, working in a library again, my dreams of being a professional flute player shattered, but only around the edges, just chipped away at. The icy cold heart of my ambition remained intact.

Carry the Dream

Unless it’s not your own.

I’m not a silver screen. Your light belongs to you.

I might want to help, lend a helping hand, a smile, a laugh, a romp, a giggle, but there is no way in hell I want to carry your baggage.

My back aches from the weight of others. Carry me pony.

I’m light.

Ephemeral Wildness

Life is wild. Wildlife, running uninhibited through the woods. Life kicks up its heels and skids to a stop on all fours, pivoting quickly on one well-planted hind limb, so many degrees of pirouette. Life gestates, comes forth, regresses to the soil, springing green and irresistible to grazing beasts.

Youth snorts and pronks like a springbok, perhaps hoping to catch a better view of life to come from a slightly higher altitude. Strength begets confidence, rushing blood urges joyful motion ever quicker and more curious.

Some crashes are worth a shake of the head and a minute of reflection, then we’re off once again, tally-ho! Obstacles are cleared, the path opens up, our feet are sure and fleet. All motion, wind, blood, hair, appendages, crushed mallow and grass, odors sweet and pleasing.

Sometimes the path deceives and all feet go out from under us. The dependable becomes black and darkness, unseeable, the moment becomes all, but blind, not freeing. Pain traps us inside ourselves, fear contracts upon itself, quiet places invite us.

We heal, but new steps become slightly more hesitant, a little more measured. Experience guides us and keeps us safe, curiosity keeps us moving forward, fear seeks to confine us.

When the path is known, the traveler knows best how to proceed.

I Love My Flute

That’s kind of wild, right? It’s cold hard metal. Someone spent a lot of time crafting it. It’s been through the wringer. Viviana played the hell out of it and I know I should buy a new flute some day, but now since I’ve dropped it, I feel somewhat obligated to carry her through her tenancy with me. She’s so pretty with the silver body, gold inside and the gold head with her silver crown. Yes, I replaced the head. I should sell the Powell headjoint that Vivi played on. It really is a good head. Maybe I should sell it all and go back to Japanese flutes.

Then, sigh. What do I know? I ride horses.