My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
A Child’s Garden Of Verses by Robert Louis StevensonI suspect that was my early Racecar Driver period (possibly late-Cowboy.) But I can barely remember what I had for lunch yesterday…
Reeds cover the tiny island.
Shallow streams cut through the cold sand.
I see the Southern Tower for
The first time in two decades.
How many days since I moored
Under this willow tree?
Mid-Autumn Festival is almost here.
On the rocks of Yellow Crane,
Do my friends still reside?
This old place has many new sorrows.
If I bought wine and we cast off together,
Could we be young again?
Eat more veggies, mind your joints, beauty is everywhere, all is impermanence, and very few things in life actually matter (see item 4.)
when I was a child,
roosters aggressively charged;
now: they flee, clucking.
I had a guitar, a black and white Fender Stratocaster knock-off. [Actually, technically, I don’t think it was a knock-off, but rather the lowest of low-end mass-produced Strats made by a subsidiary of Fender, Squier.] What happened to it? I realized I was tone deaf and lacked the finger dexterity to be the sequel to Eddie Van Halen. So, ostensibly, it ended up donated or sold in a garage sale. There’s a small chance it’s taking up space in a closet somewhere, but not in my closet.
Not to reveal a pattern, but I also had a yellow and blue BMX bike that I was quite fond of. What happened to it? I learned that I lacked the flight characteristics to be a great BMX racer (or possibly I rode it until it fell apart into its component pieces.) Youth was a long time ago.
When I was a child,
for a time,
the bridge was out.
They were replacing the rusty
iron trestle bridge
with a thick-slab concrete
monstrosity.
I could go down to the river,
and I could see the
scarred and marred
construction site,
& the big yellow machines
that sat dormant on the weekends.
But one couldn't cross the river --
not unless one was willing to get wet,
and was a better swimmer than I
(and it was autumn & the water cold.)
It was a strong current that swept
along between two steep banks.
It was not a great distance,
nor were they violent waters.
But that brown water moved with
such smooth swiftness.
I dream about the time the bridge was out,
now & again,
and wonder what it was
about those weeks
that still has meaning to my mind.
pumping the swing, i quickly regain the rhythm of my youth
What’s the age at which dancing on a grave switches from an adorable bubbling over of life
to a
deplorable act of petty vindictiveness?
I saw a boy — clearly in the former category — pull it off,
but I knew that if I joined in the best I could hope for was an evil eye. And the worst would be to be slapped, kicked, or spat upon.
For I long ago crossed the river of innocence beyond which lie presumptions of foul intent.
An ever-watchful Orphean world keeps me from crossing back over that Stygian river.
Oh, to live life on the other bank.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 