Freedom come ...

Children beg to play

In fields made of pits

And stitched with sharp sticks.

So parents shudder, “Aaayy!!

Be careful, love...” as

The light lows and thins.

But the children laugh. For

Their hands can break a blade

Of grass.

Their feet can unlock the bonds

of sucking mud. Their tears

Can make giants kneel—in love.

Parents fret, freshly remembering

Their own quiet losses onto

These brakeless creatures

Who are finding, first-hand,

The world's sudden

Nature.

But old, slow persisters—

Wrinkled so their scars are hidden,

Warmed by gray mittens—laugh;

Loose throat-skins

Catching on their breaths,

They ask:

“Now, how did You learn

What it takes to survive?

First your bone broke,

Then your friend died.

Remember that? Stumbling on

To where life has its ends.

So let them rip,

And heal. Let them

Drop, and feel.

Let them go,

And come:

Too Fast,

Too soon,

Too Confident,

Too dumb.

Let them own that

Pain past the edge.

That view off the ridge.

That bitter smell, disbelieving.

That ache-sick-sinking feeling

Of loss and preciousness:

Let them find out every

Now is an end begun.

For owning that—owning that.

Owning that is 

freedom come.”

Pool of senses ...

Everyone watches that insect

missing a leg, missing a wing.

                            But then looks away from amputees,

                   burn-skinned us's—too close of a thing

 (“Not me!” we want to say).

Really, it's a sad, safe life that

leaves a body whole.

We drop pieces behind us, wear parts away,

like words repeated until no meaning holds.

I only ever skinned my knees

   because running became fun.

   I might burn out my eyes one day

                      looking at the setting sun

                (and that would be a well-spent day).

                                                            I say “Hello” to a neighbor. “Hi”

                                              croaks back. A stiff morning voice.

                        I take his day's first words into my ears.

My memory will go, but for now it remembers this.

And what of my limbs? Not me.

Me, a pool of senses.

Clone them all? 

                         Only like me.

Or carve out my throat? 

                 Was me

        (and then just a still thing, 

                                      senseless).

A warm place...

“There's nothing business about this beer.”

I have to remind myself.

“Sometimes people just like that I'm here,”

I have to remind myself,

“Something about this-I-am is good,

Beyond what I've come to see:

A part beyond useful, helpful; that's

Enjoyable. Here in me.”

So I'm starting to teach myself,

As for a sullen child I might do,

“Just stop! Don't cry, don't doubt;

Say and know: who cares for you?”

          Who loves you in a quiet way?

    Who supports you imperfectly?

 Whose smiles do you remember,

Cast toward your eyes, for free?

“Even as you doubt them, they

Wish you well.                                       So there's a start:

                                                   Wrap their stubborn love for you

                                                     Around your stubborn heart.”

Why they discount day-old bread...

                                            “Fresh” out            of a relationship,

                                          a day                                          or two,

                                     You still have                  the echoing feeling

                                  That someone                         will kiss you soon.

                               But then,                        you're not “fresh” anymore.

                     Distinct from                        single, stable;

                    nor loved                              and bright.

                    “Don't tell me                           to get some sleep—

                    I've been singing that              song all night.”

                    Thinned (but not hungry).                     Restless and low.

                     “Fresh,” you can still                taste those words,

                      “I love you”—

                       But then nothing's by you,

                        and all seems             above you.

Bavacakra (wheel of life) ...

               "What is 

                        not me?"

     Don't ask that question 

                                    much.

I ate some food,                and I

shook some hands,           while

breathing     in a crowded room:

Her                 palm, someone's 

out-breath,   a plowman's pull.

All into   my skin, my lungs, 

my stomach  going   full.

  Little     points-of-

                        trade,
                               where I
                                        grow-                  or-        fade,      as

                                                         the         world comes to touch.

I was thinking                            so hard                   about where to draw

         The line—                      I didn't see anything          between the time

                                               I left that driveway and now,       this midway,

                                              where the road                   switches pavements.

…............................................................Rrshhhshhhrshhh—psshssshssspssh..................

                                              My! …          Was I even driving?               (if I

                                                am presence-of-mind               and       such.)

                                                I was definitely                               thinking:

                                                       “What is me?”               Don't ask

                                                            That question          much.

Botching a hug ...

I'm an Olympic-level hugger,

Usually average an 8.5.

But I fumbled you yesterday, a 3!

And I think that I know why:

Performance is half preparation;

The other half, presence-of-mind.

And I didn't know we'd be hugging;

Plus I'm weak at this 'Casual bind'.

See, my handicap is, I like you.

It trips me up when “Let's be friends”

Turns to falling in your eyes over table-tops

And taming butterflies in my head.

Now, of course—no excuses—I fumbled,

With a weak 'One-armed chin-drape.' So stiff!

But I promise, next time, a good 'Wrap-squeeze'

Or, if I land right, a 'Flat-palms half-lift.'

At a 7, your skin will feel warmer.

An 8 will make your muscles relax.

At a 9, you'll find yourself smiling.

And a 10 will br-ring chimes up your back.

As an athlete, I know my own limits:

I won't promise 10's, next we meet.

But, at least, I'll set stage for a 7.

And then train, all my heart, to increase.