Empathy

People are capable of doing horrible things to one another and to the creatures with which they share the earth. The only thing that stops completely self-motivated behavior is a sense of empathy. The larger and more encompassing the empathetic envelope, the better the person, the better the society, and the better the world.
 

Christmas Carol Disconnect

I don't know about you, but when I was a kid we spent very little time rocking around the Christmas tree. For middle class, Midwestern American families in the fifties and sixties that type of thing was kind of frowned upon. For that matter, I don't remember decking the halls with boughs of holly either. A string of lights and a wreath on the front door were the extent of our holiday decorations. Oh, and I have never heard sleigh bells jing-jing-jingling. I have no idea what type of neighborhood you were brought up in, but on my street automobiles were the order of the day.

Intelligence

Intelligence-wise, I probably rate myself higher than I should. I communicate well, I admit, but linguistic ability is only one type of smarts. Mastery of words has its uses, but so does hand-eye coordination, an ear for the placement and production of sound, an eye for line and color, the ability to organize ideas or synthesis facts, an understanding of human emotion and individual need, and a hundred other talents which I possess in smaller quantities than others or not at all. Intelligence comes in many forms and many colors; some measurable on standardized tests and some not.

Troll

The apartment was small, but there was an internet connection. What was lost in physical footage was gained in cyber space. There wasn't room for a full sized sofa, but the troll in me was allowed to roam free. The first night there I slept under a narrow foot bridge that spanned a ragging river. It was mildly uncomfortable, to be sure, but boy, were those billy goats surprised!
 

Unfortunately I remember

The past can only hurt you if you let it. And I let it time and time again. My guard comes down. And my save-face is pounded like a pound of beef steak. Every failure. Every discourtesy. Every Hail Mary that hit the turf with a resounding thud. Every night spent outside looking in. Balls up its fingers into a fist. And strikes. Blow after blow.

You cannot box with days gone by. You cannot punch a shadow. But it can punch you. No matter how many times I re-stage a fight. The outcome is always the same. Defeat. Wounds I thought long healed. Open again. Scars burst with new blood. The heat of moments long gone burns anew. The second I turn my head backward. I am vulnerable.

On Parade

Don't parade your happiness please. The miserable masses don't want to see it. They aren't waiting for you and your wonderful life to pass by amide streams of confetti. They don't line the sidewalks of your neighborhood with their small children perched on their shoulders. They didn't get up early on a Saturday morning to secure a good place along the curb. They won't be cheering as you smile and wave oozing beneficent charm. You aren't Lindbergh landing in Paris. You aren't Santa Claus coming down the chimney. You aren't the troops returning from battle overseas. You are only annoying. . .

Let Us Cry

Let us cry for things lost.
For faces we will never see again.
For experiences clung-to though barely remembered.
For crayon colors no longer in the box.
For tastes dried like straw on the tongue.
For moments extinct as terrible lizards or elephants with fur.
For things that were and never were.

There are no real words for the terrors of time.
For the death of innocence.
For the demise of purpose and direction.
For deficiencies in hearing and sight.
For photo albums of yellowing black and white prints.
For voices now muffled by dirt and stone.
For long hours spent lonely and alone.

Let us cry for things lost.
For the buried and the bygone.
For names with no future only a past.
For stories told to sleepy children.
For one small knot in a great spider's web.
For a night sky so dark the stars must peek around its edges.
For a thousand feet toeing a thousand ledges.

There are no real words for the terrors of time.
For waiting in hospital corridors.
For standing next to newly tiled earth.
For October memories of April skies.
For calendar pages flipping on newsreel frames.
For dated fashions and friendly facades.
For weary winks and tired nods.

Let us cry for things lost.
For boot prints left in melting snow.
For haystack needles un-found and forgotten.
For comforts we've moved beyond.
For dreams we've dreamed, but outgrown.
For Saint Theresa's homilies dripping with un-godly grace.
For life slipping from our embrace.

There are no real words for the terrors of time.
For peeling skin on ancient lips.
For flecks falling from chipped figurines.
For taking our place at the head of line.
For a chill in the bones and an ache in the heart.
For wisdom won at a terrible cost.
For things now lost, lost, lost. . .