In response to a post of Jordan Peterson, the famous motivational writer


There are many valid reasons for being silent--

some thoughts are best left to oneself.

I picked a twisted flower in
an unkempt garden.
I kept it for a while.
Without roots, the flower
didn't last.  I barely did.

There were many  
flowers in my younger days.
I loved picking them and
keeping
them close.

In the end, they
all died or blew away.
I felt empty, blood moon
sad.

Such a young fool in
those sizzling summer
nights.
Flowers make terrible
gods.

Dear Universe,
I apologize for not reading
your messages before.
I just preferred to go
my own untraveled road.
You know me so well—

Youth, optimism
and stubbornness
were my strengths.
All these appearances
to decide for myself
with free will?
It was worth it.

Over the years,
I understood
that you are not my enemy.
You wished me to feel better,
and truly complete.
Now, I open your letters,
peacefully smiling,
without fear,
knowing I won’t find
false promises
or easy solutions.

You send me people,
situations, symbols, dreams,
and beautiful melodies,
carried by the solar wind—
that I take in surprising peace.
Even though,
sometimes it’s painful.

Welcome, dear artist, step into the light—
Paint on your pleasure, make your grin tight.
The crowd here is eager, the clapping is loud,
But only for those who have clapped for the crowd.

Powder your cheeks with engagement and grace,
Lace up your lips in reciprocal praise.
A bow for a bow, a sigh for a sigh,
Wink at the watchers or wither and die.

Here in the House where the hollow hands meet,
The loveliest dancers must stay on their feet.
A round of applause is a token to spend,
But spend it too slowly, and you’ll find it ends.

The jesters all juggle, the poets all moan,
The painters trade colors but none of their own.
Each stroke, each verse, each desperate tune,
Not meant to be felt—just meant to be hewn.

For love is a fiction, and merit a game,
A trick of the trade, a conjuring name.
So curtsy, dear artist, and play your part—
For silence here is the end of art.

In Greenhead park's drained
  paddling pool
      a black cast iron water spout
        stands three feet tall;
a puddle of ***** rainwater
  reflects it's rusting brown base.
Red capital letters warn
      Don’t go into the Water when
        there is No Attendant,
      another sign says
        No Dogs.

This Victorian ironwork pipe waits
  for August
      when it will fill the pool with
        water and welcome
            excited, splashing children.
Round the shore
  families will
      enjoy vanilla ice cream
        or sit on plaid blankets eating
            ham sandwiches and blueberry muffins
      washed down with
          tepid coke.

I gaze at the sleeping iron spout and remember
  a blistering childhood August
      when the pool was full
          every day and
  no one thought about lifeguards
      or dogs.

  Ralph and I chased
      each other round the pool:
our bare feet felt
      rough concrete through
          the shallow water.
  He dared me
      to explore the overflow
  as it trickled into
      a dark York stone tunnel.
  I followed Ralph
      down the cold, cramped culvert
        to the starlight of distant planets.

  We walked through Skaro’s black and white
      petrified forest and helped
        Dr Who to defeat
            the Daleks
              in their ozone electric
                  metal city.

  Transported to another universe
      we boldly went
          to seek new people
            and civilizations.
    Ralph and I were
      red blooded Captain Kirk
          and green blooded Spock.

  In September
      school called us back to earth
  but the pool stayed
      full of water
        ready for
            winter ice.

Today
  I walk past the hibernating paddling pool
      as it dreams of summer fullness
  and meditate on
      the roles I played
        after last paddling
            in this pool.