i call,
we talk,
every week that's how it goes, right?
then i realize i call more often,
we talk about a few more things,
different things,
and i tell what i'm doing,
and i hear what you're doing,
projects,
creativity,
moving forward, starting something new.
the tone changes,
and it's more like talking to a friend,
then, a colleague,
and then you asked my opinion,
took the advice i gave,
and it worked, and it looked great.
and then you started something new,
and it was something i knew about.
you asked my advice,
how i solved that problem,
what i've run into,
what i've discovered.
and Dad,
i'm not sure i'm ready to be the adult here,
to be the font of wisdom,
the knower of things,
the source you look to when you have questions.
i guess you weren't sure you were ready, either,
but you did it anyway.
and so will i.

one night a man dreamed
of golden fields of wheat
and cloudless skies,
a gentle breeze that played upon his skin
as he faced the warm sunshine.

he woke to grey clouds,
and falling rain that was cold and harsh,
and a terrible wind
that whipped at his face.

And yet, he was happy,
for the weather did not make his life beautiful,
and it did not steal his joy -
it was just the weather.

there are times
when i sit and stare
at the paper
or the screen
both blank as my mind,
and wonder if there
is anything worthwhile
to be written.

sometimes, the blankness stares back,
asking when i will have the courage
to write upon it.

i am amazed at what i do not know,
names of people,
things they do
stuff that's happening in the world -
not the political,
or the extreme -
the small things.
what's on Broadway
who won the game
famous people
doing good things
important things.
or maybe -
the fads of today
the stars and starlets
the authors
the musicians
the great "stuff" where we do most of our living
doesn't matter at all
and what i'm missing doesn't matter.

storms come
and the choice is ours:
to run from it,
praying it never catches you,
looking over your shoulder at the beast as it lunges,
hoping it misses,
to stand still,
immovable,
the rock against which the water breaks,
knowing you can outlast it,
or to chase the wind and rain,
to watch as it moves ahead of you,
looking over its shoulder as you come bearing down upon it,
the thing the storm fears.

you're tested
maybe fall
maybe fly
or you do both.

do you see the homeless man,
huddled in a corner where the parking lot
abuts the brickwork,
and the thin cardboard below
does what it can to keep the chill away
from his bones?
he was once proud and able,
they trained him to think,
to fight and survive,
to walk into the oncoming storm
and meet it with equal fury,
a machine gun in one hand
and kevlar protecting him.
a soldier, he was,
now sitting alone and forgotten,
avoided by most
because he smells of dirt and ****,
and businessmen cross the street
just so they won't have to look him in the eye.
they all say "we should do something about that"
but they don't mean it,
until the homeless man comes begging at their stoop,
and they threaten to call the cops on him
so he doesn't drive away business.
if they looked in his eyes,
would they see his nobility,
his pride in that he stood,
with his brothers and sisters in arms,
for a way of life now denied him?
or would he hide that from them,
and leave quietly to return to his parking lot corner,
and sit on the thin cardboard,
letting the chill seep into his bones?