If we were kind, it’s seldom we would yell.
We’d demonstrate the gentle in the mind,
respecting how our lives have intertwined,
refraining from a tendency to tell
each other how to better. We’d compel
behavior matching what we wish to find.
If we were kind.
And if I could, I’d cast a magic spell
designed to send the negatives that lined
our plans and faces quietly behind.
We’d neither lie – it’s snarkiness we’d quell,
if we were kind.
At what age does the child comprehend
the parent is a person who can live
in panorama, as the years extend
until the kid can venture to forgive?
Perhaps it happens when he starts to bend
to parenthood himself, in stress’s sieve.
Or maybe it will take three dozen years,
of late aware respectful love appears.
Expecting inattention all around
from neighbors who seem mentally unkempt,
I’m never stunned – this is no battleground,
but I’ll admit to harboring contempt
deployable the second signs are found.
But when there’s evidence that will preempt
my caustic thought, I’m swept with sweet surprise.
A mote of countenance gets in my eyes.
The kids will eat the vegetables I cut,
and fruits that I arrange in patterns neat,
mandalas where there’s care how things abut.
The kids will eat.
I mimic chalked-in pictures from the street,
selecting foods to satisfy the gut
and sight, as well as taste. The task is sweet.
Embellishing with pumpkin seed or nut,
the project is as pleasant as it’s meet.
No candy now: the produce here is what
the kids will eat.
It took 3 days at home for me to rest.
The punch lists have been checked and tossed away.
Some tasks remain, it has to be confessed,
but there’s a clearance present for today.
And though I’ll have to shop and then to pay
for gifts December ransoms every year,
I’ve time this afternoon to change array,
and wrap myself in flannel atmosphere.
I walked to BART the long way yesterday.
I thought I’d stop and purchase something good.
The market had low stock, but anyway
I sampled senses in the neighborhood.
The turning leaves against blue sky held sway;
I photographed that color where I stood.
Far tastier than crackers would have been,
I filled my lungs with Autumn oxygen.
I chose the practice titled “Slow Your Roll.”
It begged just 16 minutes from my clock,
and slowly then I reassumed control
of seconds, as I stretched in taking stock
of ligament and tendon, palm and sole,
my skeleton relearning to unlock.
That carpet time promoted sweet relief,
and like these lines the exercise was brief.
The spirit of the covenant is neat,
though letters in the ancient text are stern.
It’s mindfulness that’s sought, in a complete
departure from the daily grind: to learn,
to think, to contemplate, to burn
the other end of candlelight, ablaze
with comprehension, and return
with fresh perspective for the coming days.
An edge of irritation’s lurking now.
Perhaps I’ve been too patient recently.
Six days away, among those I allow
a lot of latitude, my energy
invested in attending carefully
to people passionate and needing more
than effort earns or luck bestows. I see
500 miles ahead my own front door.
En route to home, I wonder what I’ll find.
Will bins have been retrieved and hose returned?
Will he I hired have begun defined
procedures to restore what I have learned
needs fixing or replacement, now consigned
to expertise I lack? Sure I’m concerned,
but nothing so disruptive will there be,
to steal home benefits away from me.
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