wise

Parents

Hit or miss, it is better to have swung than not,

He would often say to me in my childhood.

Always put forth your absolute all in any effort,

she would tell me after a tough game.

These axioms they provided me, no charge.

It’s ironic, but also fitting in retrospect isn’t it?

That the wisdom they handed out for free,

turned out to be the most invaluable gift they gave.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Short and sweet, but to the point like a parent.

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Old Man

When the old man speaks,

Seldom as it is, everyone respects

His words, and files it away

As wise advice.

Once he was in those fields,

Outworking his children twofold.

Now in his late age, his body

Crumbles, rusted like an old locomotive.

Still, his memory, in the minds of his children,

Compels them to perk up and shut up.

Like an old desert tortoise,

He has walked the desert many times,

And defied the hawks many more.

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The Lady With The Tragic Past

I met her in a therapy group,
The woman who had the tragic past,
She spoke with lots of knowledge
On things like 'self esteem' and 'well being',
And I thought to myself,
'Wow, she really has it all together now',
I thought, 'You would never know',
She worked for a support line in the local town,
And everyone looked up to her...

 

She often spoke of predators of a sexual kind,
Mostly when someone spoke up in the group
About a bad experience,
Like about when they were 10 and played doctor with their siblings,
Or when they touched an intimate part of their body,
With another child in their age group,
And the wise woman with the tragic past
Would always be there...to remind them of how bad
The other person was,
And this freed the group member of guilt,
And soon they would join the wise woman
With the terribly tragic past in her mission.

 

One day a member of the group spoke up
About how her parents taught her what oral sex was,
She said it confused her terribly,
And the wise woman with the tragic past stood up,
And became indignant about such awful parents,
How dare they confuse and abuse their 13 year old child
Without permission from the moral majority
And status quo of prominent psychotherapists in the town,
And the police were called immediately to arrest the predators,
And everyone felt a little sorry,
And the group member felt ashamed to have such horrid parents,
Now under the impression that they didn't really love her,
But that they just pretended to.

 

The wise lady with the tragic past would do that,
She would be there like a dear protector,
She took it on as a mission in life to get every last predator,
And with her experience and grand knowledge about abuse,
There was never a need for her to see proof about a predator,
She knew what other's intentions were without them knowing,
Because she just knew exactly what a predator was,
She didn't have to ask,
Everyone knew she knew,
And everyone trusted her judgement.

 

Once, when I was 6 I fell off my bicycle
And hit my head on a rock during a race with other kids,
I passed out and woke up on the neighbor's couch
With an ice pack on my head, and people around me,
All very happy to see me awaken and be ok,
And there were no predators that I can remember,
But there wasn't anyone like the lady with the tragic past there either,
And everything turned out ok,
I was better the next day, riding my bike down the driveway
In the same way I had the day before,
Having lots of fun like kids do,
And now I wonder if I would have ever got on the bike again
If the wise lady with the tragic past had been there.

 

Takes one to know one maybe.

 

10:22 PM 5/8/2013

Author's Notes/Comments: 

When the abused becomes predatory without even realizing it.

The Wise Ones

I figured out the whys to wise,

 

It can happen within a blinking,

 

While some are busy thinking they know,

 

Others keep on thinking.

 

© 9:36 AM 4/16/2013

Author's Notes/Comments: 

About why wisdom happens.

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The wise wooden bookshelf

I remember how enthusiastic he gets whenever he wants to read a book, and how his eyes open wide whenever he sees such the simple rectangular shape of the book. If I were his sense of smell, I would swear that I would like the smell of old books. If I were his sense of sight, I would affirm that I would like any shadow of any book projected on the table. He tells me with a smile on his face that he has loved books and knowledge since he was a kid. He studied and read on the roof of his house every afternoon until a faint ray of light announced the arrival of the moon and nighttime. He doesn’t like to throw out his books. Instead he keeps them on the bookshelf in order to have them protected like a pearl inside its shell. Whenever he wants to read something, he goes directly to the bookshelf, and because he knows how the books are put in order he doesn’t spend a lot of time searching. I observe his behavior when he’s near the presence of the books, and he seems to be happy in the moment he opens them. Hundreds of small letters written on white paper and elaborated drawings every second page he understands and knows as if they were very old friends. He orders his books according to their size and thickness, but he never orders them according to the color of the cover. At home and in his office, not only are his bookshelfs always full of papers, documents and books, but he also keeps CD’s there of his favorite music. He loves to show me everything he has there, as if to explain to me that if someday I want to see something about his life, I can find almost everything there I want to know. I remember him reading books in front of his bookshelf for hours, and it seemed that his only moments of distraction were when he stood up from his chair to find another book on the bookshelf. He takes care of it as if it was trunk filled with treasures, so he tries to check that every book is placed there, cleaned and organized. My father also takes care of it as if it was a time machine that transports him to the past of what he has read and that will transport him to the future of what he will learn. This wooden shell of a bookshelf will show us my father’s memories and pieces of his whole life written on paper. My father loves books.