sticky

The web clung to his shoe, as only webs can, sticky and stringing out in tendrils.  He, of course, hadn’t meant to walk through it but he was terrible about such things.  With his mind always on other things, he tended to walk into things and trip over his feet, even when he was looking down at them.  His thoughts were rarely with his eyes.  Not that he was always working on world saving problems, his ambitions were not that lofty.  His mind simply never found it easy to be in the present, the here, the now.

The web presented an obstacle to that, though.  He hated spiders.  And removing the web would be a challenge.  He couldn’t brush it away with his hand.  The web would just transfer over.  He could try to scuff his shoe against a curb or wall but that might do nothing more than mar the polish.  He had no tissue or other paper handy he could sacrifice to the cause.  So, the tendrils continued to drag and stretch out behind each of his steps and his thoughts became so stuck on the matter that he missed the door opening in front of him until he had crashed into it.

After picking himself up, dusting himself off, accepting the apology of the person who opened the door – who wasn’t at fault but apologized anyway – he was pleased to note that the web had come free in the commotion.  The last of it drifted in creeps and crawls along the sidewalk until he caught on a grate and waved menacing taunts in the breeze.  Glad to be rid of the web, he continued on with his journey and his thoughts soon returned to other matters, some more pressing than others.

All things considered, a walk with only two unwanted bumps wasn’t bad.  He had suffered far worse in shorter distances.  He seemed to always run into a few things.  He had no intentions of being more mindful, though.  That wasn’t his way and he was too old to want to change.

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viva la

Another silly poem post
Just because I like to write them most
Perhaps that isn’t true
Then again, who knows why I do the things I do
I don’t know, that’s for sure
The words decide where to go
And my fingers only work to assist
But this is the last you’ll have to endure
The last this month with rhyming flow
The urge for more, I shall resist

king

He was King.  Not by birthright.  Not by succession or election. But because he had worked for it, fought for it, scraped and kicked and gouged and won battle after battle as he ascended to the top, to the throne.  And there he sat, surveying his dominion, King of all he could see.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, anyway, until recess was over.

Then he would have to earn it all over again the next time his class raced out to the play structure.

He was looking forward to it.

it is what it is

The holidays are coming. The holidays are coming.
Family and gifts and events and food and stress.
Don’t forget to bet who leaves dinner first fuming.
Don’t forget to wear your best suit or fancy dress.
That’s not festive music, that’s your blood drumming.
You’ve too many commitments, too many to impress.
The holidays are coming. The holidays are coming.
Aren’t you ever so very much excited?
I am. Can’t you tell? I’m positively beaming.
Or maybe that’s just a looming dread…

boom

They set the charges and light the fuse
And then seem surprised at the explosion that ensues.
Are we failing them or vice versa?
And why must we think of it as winning or losing?
Parenting doesn’t have to add up.
It isn’t a game. There’s no playbook, no ending.
Yet everyone who has ever been one
Thinks their doled expert advice will fix every problem.
The truth surely is far simpler,
Every child is unique and will be raised different.
What worked for the experts
Is a guarantee of nothing but days ill spent.
But this isn’t about that at its core.
It’s about two little hooligans from kingdom lore
Doing everything in their power
To work against the rule of the land, their parents,
And then being reduced to a cower
When facing the consequences their actions rent.