It takes courage to walk across the aisle To make the best out of what you work with. We often complain that it’s not our style; It might change the character of our pith. But we should not buy that superstition; Instead, look into the fear that we hold Because we will always avoid that migration Because we do not wish to be so bold. When we make that walk something great happens That benefits more than just our ego, Instead we get to see the grateful grins On the ones who we’re supposed to help grow. Why did you start this job in the first place? Was it so you could see their smiling face?
As the sun finishes another lap In the northern sky, I watch the shimmer Of its light glimmer on the ocean’s sap. I know the night will only get dimmer, So I can sit out here a bit longer, And from my well deserved drink, take a sip. As a distant brewing storm gets stronger, And threatens to give the air a sharp nip, I will breathe in deeply this last moment As I wait for its coming arrival. For the sun in the sky has not been spent; I will bear witness to its survival. What else can I do on this grassy shore, But enjoy the scene that’s been laid before?
What harm can come from walking in the rain? Most folks I know would rather stay inside As if getting wet causes severe pain, Holding on to the safety of their pride. I enjoy the world without company, Pretending I own all the puddled streets. I think it funny, they need it sunny As my footsteps complete the splashing beats. An umbrella will provide no shelter As I walk on such a beautiful day, For it washes away all the clutter Of what it means to experience play. So let the clouds continue with their tears, For the city is mine until it clears.
The drops of last night’s rain cling to the bench, Hanging on to a fear of letting go. Ever since they fell from the sky, they clench To the only rail that they ever knew, Beading into an individual Bubble that appears like all of the rest. They know that if they lose their grip and fall Originality found in the nest Will be lost upon reaching the puddle. All those little things that made them distinct Will be gone, gathered within the huddle, When to the bench, he is no longer linked. To continue to clutch on or to fall, The choice that determines the fate of all.
For years, my springs have not been tight enough, And I have been lying around dormant, Sitting amongst all this forgotten stuff, Given no one to deliver my rant. One day that sliding door opened to light, So I could run my hands across my face. My innards wanted to put up a fight To let you know that I was in this space. You moved on to browse the other junk, And I wanted to make my voice be heard, So with the rhythm of a ticking punk, I shouted out my only chiming word. I did not know it would give you unease To hear from rarely given vocal tease.
The kitchen is over in the corner, And the water comes from pumping by hand. The dining room table is a loner; It wobbles when you wish for it to stand. Across the way is the room for living Which is really nothing more than a couch. Underneath it you can keep your clothing, What we call our convenient storage pouch. At night, it turns into a single bed Where two of you can cuddle together. The back door id where you will rest your head, Safe against the cold, Icelandic weather. In here, across the island, you’ll scamper, Ready to become a Happy Camper.
It must be nice waking up being you With the joy that you greet each single day. Your sky must always be a crystal blue, Another opportunity for play. To all you meet, there is an infection That gives them the same happiness to spread. They will see the morning introduction Soaking up the cheerfulness that was said. You are not able to leave your hotel Because of the arrival of new guests, But it is not a bed that you will sell, Rather a relief from life’s harsh duress. The holiday here was comfortable Only because you were personable.
In the courtyard live an old olive tree Who has witnessed the change of the island. From the ancient ships from across the sea To battles fought on the beach’s sand, It has stood watching ages come and go. For its majesty, they built a courtyard To shelter its branches from Winter’s blow. The shade its leaves provide will act as guard For this simple table where we will dine On this culture’s culinary delights. We will toast her with our glasses of wine On how her, here now, makes the perfect night. I don’t know if this was our destiny, The pairing of us and our olive tree.