Children Play

I'm sitting against the last bedpost, drifting in and out of consciousness. There is thunder, but no typical coupling of zigzags and bolts - nothing to finish the necessary path. It's a different place where I'm at, for lightning does not come in the world we see as adults; instead, children raise their heads to a complex phenomenon and bow in unison. It's not necessarily a normal place. It's a place where you feel free again, before the rest of life caught up with you.

Remember when you climbed up the steps?

Sneak into the playground,
where children play.
Sit far away and listen to
youth unbridled.
Cradled in your arms, they
laugh and cry.
Try to sit back and
relax to their motions.
On a park bench, green wood,
heavy under your weight.
Be grateful for their
free spirits.
Trip over wood chips and
discarded jump ropes.
Rings float in the air,
suspended to imaginative constructs.
Luck and jacks, hard-top
asphalt and spheres collide.
Along the sides of the playground,
sounds echo down the pathways.
Maybe trails lead to
your seat, and they’ll end up near.
Fearful of disturbing their
serenity, discard that thought.
Hiding from each other,
covering themselves in low culture.
Spurred on by false drama
and dreams undeterred.
Forget that the sun is setting,
swallowed by clouds.
Proud parents lost in their
own discourse.
A thud, followed by the toys
sailing into the air.
Dare to bounce into
the forest on the edge.
Sitting amongst the hedges,
from a distance.
Creaky hands draw crumpled
productions, white sticks.
A flicker of fire, and the
ratchet of plastic on silver.
Coated in wax, and getting
up now, cracking branches.
Light the death rod, while
children play far away.
Don’t stay too long –
that’s not your world.
Curl up next to the giant
oak in the park.
Waltz through the dusty
playground, anger pinched between
your coat and your body.
Draw smoke across the frame,
sitting along the base of the oak.
There are more chances when
you stay close.
Most of the time, they
are far away.
Calm down yourself, jealous
old man.
They’ll understand someday,
and you’ll be gone soon.
Maintain your focus now.

Throw the stick away, grind
your feet with the ground.
Trees breathe a sign of
blessed relief.
Treat them kindly, the children
playing into the night.
Before they lose sight, before the
glory, the additional anonymity.
Stroll into the oak’s
vicinity, greetings.
Across the street, passing
the empty cars.
Take the hand of someone,
curious, smiling.
A new friend,
returning to the bench.
Plan on a short stay, because
the children play.
And you have to return the child.
Exit the forest and toss
out the anger.
Remember how to clean up the place,
the face of youth.

When you are tired and the visual field flutters away, gasping for its last breath, sometimes the gentle beauty of the world lifts her head up, now free from her own mind's eye, and the stunning lights you see are just beauty's moonbeams grazing peacefully, resting against the dirt, streaming her gaze across your mental field into your own.

My hands move, and on the downstroke the scene gets blurry. My eyes close and I stretch out my arms, up again and over my head, the familiar crack of bones snapping away the tension from my limbs.

When your eyes are shut, there's so much more to see than darkness. Twinkling in the swirling constants, the fuzzy visions from the lighted world shift, dancing in the mind's region like pebbles in a jar, shaking around during an earthquake.

Remember when you slid down the tube?

Slices of white breaking through the closed blinds.
Brain matter converges into knowledge.

Go Back.