The Year that Was, but Wasn't

 

I had to go back and read

what it was I wrote for the

end of 2019, to see how I

should try and wrap up the

year 2020.

 

https://aminutewithmichael.blogspot.com/2019/12/oh-god-another-new-year.html

 

The Pandemic had yet to hit

and the possibilities of 2020 seemed

mildly amusing and at its

cheesiest best.

Kids in school?

Ha!

 

2020 was the year that was,

and wasn’t. The year that

reminded us of what it is like

to lose, and lose badly.

It’s been a while since a lot

of us have had a quality

ass-whoopin’.

 

2020 was there to shove

their disgusting and diseased boot heel

into our faces and say with smiling

contempt, “I rubbed it in dog

shit too!”

Yes, 2020 came to kick humanity’s

collective ass.

 

2020 was the swirly no one expected,

yet should have been easy to avoid.

We had ample time to get out of the way,

yet our incredulous disbelief in our own

fallibility clouded our heads.

 

The tragedies of the last 12 months

have been immense and unwieldy,

like moving an elephant with a shoehorn.

So I make no predictions about 2021,

only that it is the year after.

 

It will arrive regardless of our disposition.

We will have to make the best of it as well as

we can and resist the urge to choke it out

before we have to.

 

So, all in all, the most I can

ask of 2021 is to be peaceful.

Calm, relaxed, measured and

tempered.

 

I can dream of bigger things,

but I think it’s best to keep those

quiet for a while and see how things

go. I’ll look before leaping into 2021.

 

Happy New Year Dear Loyal Readers,

and thank you for all your support this year!

Sarah's Parking Lot Christmas

 

                Sarah sat in the passenger seat of her boyfriend’s car. He’d taken the keys with him when he went into the store. It had been about twenty minutes and it was starting to get cold. Her breath was fogging up the glass and every so often she’d have to wipe it with her mitten to get a clear view of the entrance. She wished he’d left the keys in the ignition so she could at least play the radio and have some heat. Her legs were cold and she rubbed them to get the blood flowing. It was getting dark outside. Sarah could hear other vehicles driving through the store’s parking lot slush; splashing it. She looked at the time on her phone and sighed. She wiped another clear spot on the glass and scanned the store’s front entrance. 

                It was the annual Christmas Party for Sarah’s employer. She was already running late. Jacob hadn’t really wanted to go but they’d been together for a year now and she thought it was about time she showed him off. She had dressed up a little more than she usually did for the Christmas party; wrapping paper looking leggings, a fun holly inspired skirt, a silly Christmas sweater and Christmas bows in her hair. She thought she’d try a little harder this year, since she had Jacob now. She’d been going to the party for the last few years as a single woman and since all her co-workers were all married, she never felt like dressing up more than the bare minimum of Holiday etiquette required. She was excited to show off her Holiday spirit a little bit this year. She’d encouraged Jacob to get something festive too. Which he didn’t do. Resulting in the last-minute stop at the store. 

                Another five minutes passed and Sarah was getting colder. The temperature had been dropping all day and now that the sun had set, the temperature had dropped considerably. The windows in the car were all fogged now and wiping a clear spot was barely making any difference. She could only slightly make out the well-lit entrance to the SuperStore. All Jacob had to do was find something festive with a quick in and out to the store, a bow tie or a neck tie or suspenders or something Christmas-y to stick to his outfit. Which had already left Sarah feeling disappointed. Blue jeans and sneakers, an un-ironed, ill-fitting white dress shirt, and a Boston Red Sox Sweater thrown over it.  She was pretty disappointed into what little effort he had shown, especially since he knew that this was important to her. 

                On top of that, she had been sitting in his cold car for half an hour. She took out her phone and tried calling Jacob. It went to voicemail. She texted him so he could maybe let her know how much longer he would be and if she should come in and find him or if everything was all right. No response. She was getting more and more irritated and worried at the same time. His blatant inconsideration seemed to getting more pronounced with each passing day. All Sarah really wanted was someone special to celebrate Christmas with. Someone to cuddle with as they watched the Christmas Classics on TV while happily covered in a big blanket. Someone to sweetly stare at the decorated tree with and comment on how this, this is all they really wanted for Christmas. She didn’t think it was too much to ask. Jacob played video games on his team chat all last night.  He barely looked at the little tree Sarah had carefully decorated, even with little picture ornaments of her and Jacob. 

                She started to worry that maybe Jacob was losing interest in her. They’d met right after Christmas last year and everything was so sweet and nice. He was so attentive and cheerful, yet now, he seemed distant and disengaged. She knew that his work had been harder lately and he’d had some family troubles with a black-sheep sister and other stuff, but she wasn’t really sure since Jacob hardly ever spoke about it. She felt very confused, yet, didn’t want to lose what might be the most special relationship in her life. She wiped her eyes and then wiped the passenger window clear. Still no Jacob. 

                She was now nearly in the car for forty minutes and was now twenty minutes late for the party. Her confusion and concern for Jacob had quickly turned to anger. She’d kill ‘em she thought. He’s ruining this night on purpose because he didn’t want to go to the party in the first place. She was beginning to think that maybe Jacob wasn’t so special after all. Maybe she didn’t need this sort of inconsiderate behavior at all. Maybe she was worth more than this, maybe someone, some guy out there would understand her value. Maybe the Christmas gift she needed to give herself was the strength to go out there in the world alone and make her own Christmas joy.  She had felt the sting of rejection and loneliness for so long that she was sure that she could get over dumb Jacob and his inconsistent attention and affections. Sure, it would be no problem for her to call an Uber to the store, get out of Jacob’s car and take herself to the Christmas party where she’d let her inhibitions go and really show those people that she wasn’t a stick in the mud or a sad sack or whatever Daphne had called her that one day. That was it. She was leaving. 

                But wait, there were all the gifts she bought him, and the commitments to spend time with his family instead of hers and the promises made about sex and love and always being open to communication. It was too much for her to process right now. She would just have to get through Christmas and then she would let Jacob know that this wasn’t working out anymore. The she wanted more than this. She shivered. 

                Jacob opened the driver’s side door and plopped into his seat.               

                “So sorry babe, it was a madhouse in there. All the last-minute Christmas shoppers and then a fight broke out between some lady and another lady, and they were pushing each other and then a display got knocked over and all the cashiers had to stop it. It was so crazy," said Jacob. 

                Sarah frowned. Jacob put the key in the ignition and started the car. He turned the heat and defogger on. He opened a small plastic bag on his lap and took out a hideous Christmas neck-tie. 

                “How’s this look? Christmas Party worthy,” he asked.

                “Fine. It’ll be fine. Can we just go please,” said Sarah.

                “Jeeze, what’s with the attitude,” said Jacob as he put the car in drive and maneuvered towards the street. 

                Sarah bit her lip and fold her arms across her chest. Jacob turned on the radio to a Christmas music station. As the Little Drummer Boy pa-rum-pa-pa-pa’d, Sarah had already decided that Christmas sucked.   

                                                                                                ~~~~

 

--------- Normally I try and write an upbeat sort of Christmas story, but this one somehow seemed far more fitting for 2020.  So be it. In spite of how crummy this year has been I do want to thank you and  wish you and yours a truly wonderful Holiday! Merry Christmas and all that! ---------

 

 

                                                                                                                                Michael

 

Hard Times with Words

 

Shaking the dust and cobwebs

from the word box.

There are such multitudes of words to choose

from.

Yet, the only one that seems to shimmer

is, “Irritated”.

 

Irritated? That’s not really the one

I was looking for.

I was hoping for something seasonal,

or jolly.

Something hopeful or joyous, perhaps

even miraculous.

 

But Irritated is what I got. Not really the

word to put on top of the tree.

Not exactly the sort of word we need

right now.

It’s just not the word I was hoping

for.

 

I shook the word box again, hoping

for something better.

I got Irritated again.

I shook it again.

I got Irritated.

I got Irritated.

I got Irritated.

 

Now the word box is in a crumpled

heap on the tile,

and irritation covers the floor.

Amid the curses and swears, and

the angry tearful drops.

 

I’m sweaty and sitting on my haunches,

breathing heavy after kicking and stomping

that blasted word box all to hell. I’m feeling

my heartbeat in my chest and some gnawing

regret in my mind.

 

How irritating.

It’s all so very irritating.  

So silly too. Embarrassing really.

Quite silly in fact. Too silly. Maddeningly

silly.

  

I gather up the busted word box

from the floor.

I put it back on the shelf and leave

the attic.

 

Maybe next year, there

will be less irritation.

Less silliness.

More loving, joyous and

miraculous words.

 

Hear, here

 I have been,

Staring at this god damn,

Screen for so long,

Wondering when,

She’s going to get

Tired of me.

The paper,

Remember the paper 

Between your fingers,

As you felt the paper,

And you fell apart with

Each word from some,

Other voice.

My voice in your head,

That you can’t see.

Or sleep.

Until she finishes her

Song.

Everytime, she breaks

Me with her silence.

An echo in the

Dark, a puddle in the

Rain.

Another Year

 

Still here, still loping along

at my current pace,

to quote Shel Silverstein,

“I don’t know where I’m going,

but I’ve seen where I’ve been”.

a la, Backwards Bill.

 

A poem I’ve known since childhood,

which today (of all days) seems

like a very long time ago.

Yet, really, really recent.

A flood of childhood memories

are always lingering on the fringes

of my mind.

 

Yet the memories are sort of

sepia toned and rusty at the edges,

sort of an out of focus Polaroid yet revealing

so much detail in an over-bright flash.

The flash on the embarrassments,

the mistakes, the shames, the

assumptions corrected.

 

It is true that I value those

moments for the learning experiences

that they were meant to be, I just have

never quite understood why I have had

to learn those lessons the hard way;

From longing and lusty loving, to the

rejections of affections and every

hard luck emotion in between.   

 

I’ll cut in to some birthday cake

sometime soon and I’ll think about

all the cake I didn’t eat in a time when

I didn’t much like cake, but now, as I’m

older, I like cake very much.

I’ll think of the wasted selfish wishes

blown over ever growing numbers of

candles. Maybe, the good wishes too,

I suppose.

 

I’m still here, slightly happy,

less unhappy, loved and love to give.

 

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Thanksgiving 2020

 

To be Thankful,

is to acknowledge the

great gifts we have received,

embraced and have luckily

cherished over what has

got to be one of the shittiest

years in the history of modern

times.

 

2020 has been by far,

one of the largest turds

ever dropped over the side of

the toilet called life.

It’s been unending anxiety,

misery and even more anxiety,

mixed with constant uncertainty,

rife with confusion and ceaseless

belly-aching.

 

I’m even exhausted by the very idea

of writing one more piece about it.

My keyboard has been silent lately whilst

confronted with election results, a resurging

virus, and the general uneasiness of day to

day living in a petri dish of unknown terrors

stalking us to an untimely death.

 

Yes, that’s 2020.

So what should we be thankful for

as we approach a Day of National Thanks Giving?

Well, if you’re lucky, you still have your loved ones

in your life to hold onto. Perhaps you have friends

that have helped you through the hardest times, or

ones that you have helped out to the best of your

ability. I suppose that’s certainly something to

be thankful for.

 

I guess we can be thankful that at least one

national nightmare is coming to an end and a

new period can begin and get us back on track towards

a more just and fervent future. So, there’s that up on

the Thanksgiving scoreboard. It doesn’t change the

outcome of the game much, but it’s good to be on

the board.

 

Personally, I’m thankful for continued gainful employment,

for my family, for those friends that have not had enough

of me and my lumbering annoyances. I’m thankful for a

reasonably refurbished apartment

that I’m slightly less embarrassed by.

I’m thankful for the long summer nights

I got to enjoy outside; time spent with my

new nephew, and the boozy fun evenings

I got to have with socially distant friends.

 

In the end, I guess I do have things to be thankful

for, even in this year of an unmitigated shit sandwich

all you can eat shit buffet. The toppings are

free though and you can pick your own.

Any toppings you want to put on

your shit sandwich, is slightly better than not having

an option at all I suppose.

 

I’m thankful for you, dearest readers,

who either love me or hate me or

think all of this is dumb. I appreciate the

time you may take from your shitty day to read

about my shitty days in shitty little poems

I shit out.

 

Happy Thanksgiving 2020.

Die you cruel year! Die!   

Sleepy Fingers

 

“What are you going to write

about,” she asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said,

“My fingers are a bit sleepy.”

 

“Sleepy fingers. Now that’s something,”

she said.

“Meh,” I said, “Sounds like a rejected

1970’s rock band name.”

 

“Ha, yeah. Sleepy Fingers; I’m sorry,

but I just don’t think your song,

Wake Up With Me In You, is going to

make the charts,” she said in her best Record Agent voice.

“Aw, really mate, that song is the

essence of our whole band, mate,” I added in a mockingly British accent.

 

“Are they a British band,” she asked.

“Of course they are,” I said.

“Not an American band,” she said.

“Yeah, definitely not an American Band,” I said.

“I’m sure they were just ahead of their time,” she said.

 

“For sure, Sleepy Fingers was all about that new

sound. Legends in their own minds,” I said.

“Makes me wish for a Behind the Music episode for

bands that never existed,” she said.

 

“I’ve never heard a steel drum used in quite

that way. Ingenious,” I said.

“And the kazoo choir, brilliant,” she said.

“Don’t forget the 25 minutes of bacon frying,” I said.

“Wasn’t that the album name, Sleepy Fingers – Bacon Frying,” she asked.

 

“I believe it was actually titled Bacon Fat Frying,” I said.

“Ah, that’s right,” she said, “Just a musical marvel,” she said.

We smiled at each other.

Loving the magic of nonsense between lovers.

 

“So, you’re writing about this,” she asked.

“Already done,” I said.

A kiss.

A smile.

 

An Inner Voice

 

My inner voice is  

claustrophobic. 

Scratching and clawing 

at the sides of my skull, 

Mewing like a wild cat, 

stuck in a cage at a City 

Zoo.  

Pacing back and forth 

behind the black iron bars, 

stared at the fat onlookers, 

chomping on popcorn and 

corn dogs or other corn related 

food items, pointing and 

gawking at my bristled fur. 

My inner voice, wishing for 

wildness, untempered freedom 

and a little spot in the sun 

to roar and run, to chase and 

be chased, to smell the wonders 

of each blade of grass and pee 

anywhere.  

A stir-crazy inner voice, 

kept caged as the muckity-mucks 

wander about in the haze of  

unearned self-righteousness,  

with Strawberry Ice Cream dripping 

from their over fed mouths onto  

their smugly inappropriate tee-shirts. 

An inner voice, wanting to pounce, 

scream and slaughter, 

shout and slay; 

sharpened by a prolonged 

solitude. Claws longing 

to tear and thrash, rip and slice, 

through the numbskullery.  

A loud inner voice, yet, untoothed and 

declawed by social fragilities.  

Pining for lust, love, passion, good sense, 

virtue, and acceptance outside of a cage, 

outside of convention, inside the hearts 

of the willing, the able, the understanding.   

But finding none.  

  

An inner voice, still stalking 

back and forth in the bone  

cell, snapping and snarling, 

but quite contained, not to 

be unleashed per the rules 

of social convention. As per 

the dignified rules of behavior.  

An outer voice; a zookeeper of 

sorts, managing to secure the locks 

of the more lecherous and salacious, 

unbridled cynicism and passions of the wild ego, 

keeping the onlookers and muckity-mucks 

in their relative security of blissful 

ignorance.     

My inner voice, staring out, panting, 

licking his lips; waiting…  

 

 

Voting is More Important than Good Poetry

 

There’s was a silly little sign 

that once hung in the barbershop 

where I got my haircut as a child. 

Among other wildly inappropriate 

signs and posters, too “mature”  

for the eyes of child.  

This small scroll had an Irish toast 

of sorts, which goes, “When we drink,  

we get drunk. When we get drunk,  

we fall asleep. When we fall asleep,  

we commit no sin. When we commit no sin,  

we go to heaven. So, let's all get drunk,  

and go to heaven!” 

It came to mind this Election Day morning. 

I’m not really sure why, but I thought  

I’d try my hand a sort of re-worked version 

of that toast in honor of this prestigious 

Election Tuesday.  

 “When we vote, 

we get a voice. 

When we have a voice, 

we must raise it. 

When we raise it, 

we commit to the future. 

When we commit to the future, 

we all win. 

So, let’s all vote and go to the future!” 

 Meh, I think I like it better when  

it’s about drinking.   

 Regardless, it is still imperative that 

Americans get out and vote today, 

if they haven’t already, and cast their 

vote for a future they can be proud of 

and look back upon fondly by saying to their 

descendants, “I did that. I looked forward and 

did this for you, my beloved progeny”.  

Good poem/Bad Poem? 

Inconsequential. What is important, 

is your voice is heard, your vote is cast, 

and you fulfill your duty as a citizen  

as the driver of this Country’s Destiny.  

 

Watching the Fire

 

Watching the flames

in a fire pit flicker and flirt

with the logs, watching the

fire tease the wood, starting

to smolder, then ignite and

a burst of hot fire explodes.

 

Taking a step back,

as my mind was wandering,

lost in the strange eroticism of

the flames. I was transfixed by

the fiery gyrations of the naked

flames.

 

Licking my lips, took a sip

from the cold beer in my hand,

and tried to relax my over excited

Puritan brain. Aghast at the overt

loss of virtue in the swirling cloud

of backyard fire.

 

Overheating in the inviting

warmth, tempting my thoughts

into lurid dalliances of imagination,

mirages really, in this desert of contact,

too heated for the time, knowing only

the chills waiting away from the lustful light.

 

The fire, spitting embers into the

night air, swirling overhead as if

the imagined longings beyond this

solitude could be carried by the wind

into the minds and bodies of those

whom we lust after.

 

The fire, burning in the dark,

warming the ends of forgotten

sensitivities and kindling those

delicate fibers of memory, when

passion was always hot and on

the edge of blasting incandescence.

 

Another cool sip to simmer the

hot blood, another step back,

from the fire, can’t take it with you,

but don’t want to leave, an embrace,

burning through the body, to lose,

to the cold.

TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY!!!!

 

Yesterday, October 25^th marked the 10-year anniversary of A Minute with Michael.  Ten years of poetry, short stories, and essays for your enjoyment and my relief. 

Ten frigging years of it, resulting in 1,251 (including this one) posts on Blog Spot. That means you could read one article a day and it would take 3.4273 years to finish.  I think that’s quite a milestone of personal achievement. 

I’m exhausted; not by the writing though. If anything, that has been the saving grace of the last ten years as I’ve battled depression, newly discovered anxiety issues, personal setbacks, money issues, dental issues, minor health issues and the general daily annoyances the universe throws in our paths in some attempt for us to build character.  And building character is so tiring. 

I feel absolutely privileged to have been able to share with you. I like to think that in these ten years I’ve grown as a writer, poet and as a human being. I have hopefully matured in some of my thoughts, actions and deeds. I hope I will continue to have the opportunity to grow and always become better than what I started as.  I hope to continue to see the depth and beauty in the world, point out the hypocrisies I see, leave any judgment at the door and have a body of work worthy of looking back on and saying, “Meh, not all of it is terrible.”   

Here’s to another ten years, perhaps another book or two. Here’s to my hopes that some of what I have written has touched you in some way or another and will continue to do so. I sincerely thank all of the people that have supported me and continue to do so. I totally owe you all a Coke. 

Thank you! 

Michael, with whom you've spent many minutes. 

Is it Scary Enough?

 

Normally, around this time

of year, I write mini-horror stories

and terrifying tales of mysterious

doings and bone-chilling, skin-crawling,

nightmare fuel.

It’s a tradition with me, of sorts.

 

I typically get a kick out of the

macabre around Halloween and

I think it’s fun to write some silly

little story about a haunted house or

cursed carnival ride or a desolate

desert highway.  

 

This year however, the fun, make-believe

chills of Halloween seem to pale in

comparison when the real world is

already far scarier than any fictional

drama or suspense my little noggin

can come up with.

 

Rampant sickness sweeping the globe?

Check.

Major Political Unrest at home and abroad?

Check.

Maniacs, fires, and global catastrophe?

Check.

Candy Corn?

Get bent you monster.

 

Writing a little bit of horror escapism seems

like a wasted and futile pastime.

I know it has value, but who wants to add

to the real-life terrors right now.

The knife-wielding killer is in the darkened hallway;

so what, does he know the state of my 401K?

 

The real terrors of getting sick and shitting myself

to death or waking up in an ever more present dystopian

horrorscape far outweighs any fictional misty moors of Scotland

and being hunted by a blood-thirsty werewolf.

The real-life human blood lust is all too much,

and makes for a better horror story anyway.

 

Although, who knows, maybe as we get closer to

All Hallows Eve, I might find some inspiration and

crank out some blood curdling twisted tale ripe with

Twilight Zone inspired twists and drama.

But for now, I’ll just watch

the Presidential Debate tomorrow night and

clutch my pillow close and pray that the

noise I heard from under my bed is a mouse

and not Tucker Carlson.  

A Passionate Pragmatist

 

As a passionate pragmatist,

I think it’s a great idea but

would like to break it down

for a bit, really get in there

and see how everything works

while simultaneously committing to

the whole process.

 

Kissing you is amazing and

deeply satisfying but how

did kissing become the way

we express our passions for

one another instead of just

rubbing one’s head or winking

or something along those weird actions.

 

How do you look at me with

such wonder and amazement

as I drive, as I mindlessly babbling about

the evolution of the city and roads

and how it marked the beginning

of modern human society.

 

What makes you reach out for my

hand as we sit quietly, what makes

you let go when things are noisy.

When do I bother you and why does

it bother you and what can be done

about the things you do that bother me.

Like letting go of my hand, when I’m not ready.

 

I don’t want to jump in the puddle of

love, splash around and get soaked,

I like my dry clothes and dry shoes,

there’s probably traces of oil and muck

in that puddle and neither of us need that

these days. Let’s walk around the puddle,

hand in hand, stay dry and get to the

restaurant that requires reservations even

though it’s never busy.

 

You like to go there though, even if I don’t

see the point of food on a stick, I never

know what to do with the stick after I’ve

eaten, where do all the little wooden sticks

go, is there a big pile in the back, do they wash

them. You laugh at my questions and I laugh

at your laughing and I feel the years between

us in my heart, the trust, the comfortable everydayness.

 

I always want to scoop you up

in my arms and kiss you in the

lobby of some great train terminal

while the onlookers smile and clap

because they know the importance of such

displays. But your bags are missing, and

we have to catch a taxi to get to your

mother’s before your brother gets there

and gets the good room.

 

You’re the disorder of my order,

the variable unaccounted for in

the step by step plans so carefully

laid out to avoid the stress sweat and

uncomfortable butterflies of anxiety

who are always on the verge of throwing-

up inside my stomach.

 

To hold you is grand, to be peaceful

with you is marvelous, no spontaneous

madness, only planned spontaneity, is

on our menu. And you laugh at me,

again, as I struggle to just have a good

time with your weird friends who seem

to go sky-diving and spear fishing and

shook hands with the Dali Lama.

 

They hop on planes for Bali at a moments

notice while I need three months of

meticulous planning, which you then fix

because I ran out of patience with the travel

agent because what they kept telling me wasn’t

making sense. I’m not flying to Denver to

go to Mexico, that’s lunacy. I’m not going North

to go south.

 

One thing at a time, one step at a time,

one problem solved before the next,

a pattern of solutions in a circle to end

where we began, but always the better for

it. If you’re comfortable with that, then all

my questions and issues, but especially my

passion, are all yours, without debilitating debate.

 

 

Still Doing This

 

Do I have to do this,

do I have to keep smushing

my face against the glass in

the hopes of getting a peek.

Do I have to do this, over and

over again.

 

I can never really see anything,

it’s always a little blocked or

blurry, or somehow obscured

by some shadow of doom or

briny waters of doubt, but I keep

telling myself I have to do it.

 

I have to keep pushing,

harder against the glass,

praying for that fruitive glimpse

of some magical thing, something

I’ve been waiting all my life for,

that one hint of skin to make it right.

 

Do have to stay on my tippy-toes,

on the very edge of the ledge so I

can see the thing on the other side,

that thing I’m not even sure is there,

that something that’s supposed to

be worth all my faith.

 

I’m too afraid to stop looking but more

afraid of actually seeing.

Will I know it when I see it?

Will it have been as desperately longing

to see me as much as I have for it?

Is it even worth all the aggravation?

 

The glass is smeared with the grease

from my cheek. The outline of my

furrowed brow is visible in the glass,

the reflection of my squinting eyes,

still unable to just get a look at the

other side.

 

Do I have to keep doing this?

Is there any alternative to pressing

so hard against this dingy glass.

Do I have to keep at it until my

perseverance is finally rewarded

with a look at the sideshow gallery of lust.

A Fable from my Youth

 

I was a child when I heard

the Aesop Fable about the Sun

and the Wind.

 

As far as I remember it,

The Wind saw a cloaked man walking

along a long and winding dirt road;

as a gag, the Wind said to the Sun,

“I bet I can make that man lose

his cloak. I’m clearly more powerful

than you, Sun.”

 

The Sun looked down at the man and

said it was a bet. So, the Wind began

to blow and howl right into the poor man,

who was just walking by.

 

The Wind blew and blew, swirled and

spun, tossed dust in the breeze and

pelted the man with debris.

The Wind called upon the rain to

spit and splatter on the man.

 

The man, chilled by the Wind, cold from the rain,

pulled his cloak tighter around himself and

kept trudging forward.

 

The Wind, out of breath, collapsed.

“How did that not work,” the Wind cried,

“I’ve blown over cities, towns and bridges,

and none can resist. That cloak should have

flown from his shoulders. I was cheated!”

 

The Sun, seeing this said, “I’m sure that I might

be able to make the man take off his cloak.”

The Wind scoffed, “You are just the Sun, so far away,

what can you do?”

 

The Sun smiled and started gently beaming

on the road on which the man was walking.

The bright sunshine filling the scenery.

The clouds in they sky parted.

The rain dried; the flowers perked up.

 

The man in the cloak on the road,

pulled his hat off his head,

he dabbed at the sweat beading on his

brow.  He untied the cloak from around his

neck and pulled it off his shoulders.

 

The Sun, now satisfied, had proven the more powerful.

The Wind was breathless. The Wind frowned.

The man kept walking, smiling, with his cloak

slung over his arm.

 

I remember this fable,

this story, because it always

made me think that bullies

never get their way, and simple

kindness will usually lead to the

desired result.  Force and Bluster

are less effective than kind persuasion.

 

This Fable is always with me, ingrained.

 

- Thank you Aesop.