Things Flying Around
You don’t even duck any more.
Things woosh past you.
Zing towards you.
Are thrown at you.
Fall aimlessly, or catipult
with medieval clumsiness,
Dangerous darts and lies
spiked with barbs,
common as dandelions in spring,
a secret world of spite
no longer worth the defense.
You are not holy or Teflon.
You are an easy target, past and present
both wildly imperfect. But now, aged and worn
you have finally discovered a toughness
you never believed in. An understanding
that the ones that miss you miss you,
and the ones that strike you don’t matter,
Your only defense is to dance
in the face of war,
an unholy fool, content to love and be loved
when the opportunity arises.
And it always arises.
About this poem
From time to time someone lashes out at me, or something I say, or something I believe. It used to bother me. It used to bother me a lot. I would become crushed or fearful. It bothers me less now. Age? Experience? Finally learning that other’s anger is not as devastating as I once thought? The power of love holding me up? I have no idea.
I am just grateful.
PS: The painting is one of mine.