The Choice

Dream Yet Complete
A Nursery Rhyme for Grown-Ups

Two: The Choice

Used to seem much easier, when thinking grown-ups knew
Mind your manners, ma and pa, eat all your peas and queues
“What a good boy!” I would hear, well maybe most the time
Took so long to puzzle out, the peace from “never mind”
Heartfelt questions children ask, like gum stuck to the soul
Sometimes I forget and look, then answers take their toll

Please don’t think me fishing for, a sympathetic eye
How’s a sheepish boy so blue, to build it in the sky
If not for strange foundations, I’d be on shifting sands
Unconventionality, it takes to draw the plans
Even little piggies know, the waves will wash away
Trails that the children grow, unless in mind they play

It would be much easier, for all of us I think
Look at what we’re standing on, and what we’re on the brink
If now could be just like then, then maybe we could speak
Wouldn’t have to run and hide, from what our wishes seek
If we did not know better, what questions we could ask!
Listening, we’d make believe, and wear the answer’s mask

As for me, I’m often told, who’m I to disagree
Time to join the real world, stop playing make believe
They say I should know better, let’s see if they’re all right
Make believe that we can see, what real worlds are like
Just for fun we can pretend, there’s treasure to be found
Gold doubloons in living rooms, if riddle is unwound

Grown-ups too play make believe, when playing grown-up games
Some play ours when full of moon, before attention wanes
Hard to know just what they’ll think, ’cause what they think they know
Is explained with answers like, “That’s just the way it goes”
So pardon me a moment, or help me try to reach
Reflections make the grown-up, so that’s what we’ll entreat

We’ll put it in the paper, or better yet, TV
Commentator commentates, most everyone agrees
No heroes without villains, contends the silver screen
Grown-ups might grow interested, if picture me a fiend
You know that we’re all good guys, but others cross their eyes
Besides, the news won’t play it, unless somebody dies

You know that killing’s evil, and no one’s better dead
God is good, as I believe, in heart and hardened head
It’s evil to hate evil, so what are we to do
With the mess the grown-ups left, as interest does accrue
If problems were solutions, then answers would abound
Maybe we should thank them all, by foxing with their hounds

Everybody gets a shot, ’cause all the world is staged
Wouldn’t want to waste my turn, blind spot I’d not engage
What if I’ve a single round, the ref might count to ten
Cost of shooting cryptic bull, in eyes would haunt me when
“Think of what you could have been,” reflections charge displeased
Nothing ventured, nothing lost, except good memories

Some things are worth fighting for, like writing wronged insight
Fighting for a fighting chance, to fight the chance to fight
Biting disapproval crowds, boo bloodied hand from ring
Danger in diverting flight, amend in prayer on wing
Second-staging strategy, make long shot rendezvous
Target the meek never miss, into the black and blue

Wishing on a shooting star, don’t dread the count from ten
If it seems I lost the round, check scenery again
Strategy that I call safe, and umpire calls strike three
Catchers just can’t catch ‘em all, runner holds the key
Empty box by empty plate, it always seems the worst
Just before it dawns and you, take second look at first

Batting clean up, leading off, you following my drift?
Seeming things not always are, but answers can we sift
Many meanings have few words, and some are even true
Sometimes three roads lead one to, a fourth that no one knew
Footsteps blaze the trail taken, a path that we’ll create
Just because you’re following, don’t mean I can’t relate

Think I conflict with signals? Should see the signs I yield
Coded morsels in the air, across the diamond field
Mixing words and metaphors, desegregate the game
Some rules should not be broken, some should be profaned
Who are we to question rules? I’ll tell you who and why
We’re the hope another has, the reason that we try

Trust is time to ask yourself, to find the strength to ask
Questions free the answering, unbinding them our task
Faith is time spent wondering, what we’re meant to find
Imagine it’s your purpose, adventure by design
Belief is time to listen, but who has time for that?
Especially when the answers, knock expectations flat

I for one am sick and tired, of cowing in disgrace
Tells me it’s impossible, my time will be erased
Says be realistic, accept my human’s place
Still sensing time to listen, it’s time I should replace
That grown-up pain in mirror, with one that he displaced
Clean out all this common sense, what’s left I will embrace

“Don’t dare challenge common sense!” is man’s reflexive chant
Nothing I can say or do, unraveling the rant
Unless, perchance, to find the time, to listen wondering
How’d we learn this same ol’ song? No rock in what we sing
Some gold might have fools in us, check iron in the pyre
Sense, should give us more not less, in common with God’s choir

Much as I would like to stop, mote’s finger in your eye
Yes, I know, it looks like mine, I know the reason why
“Who’s on first!” A fan exclaims, “I’m tryin’ to watch the game
And turn that stupid music down, it always sounds the same”
Thank God for little miracles, someone’s tuned us out or in
The endings will come later, for now let’s just begin

So be good sporting metaphors, or catch me if you can
See the third-based coach’s box? Now there’s our biggest fan
An artist in disguising, obscure as obvious
Signs are scented in the breeze, from there to me to us
It’s all so very simple, without a relay man
If you follow where this leads, help me to understand

If aiming not mislead you, to find the place to look
This site’s not judge or jury, it’s me that I mistook
Connections between children, and grown-up pointed views
Scattered seeds I make believe, the Gardener can use
Cross pollinated words grown here, with words grown over there
Contrast can electrify, hot seated in high chair

Don’t think it’s a sacrifice, my goal is not to die
But hunters need a season, and quarry to apprise
I know contact’s disturbing, it’s not my aim to taunt
It feels so disrespectful, to give them what they want
I’d say I hate to do this, but all I’ve got is love
For you there in the mirror, come out to fox this dove


<<< One: The Call | Three: The Press >>>

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