Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Izzy At Two








The Terribly Trying Time of Two


two is a trying time, a testing time,
when much is given and much is demanded:
so many decisions to be made,
so many keys to be found for so many locks,
and more seems up to you than you feel able to handle,
so you check out others and pattern their behavior,
repeat and repeat so you know the drill,
make decision after decision even when there’s no reason,

mood will soar into joy









and plummet into despair








from moment to moment,
some call it “terrible,” and, in some ways, it is,
more in the old sense of power
greater than mortals can handle,
but handle it we must,

the world of words makes sense
and verbs join nouns
and ideas take shape in them,
each word, each thought carefully, intentionally realized
within the head and upon the tongue,
there’s delight when it all works,
when we repeat what is said
so that both of us are on the same page
of a good story that’s unfolding,
we get it right and are rewarded with a “nyeah!”
our actions do well and there’s a “thanks,”

all is right with the world
and it’s as if the sun itself dawns upon a shining countenance,
we deny the impulse asserted and the face contorts into mad
as if darkness denies the previous light,
sorrow keens out from within,

every cusp of choice needs a decision:
“you do this. . . you do that. . . “
and there’s no buffer to the mood
when external reality blocks internal whim,
a key to parenting?











give possible choices that can still be made
so that the decider still decides something,
and can move past butting against an insurmountable obstacle,

the will is a wonderful tool
but it’s so sharp it can cut both us and the wielder
in the learning of its use,
and it is good to develop some buffers,

to be two is to come into a power
that you have to try out and learn,
and the essaying forth is giddy and scary,
to be two is a trying time
and terribly important in the learning of who we are,
and how much wonder & joy and sorrow & despair
we must feel to be most real.













by Henry Walker
August 5, ’10

1 comment:

Ike Walker said...

Great work. I love this poem.