Risky Paths

cross2 OfirAsif

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

It is okay to see the risk

And not step

Fully

Into it.

Courage does not always

Mean

Precarious

Heaving ho.

Perilous paths

Indeed at times

Need forging,

But aren’t

All

Tests of

True bravery,

When often enough

The careful way

Around

Is a daring

Opportunity.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Into The Dark

caving AmitaiAaif

Photo: Amitai Asif

 

Wedged into the shaft

Rope taut

Legs braced

He peers down

Into dark

Forgoing light

For the unknown

Cave beneath

And the void

Beyond.

 

 

 

The Tuesday Photo Challenge

 

Grit of Will

up up and away

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

They don’t give up.

They push on, they keep trying.

For the plainest of skills.

Simple tasks need endurance:

Every sentence’s a summit

Every speech sound’s a triumph of will.

Such tenacious young children

Built of grit and forbearance

Marathoners of life’s endless sprints

All uphill.

Oh, how deeply they teach me

The depth of true mettle

In courage, in hope to succeed.

Their indomitable spirit

Forms a marvel:

Pure resolve wrought from steel.

 

 

For The Daily Post

Restore Reality

expose

Be brave.

It’s time. It’s been time for too long. It feels eternity.

Take heart … tune off naysayers … and remove the grime of fakery and deception. Speak fact to polish off stains of misinformation, so Truth can once more spread its wings to sunlight, unburdened from prevarication.

Expose the burnish of veracity from under messy piles of perfidy.

Be kind, be firm, and wipe clean fib to showcase verity.

Reality awaits. Impatiently.

It is past time.

 

 

For The Daily Post

Do It Anyway

He has stage fright. The real deal.

Social phobia with all the trimmings.

Speaking in front of anyone renders him paralyzed with irrational but no less numbing terror.

Talking to a store clerk makes him sweat.

Let alone giving a speech in front of assembly.

The whole school. Faculty, too.

He trembles at the thought.

“You don’t have to do this.” His mother. She is distressed by his distress. Protective.

“But I do,” he says.

He’s scared.

Determined, too.

He asks me to teach him how “to speak even when my throat gets stuck.”

We work on it. On breath, on visualizing, on rhythm and on parsing and on tone and pitch and breath again. He practices. With me, at the mirror, with family, with a good friend.

He knows the words by heart. He wrote them. A speech about things that oh-so-matter and are so very needing-to-be-said.

“The words come into my dreams,” he tells me. “Is that weird?”

I shrug. I don’t think so. “What do you think?”

He smiles shyly. “I think they want me not to be afraid. The words. Like we are friends now, words and me.”

 

The day comes.

He calls me in the evening.

“I threw up twice and I trembled like crazy,” he says, but his voice is giddy. “Then I thought about the words. My words … like friends. The beads on the necklace like we practiced … and I could breathe … I was still scared but I did it anyway!”

 

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