Some days I look to diaries I once wrote in youthful anguish and uncertainty
And floundering embarrassment – and wish for nothing but a paper shredder.
But it is only when it’s gone you realise it was progress.
A shy and silly piece that deserved paper at that time.
And served to mark a betterment
You’d shrewdly built and harnessed.
Okay, it wasn’t declaring your first love progress, but it was something.
Offering her a ride home, a heart full of hearing for her chatter long into the night
And a safe place to put her worries in your hand till she could tend them.
And that’s enough for now – that it was something good.
For even the ascent that daunts a cyclist’s daily ride is
Nothing to the pride the grunting bought.
That kind of pride my Grandfather had,
That took him through time clearly,
That steered him from all bad.
For every uphill is a teasing movement, which shrieks inside of some future release
And though the smallest steps may look like trouble,
They’re higher than the rest,
They pave the way through mind-marsh, and point you to your best.
I may not be a scholar, and perhaps you’ll call my bluff
But ums, and ers, and paper shredders are not good enough.
What a nice idea, to be rid of all our past,
And undo with a button, what took nerve and mind and blast.
One step forward, two steps back,
We are nothing but a boxer
That has lost all his attack.