A man steadies a ladder
for someone he barely knows.

His hands grip cold metal.
Above him, a stranger climbs.

For a moment
his palms become solid ground.

—

A mother stands in a doorway at midnight
waiting for headlights that haven’t turned the corner yet.

She says nothing.
But the porch light stays on.

A child climbs through the darkness
because she is holding the ladder of hope.

—

A teacher stays after the bell
with the one kid who thinks he’s already failed.

The classroom is empty.
Papers everywhere.

“Try it again,” she says quietly.

And somewhere inside that boy
a rung appears
where there was only air.

—

A friend answers the phone
on the third night of silence.

Nothing wise is said.

Just breathing,
and the soft agreement
to stay on the line.

Sometimes the ladder
is just a voice
refusing to hang up.

—

A nurse presses a hand
against the trembling shoulder
of a man who has just heard the word “terminal”.

She cannot change the sky above him.

But she stands there anyway
holding the frame of the moment
so he doesn’t fall all at once.

—

A father walks beside a bicycle
one hand on the seat.

“Don’t worry,” he says.

The child pedals.

The father lets go
two seconds earlier
than the child will ever know.

Still—
for years that invisible hand
remains in the wind behind them.

—

A stranger picks up a dropped bag of groceries.
An old man waves someone ahead in traffic.
A woman smiles at the cashier
who has been invisible all day.

Small things.

Thin aluminum rungs
between the ground
and the courage to keep climbing.

—

Somewhere tonight
someone is standing quietly below you
without applause
without recognition
without even your name.

Hands steady.
Feet planted.

Holding the ladder
while you reach
for whatever piece of sky
you believe is yours.

TL;DR- poem’s at the bottom.

Backstory: driving through California’s Central valley. Pistachio trees and corn fields on either side of the road. It’s late, and the Sun is just about done for the day.

Then while driving past one of the corn fields, a white blur dashing in and out of the corn? That’s the wrong color for anything around these parts. So we slowed down and saw a little dog.

There’s nothing out here except farmland. This one is too sweet to last long out here alone. Come here girl. I was expecting her to be like the others and run away. She didn’t.

She approached cautiously. After I’d given her a pat on the head, I realized for some reason she trusted me. So I asked her to walk to the car where my wife was waiting. And yes, at this point I did play in my life a bit because I knew the dog was ours if we chose, by the way she was behaving.

As I approached the car with the dog shortly behind me, I asked my wife “if I can catch her, can we keep her?” By that time, the dog had caught up to me, circled around behind me and stopped so she was staring at my wife, one ear in the air and one down, as if asking her the same question. My wife didn’t have a choice, she said yes.

Then as if she’d always been mine, I told the dog to get in the car and she hopped into my wife’s lap. We drove home and the rest is history, at least as told by the poem that follows…

I cried
when I saw you running through that field alone,
all skin and bones, no place to call your own,
Sweet little one, just a blur against the sky,
and something in me broke—I didn’t know why.

I cried
when I called, expecting you to run away,
but you came right up like you were meant to stay,
you trusted me without a reason why,
then climbed in the car like you were ready to try.

I cried
when I saw just how bad things had been,
every scrape and bite on your fragile skin,
I couldn’t fix your past, no matter how I tried,
but I promised right then you’d never be denied.

I cried
at the vet, waiting quiet while they scanned,
holding on tight, just hoping I’d understand,
if someone would claim you, or if you’d be free,
those were the hardest tears for me. 😭

I cried
when they said there was no chip, no name,
no one was coming, no one to claim,
and the tears came down like pouring rain—🥹
because now you were safe, and out of pain.

Bonnie Tyler,
you don’t have to run anymore,
you’re not lost like you were before,
and I don’t know what you’ve been through—
but I know this much:
I’m not letting go of you. 🤗

“Does that person feel like me?”

TL;DR - The poem’s at the bottom.

A poem inspired by a little boy’s question to his mother about what he saw in a grocery store parking lot. And the story follows…

The wife and I were shopping and when we were done, we were exiting the store and we noticed a man sitting on the curb, hands in his face, and shoulders which were moving in that rhythmic motion and it let us know that he was crying.

I try not to pry, but I also try not to let someone lay in the gutter. So I let my wife continue on to the car and I walked over. As I approached, I could tell he was a homeless gentleman. So I just sat down. I didn’t say anything.

He turned, with one of the saddest expressions I’ve ever seen in my life, and simply said “They stole my dog”.

Well you know me. That broke my heart. So I asked about the dog and he proceeded to tell me the warmest stories that you would expect to hear from a family man who is telling you about their family pet.

He started crying even more. And then it happened. A mother and a very young child came along. And the child did what children do, they asked about what they didn’t understand.

But they didn’t ask their mom, the little boy asked me. I’m all about honesty, so without thinking I simply said someone stole his dog.

The boy seemed satisfied with the answer and the mother and he continued on their way into the store.

I sat there for a short while with the man while he continued to talk about his dog, when the two appeared again. Well that was a bit too quick for any kind of shopping that they looked like they would have been doing. And they’re heading back to us again?

When they got close enough, I noticed the boy was carrying a store bag. He looked up at his mother and she let go of his hand. He walked over as very young ones would, kind of slow and wobbly. And then he held out that bag as if it were an offering.

The man took the bag the boy offered and what he took out broke and mended my heart at the same time. It was a Lil Roy Plush stuffed DOG toy that was on clearance sale from the store we were sitting in front of.

And out of his mouth came words that brought tears to my eyes. “Now you can feel just like me”.

The rest of the story, played out like you would expect. But it did inspire me to write a little something about what it must be like to walk the world next to this little boy.

Tiny shoes go tap tap slow, Mama says we have to go. People walking, big and small, I keep asking about them all.

“Does that person feel like me?” Daddy lifts me so I see. “That man yelled loud inside the store.” Maybe his heart is very sore.

“That lady sleeps out in the rain.” Maybe her body hurts with pain. Maybe her tummy cries all night. Maybe she lost her warm safe light.

“That boy keeps pulling at his hair.” Mama says, “Be soft. Be fair.” Maybe sounds are big and sharp. Maybe his days feel dark and hard.

“That grandma walks so very slow.” Maybe her bones ache down below. Maybe every step says “ow.” But she still buys the groceries now.

“That man smells funny. Why’s he shake?” Maybe something inside did break. Maybe sadness got too deep, And chased away his gentle sleep.

“That girl won’t look into my face.” Maybe the world’s a scary place. Maybe eyes are much too bright. Maybe crowds feel loud and tight.

“That daddy cried inside his car.” Mama says some hurts stay far Inside your chest where none can see, Even if you look happy.

“Does that person feel like me?” I ask it by each tree and street. Mama says, “In some small way, Every heart can hurt someday.”

So if somebody acts “not right,” Or growls, or cries, or wants to fight, Maybe first we try to see What pain they carry secretly.

And if I’m sad when I am big, Or life becomes too hard to dig, I hope somebody looks at me And wonders gently… “Do they feel like me?”

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/51729402

Who painted this cat black?
I need to know the hack.
He looks like midnight grew some legs
And learned to steal my snacks.

Who painted that one white?
He’s powdered sugar & bright.
He watches every dumb decision
Like he’s getting paid tonight.

One says, “Parkour!” off the bookshelf.
One says, “Don’t involve me.”
One commits twelve little felonies.
One provides the commentary.

One is soot and bad ideas.
One is clouds and class.
Together they’re a balanced meal
Of elegance and ass.
(Am I allowed to say that, do I get a pass?)

Who painted this cat black?
Who painted that one white?
Who looked at yin and yang and thought,

“Let’s make 'em both a little shite.”

We didn’t come from a place like this.
Back then, a hello was a finish line,
a courtesy and nothing more.
But here—
here the world slowed down
long enough for people to actually see us.

Three young gents,
half our age
and twice as welcoming
as anywhere we’d ever lived,
met us at the curb
with handshakes, smiles,
and the kind of respect
you can’t fake.

We talked at the mailbox
longer than deliveries have patience for—
about family, about life here,
and even about the peacocks
wandering nearby like they owned the block.

The mail carrier knew the whole peacock story,
of course—
history, lineage, how long they’d been around.
And there we all were,
neighbors and strangers alike,
sharing the same small tale
as if we’d rehearsed it.

Then one day—
out of nowhere—
an invitation.

Friendsgiving.

No test to pass,
no years required.
Just come on over, you’re welcome here.

And they meant it.

Since then,
every wave, every chat, every shared laugh
has proved a truth we didn’t know we were missing:

warm people change everything.

They make a house feel chosen,
a street feel safe,
a town feel like it was waiting for you.

People in Tulare are kind—
that much is true—
but the ones closest to us
take kindness to another level.

They’ve shown us something
no job, no money, no possession
could ever offer.

A piece of the world
where people still look out for each other.
Where respect is automatic.
Where you’re welcomed,
not watched.

Where neighbors become
the reason you finally exhale
and say—

Yeah.

This is home.

Stand by the ocean, you’ll hear a shell;
Hold up a shell, hear the ocean as well.

Look at the sun and shadows grow;
Step in the shade and cool winds blow.

Stare at a fire, your face turns red;
Stare at the snow, feel cold instead.

Turn on a fan, the air feels light;
Turn off the lights, you’ll see the night.

Climb up a mountain, earth looks small;
Lie on the ground, the sky looks tall.

Open an umbrella, rain stays out;
Close it in sunshine, the rays pour about.

Put on a watch, you notice the time;
Lose track of time, the hours will fly.

Read a good book, the world disappears;
Close it, and suddenly your room reappears.

Look through binoculars, far comes near;
Flip them around, and near disappears.

Shout in a canyon, it shouts your way;
Whisper in snow, and sound fades away.

Stand before a mirror, left becomes right;
Turn from the mirror, wrong becomes right.

Walk toward a rainbow, it moves away;
Walk from your shadow—it follows you all day.

Run beside the rain and drops seem slow;
Stand perfectly still and watch them go.

Ride with the wind and the breeze feels weak;
Turn back against it—it slaps your cheeks.

Look through clear glass and the world stays there;
Look through a window at night—you’re the picture in the glare.

I Know What Kills Monsters

(Based on a true story/Lowe’s on Prosperity)

It was hot—the kind of miserable day That makes you wish you’d bought solar stocks right away. Okay, maybe the heat hadn’t gone quite that far, But close enough when you’re walking out to the car.

I’d finished a project, and just like before, I’d bought enough Fix-It supplies to build four more So Marilyn looked at the extras I’d grown And sent me to Lowe’s to return what we owned.

I walked through the doors to the returns by the wall, And technically speaking, there wasn’t a line at all. One man at the counter, then several steps back—me. A beautiful system of efficiency.

Except for one thing.

The young man at the till Had somehow perfected the art of standing still. Whatever that customer needed returned, Civilizations could rise and fall before we learned.

So I waited.

And watched.

That’s what I tend to do. Not just one person—the whole world in view.

That’s when a gentleman came through the door, Looking like he’d had enough of today and then some more.

The heat was still clinging all over his clothes, His hair matted down from his head to his nose. His uniform carried a long working day, And his face said he’s got nothing more left to give away.

He paced near the entrance.

Back and then forth.

Looking for something.

Not knowing of course.

And something about him made one thing quite clear:

Pay a little attention to this gentleman here.

He finally stopped just behind where I stood, And called toward the counter as loudly as he could:

“Where’s the return line?”

The employee replied.

And whatever he said…

Something changed in the guy.

It wasn’t obscene.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was simply uncaring—and that’s sometimes the worse bet.

Because when someone’s exhausted and cooked by the sun, Dismissal can light what the heat has begun.

My tired friend then vanished.

Right there where he stood.

And something replaced him that wasn’t feeling good.

His shoulders went rigid.

His face rearranged.

His energy sharpened.

The whole man changed.

A monster stood there now, ready to fight, And that Lowe’s employee was about to learn right Then and there that perhaps when a customer calls, A little more kindness costs nothing at all.

Well, hell.

This was really going to screw up my day.

I had stuff to return and wanted to get away.

Back home to Marilyn—that’s where I should be, Not ringside at Lowe’s for Round One through Round Three.

So I turned toward the monster and quietly said,

“It’s loud in here. Maybe he didn’t hear what you said.”

The monster looked back.

And I knew from his stare He wasn’t quite finished.

The fight was still there.

He wanted some resistance.

Something to shove.

Another hard answer.

And he’d deliver the glove.

Anger does that when you’ve let it run free— It searches the room for any enemy.

And now he had me.

Or so he believed.

But monsters are funny when they’re not well received.

Because I know something about monsters, you see:

Sometimes what kills them is a simple courtesy.

“You look like you’re in more of a hurry than me. Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be next—and then you’ll be free.”

And there it was.

Nothing to fight.

No insult returned.

Nothing challenged.

No slight.

The monster came ready to push and to shove, And instead ran headfirst into something like love.

Not grandiose love.

Let’s not get carried away.

Just one stranger giving another his place for the day.

But his face changed first.

Then his shoulders came down.

The anger went searching.

And nothing it found.

It had come for a battle.

I’d offered to care.

And suddenly anger had nothing left to do there.

Then the monster was gone.

And the man reappeared.

The same tired fellow who’d first entered here.

He smiled.

Put his hand on my shoulder.

And thanked me instead.

Then politely declined with a shake of his head.

“It’s okay,” he told me, his temper now tossed.

“My time’s on the boss’s budget.”

Well played, boss.

About then my marathon waiting was through, And finally I had my own returning to do.

Receipt was ready.

Items were ready.

Everything just right.

I wasn’t spending another damn minute tonight.

My return took seconds.

I turned toward the door.

Then I glanced at the gentleman once more.

He looked back at me.

Nothing needed be said.

Just one little nod from each man’s head.

No sermon.

No hero.

No grand curtain call.

Most people there probably noticed nothing at all.

Just two tired strangers on one scorching day, Who crossed paths for a moment, then went on their way.

I walked through the doors, back into the sun.

My return was complete.

My errand was done.

And somewhere behind me, with nothing to mend, A monster had died—

and a man stood again.