Bicycle riding, or any repetitive activity can become a meditation allowing the mind to focus.
Grass and refugees
On my bicycle, a long steady climb,
heart, breath, rotation, pulse,
all combine as one
to move me steadily forward,
upward.
The long grasses on the verge
become third world people,
waiting to be cut down.
Long columns of children
file past
marching in pairs,
boys and girls together.
Women in fatigues at
the head of the line,
and more at the tail.
Children dressed in
cut down military surplus gear
carrying scant belongings
in their small hands,
faces blank and acquiescent.
Girls with untrimmed hair,
boys with rough haircuts,
done with bowls and blunt shears.
I see them pass as I ride along,
they stare straight ahead
as they walk,
none of them risk a sideways glance.
"Look at me when I'm
speaking," said the teacher " you're very rude!"
" look at me when I'm speaking, I want
to see your eyes! Why won't you face me!"
"They made me do that," said the Kurdish boy.
"They made me do that,"
and his eyes glistened.
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