Thursday, December 15, 2011

For My Son

December 15th was my son's 38th birthday. He's working through many trails in his life right now, and there seems to be very little I can do, but if you are reading this son, know I love you and think about you every day, and that I know you have what no one else can give you to win your battles. Someday things that seem impossible now will all be alright, one way or the other, so whatever's going down, try to laugh to keep from crying. This last year's  poem (slightly revised) isn't much of a birthday present, but I hope you can read between the lines.






For My Son

When he was a baby
he knew the language of birds
in his carrier under the trees.
looking up with blurry eyes,
waving fat hands
And speaking.



When he was a child
he wrote poetry
drew us the shine
of surreal suns;
he laughed 
into hollow tubes,
dressed in paper armor,
coughed and cried
and trusted
without speaking.

But somehow he wandered
away
into the tangled forest of his life
love a treacherous chase
full of hunters,
wary of pursuit,
under the falling arrows,
the ones I fired into the air
that hit and made him bleed,
the ones I never fired,
running far and fast
away where I
can’t follow.

In that forest
may he be safe
from hunting at last
from me, from himself.
May the light of his laughter
burn bright.
May he still be
speaking to birds
and finally
hear them answer.


October 2010














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