My brood

Aside

My little boy no longer, but a man,

I wonder at his strength, of many kinds,

Such as the gift of writing that he can

Use subtly to capture people’s minds.

His songs, his tales, his poetry just soars

And frees me from the mundane and the dull,

He turns a laughing eye upon my flaws

And makes my glass perpetually full.

 

So many times I look at him and see

The tiny child that clung onto my hand

Who’s still inside the man in front of me,

To whom I tilt my head up as I stand.

I see his skills and know he will achieve

Those things that form the substance of his dreams,

And all who watch him work also believe

That he will be the master of life’s schemes.

 

She’s full of life and promise, on her way

To a future of her own unbound design.

She says things I would never think to say

I don’t know how I dare to call her mine.

She makes me laugh too often to recall

The words she twists and turns to make her own.

She leaps with style although she  fears the fall.

She’s not a sheep, It’s she who sets her tone.

 

My little one, the baby of my four,

Displays to all the world a certain grace.

A dancer who can halt the room before

Her as she sets a sweet and measured pace.

She’s finding where she fits as time goes by

By trying every chance that wanders in,

By asking what and when and where and why

And when it’s time she lets the song begin.

Fortune favours the brave

Leap.  Let not your feet on solid ground be felt.

Reach.  Lift up your hands to grasp the summoning sky.

Wish.  Make of your chances something you can keep.

And never let the meaning pass you by.

 

Wait.  For knowing comes at such a limping pace.

Watch.  Pick carefully the time you would reveal.

Touch.  A fingertip, a life, another place.

Such are the things that prove we still can feel.

 

Think.  Be sure your mind strides out upon the path.

Rest.  Take time to set your reasons row on row.

Stand.  Show all who care that you, at least, stay strong.

And you will bless the seasons as you go.

Wishes

Where in the world have my dead wishes gone?

Did they slide down the drain

Like the rain

On wet Thursdays?

Did they dance through the night

Then dissolve

With the light?

Could they come back to haunt me?

Or crush me and taunt me?

Am I safe?

Are they gone?

Were they real?

 

What does it mean when the colours turn white?

Did they drip to the soil

With a sound

Like a heartbeat?

Is it just that your eye

Can’t believe,

Must deny?

If you faced what you’re seeing

Would the colours start being

Bright again?

Are they gone?

Were they real?