My 10 year old son has recently begun to experiment with poetry of his own.
Being the proud papa, I offer his works for your enjoyment...
and his encouragement.

E. B. White

the clouds

	
	
   old folks gone home
    
sensing kisses 
    and simple hugs  
        had ceased to come  
           from those she loved 

so settled head 
     in final bow 
         to busy world

leaving behind 
     only time
	 
and softened shell


    

   

my hunting lesson
    

I was to see you once again
all sprawled out amidst the maim
of fallen Elders, bending reeds,
and beercans.
Reclining as some Lord in concession
of surrounding flocks.
Toying his favorite pipe.
Till lambs in your meadow suddenly changed
to fleets
             of wild 
                          bleating 
                                         geese 
                                                      freer
                           till your sight
              and steeply rise
of oily pistol 
lewdly blew
and shouted through 
the wince of winking wings       and wonder,
spilling devil's red desire
as clotting flecks 
on vacant
upturned
pastel
faces.




That deeper night
I drew in bolder colors.  Filling pages.
Making light and dark
of what you taught me.
So as to remember you by           and bye.    



 




the rain-maker
    
remember  when


our heavy afternoon 	broke free
      and
       sketched 
         the slanting thoughts
           of raindrop’s
             shiny style
     the world- 
     under


    drawing us children
        ever nearer
        essential	
        memories
                     unaccustomed yet
               to salty tendings
           of tomorrow’s
   tear-
   drops?



I will remember,	always.


    Till oneday 
    ceasing	
           I’ll emerge 
                 from ash

				
    the Rain-
    maker.
             .  	
             .	
             .
    seeding clouds
        changing child’s 
              tired dust
                  to clinging 


       mud 	
          and memories. 
		  
		  



   life reconciled
    
    
unto your own
from ancient inlaid chambers grown
drift on unteathered now
for every earthly turning
boldly beacons life from heaven


senses drenched
so swell the cells
in forged profusion
cherish now
your human form


never unlearn
tides that spilled yourself
to yearning earth
so trusted you
in pristine nursery


where tucked inside
assembled cells
the remnants torn
of all past life
lie reconciled

 
 

     

   daily dusting
    

 
 
Daily, we continue to endeavor the ruin
of ourselves. Brought into this world
an offering of renewal.  Complexity of
flexing skin and mineral bone.


		 When did my 
heart turn round and beat inwardly?  Seeping
reason in endless circles.  Soaking limbs in fluid 
constrained of single tissue. 


Times I suffered.  Medicines 
conjured from depths of imminent minds
would never recover the troubled heart. 
		 Only conceal, linger
the skipping of beat,  the continual quiver
of undeveloping body.


		Unannounced, one night
narrowing vessels went immeasurable; 
sent the body bereft of sensation.  Departed, 
partaken of the torch. Lost to dust
were all connection and atonement.


Merely being was the more difficult.
		Consider, 
the rescinding of your touch 
was but the offering to Another.


And I’ve ceased to consider the other.  

 

   to my son
    
Hold you ever near me
through a passing night
of time and ending
scene of cradle
pleasure lent between
this romp of sky
and dusty floor.
Kneel, offer hands
awash to mending
all went wrong
within our whitewash
walls set of texture
sunlight and the lime
of dying planet.
For you
my artist
posing head
within His palm
shaming light
upon the
seemingly
eternal
master only
dazzling pastels
for landscapes
brushed of
memories. 

 
 


 

   ever again
    
im like that cat
who finds ways home 
nine times
before dyin


	release my precious
		closed eye kitten


	freer than humans
		would have you


	nearer to fields
		purer than sleep


	warmed of wisdom
		mastered in tails 


can night pretend
just once
to love us
ever again     as felines?



 
 
 
    




   as brothers
    
If brothers were as kind in life, Michael,
you know I would have found you
halfway towards home,
long before our mother
would have kissed the creases
of your forehead.




If forgiving was as natural, Michael,
you know I would have held you
halfway towards forever,
long before any world
would have summoned lovers
from her waters.




If Angel was my essence, Michael,
you know I would have met you
halfway towards heaven,
long before any star
would have seized your sparkle
as her own.




In these,
the stillest hours,
I will have felt you, brother,
till my steadily fading heart
empties of our blood.



 



 
   beach scenes
      
completely sun inspired
summed our early lives


wee weekend bohemians
skipped along safaris style 
and balanced baskets
casual as acrobats


till shifty sands and sleepy tides 
deposited our pastel shells
in parables of Santa Cruz


all lotion pearled  
we took to beaches
natural as coconuts 


and tumbled rascal oceans 
in adolescent moments
till riptide left us jellyfish


as seasoft youth return
to ancient shores 
from blanketed beginnings 


will nightide hours
carry us to bullion seas?
the urchin freed 
of battered coasts


or left to chance
this shoal of Earthly Trinity
in Sun..... 
       and Sand......
                 and Sea.....



 


   say someday
      
as your dry eyes
prepare this child


imagine days
of fruitless trees
the bloom unburdened
frames of fields
surrendered stems
of scarecrow’s
holy maize


as after cloud
the rainbow’s frown
still troubles you  


say someday
you’ll pass 
this way again?


where now
the toasting crowd  
still croon away the hours 
to the plumb and pulp
of pressboard homes
and a spaniel 
chasing tail


i’ve heard the wheel
still turns in Heaven
and a boy with a gait
loves deeper


sunrise looms
the ashtrays bloom
our sermons
find us fairest



 





   my father's sleep
    

From a distance he signals 
through steady overbreathing.
My father’s Wordsworth, feels more closely
the casual forty beats a minute
somehow sustaining.  I linger in 
the unfamiliar stillness
of a Saturday afternoon.


Of my own dream i’d wake you
and slowly you’d emerge
the man we knew.
Your gapped-tooth smile
showing all the innocence you still 
possess.   The crescents of the eyes,
your talent for affection.  Your hands,
the attenders of sorrow. 


But father, your sleep reduces me. 
Your essence escapes
in every passing breath. 

 
Feel me here.  Ready to accept the years
you never chose as yours. Slowly i’ll
become the simpler Jesus, in boyclothes.
The life you gave,
lending you a savior.  


But don’t wake, 
just yet.


Let me bless as only a son knows how.  Without 
symbolic hand-waved cross.  Without 
the lighting of a candle. Without
a parody of prayer.




Let me simply be here
when you wake, Father,
and show you the stare
of unconditional
Love.

 





   childern of the marble
    

Visit to the Wall, Washington, D.C.

Your days were many
of the lovely thoughts of children
grown around you suddenly here.


Mending in their touch
your simmer of desire 
spent to drift a darkest marble 


Tell me
One last time, 
My only given brother,
The reason why you could not stay 
And hid in what seemed paradise
Reaping all your softest features


Withdrawing us the bone.


And where we once lay in our home
I’ll rise a thousand times
To hear the children of the marble
Screaming to return 


Where rather than a monument
We’ll forge for them instead 
The promise of a lifetime


As well tended and preserved.






   little kitten, my way again
    
Little kitten
I hear you 
first thing, some thirty years the future of the person
now slipping out of conscience.  Why do
you come my way again, unblemished, 
as the nighttime ride of a furious adolescent never met you
headlong to allow your memory only. Whereas before, you slept 
so contently in the shelter,  the euthanasia 
shadowing  your every morning.   


In a merciful mood, 
I played at savior.  But I’m no good as god-like, 
giving you no living equivalent to a fallen star.
Or even close to a patch of dirt you could flourish.
And your delicate body, balanced between two worlds
Of joy and joyous, spirit of a butterfly ,halo of a tail, 
Still frees my every emotion,
then disappears.


  
   E.B. White
      
once the dawn
has shown the sun
but the sun has
gone as the days
go past.  Down to desk the pencil
lay to E. B. White.
His last day was 
a dark cold day.
From this day on
people remember him
as a great poet.
To me he was
the person that
I like to hear.
He had a good
voice.  I like the pitch of his voice.
From lowest to his
highest of voice he
sounded like a peaceful
voice, soothing as he flows the words from
his
mouth,
you could fall asleep
reading his poetry
or him reading it
He
had
a
soothing
voice.


   the clouds
      
As I ponder and
look at the sky
there is something
missing I said to
myself.  I hated
this day because
it was cloudy. There
was no sun at all
you could not see it. I asked
the clouds to move
away but they
didn't.  I asked
again.  But he
did not listen.
I yelled at the sky.
He woke with a moan
and a groan.
I asked him to move away.
He mumbled to himself
and then moved away.
The sun shone
over the valley
and I was happy.