My Father’s Son

Sometimes I wonder
where strength comes from,
when everything seems so hard.

I try to remember
what’s easy for me
and slink into comparisons.

No, I am not another man,
nor is another one me.

I realize how little it gains me,
to put on another man’s clothes.

My task I know
is merely to be
the best of me I can.

Then I remember
that strength itself
resides inside of me.

That the birds are in bloom,
	and the flowers fly,
That the trees sing love songs,
	and the sun sets out new roots,
That the sky ripples at the toss of a stone,
	and butterflies drop their leaves in autumn,
That the grains of water are too hot for bare feet,
	and the sand too cold for swimming,
That our house is truly a castle,
	and milk the wildest feast —
All these I see in your eyes when you gaze them into mine.

1)

A pen had beckoned once before,
and now a keyboard calls.
Technology dictates little,
though at times it seems it’s all.

Yet within, beneath,
humanity lies.
Ourselves we yet and still
remain.

2)
It is late
or early.
I hear my child,
my baby,
in the other room,
coughing.

He does that
in his sleep,
as if to check that we are listening
to his voice
yet silent of words,
still speaking of his will.