A poem to my son.
The Brush
Young, beautiful boy
See through my eyes and prepare your journey.
Take my hand so that I may help you begin to
live and love in the vibrancy of your transcendent soul.
Take this brush and together we will begin to paint on the
canvas of your life.
Hand in hand I will guide your brush but not direct.
When I let slip my grasp you will know you are the artist
of your life's design.
You will live the life you choose but you will never be alone
in doing so.
I will be there within you and without.
You are the distinct and profound expression of the love in my life
and all those who have come before us.
So, hold on high that which brought you to me and will forever be
a part of who you are.
As you are the only true answer to why I ever was.
On some special day you will become the shepherd of another soul.
Bring forward that which we have learned together and apart,
and start anew.
With a gentle hand, display the artistry of your life and endow
the next with all that you are and could ever be.
And as the painting of your life matures and you turn to face the
result of your creation, look for me watching you.
Young, beautiful boy
See through my eyes and prepare your journey.
Take my hand so that I may help you begin to
live and love in the vibrancy of your transcendent soul.
Take this brush and together we will begin to paint on the
canvas of your life.
Hand in hand I will guide your brush but not direct.
When I let slip my grasp you will know you are the artist
of your life's design.
You will live the life you choose but you will never be alone
in doing so.
I will be there within you and without.
You are the distinct and profound expression of the love in my life
and all those who have come before us.
So, hold on high that which brought you to me and will forever be
a part of who you are.
As you are the only true answer to why I ever was.
On some special day you will become the shepherd of another soul.
Bring forward that which we have learned together and apart,
and start anew.
With a gentle hand, display the artistry of your life and endow
the next with all that you are and could ever be.
And as the painting of your life matures and you turn to face the
result of your creation, look for me watching you.
1 comment:
What a beautiful poem! And what a lovely son.
Van Morrison had a poem for child that fits perfectly.
Here it is:
When the child was a child
It walked with arms hanging
Wanted the stream to be a river and the river a torrent
And this puddle, the sea
When the child was a child, it didn't know
It was a child
Everything for it was filled with life and all life was one
Saw the horizon without trying to reach it
Couldn't rush itself
And think on command
Was often terribly bored
And couldn't wait
Passed up greeting the moments
And prayed only with it's lips
When the child was a child
It didn't have an opinion about a thing
Had no habits
Often sat crossed-legged, took off running
Had a cow lick in it's hair
And didn't put on a face when photographed
When the child was a child
It was the time of the following questions
Why am I me and why not you
Why am I here and why not there
Why did time begin and where does space end
Isn't what I see and hear and smell
Just the appearance of the world in front of the world
Isn't life under the sun just a dream
Does evil actually exist in people
Who really are evil
Why can't it be that I who am
Wasn't before I was
And that sometime I, the I, I am
No longer will be the I, I am
When the child was a child
It gagged on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding
And on steamed cauliflower
And now eats all of it and not just because it has to
When the child was a child
It woke up once in a strange bed
And now time and time again
Many people seem beautiful to it
And now not so many and now only if it's lucky
It had a precise picture of paradise
And now can only vaguely conceive of it at best
It couldn't imagine nothingness
And today shudders in the face of it
Go for the ball
Which today rolls between it's legs
With it's I'm here it came
Into the house which now is empty
When the child was a child
It played with enthusiasm
And now only with such former concentration
Where it's work is concerned
When the game, task, activity, subject happens to be it's work
When the child was a child
It was enough to live on apples and bread
And it's still that way
When the child was a child berries fell
Only like berries into it's hand
And still do
The fresh walnuts made it's tongue raw
And still do
Atop each mountain it craved
Yet a higher mountain
And in each city it craved
Yet a bigger city
And still does
Reach for the cherries in the treetop
As elated as it still is today
Was shy in front of strangers
And still is
It waited for the first snow
And still waits that way
When the child was a child
It waited restlessly each day for the return of the loved one
And still waits that way
When the child was a child
It hurled a stick like a lance into a tree
And it's still quivering there today
The child, the child was a child
Was a child, was a child, was a child, was a child
Child, child, child
When the child, when the child, when the child
When the child, when the child
The child, child, child, child, child
*And on and on and on and on and onward
With a sense of wonder
Upon the highest hill
Upon the highest hill
When the child was a child
Are you there
Shassas, shassas
Up on a highest hill
When the child was a child, was a child, was a child
Was a child, was a child, was a child
VM
Why am I me and not you. Twas ever thus.
Luv ya both.
C
Post a Comment