A son of Adam born anew,
Arrives into a joyous hopeful stage,
Everything set in colors of blue,
Two becomes three on a brand new page,

A son of Adam as he grows,
Has certain traditions to uphold,
None of which he yet knows,
But soon everything will unfold,

A son of Adam as he gets older,
Must bring his molders glory and gold,
To be the brave unrelenting soldier,
To be a savior and above all bold,

Now when a daughter of Eve is born,
The molders have such different hopes,
The loss of a possible son they mourn,
Then soon they begin pulling her ropes,

A daughter of Eve for generations past,
Is a puppet to her family's whims and woes,
Not a rival to the son, she is an outcast,
Never allowed to be bold or oppose,

A daughter of Eve must become a mill,
And produce until she has procured a son,
That is her destiny to fulfill,
Otherwise, society will quietly shun,

A daughter of Eve can perhaps teach,
A son of Adam she has produced,
How not to become traditions leech,
And break the circle of abuse.

I recall the day, before she was five,
She asked to go, and play outside.
I answered, Yes, for awhile;
For I read his poem, about the road,
The travails she'll face far from home.
At our door I watched her play,
And saw the roads lead her away.

There'll be times she's on her own,
In a one-on-one, or in a throng;
In places where she won't belong;
Or find herself between right and wrong.

Yet, I untied the knot,
Dropped the tether; as a father,
I knew there'd be tools to hone,
Wits to sharpen, boards to carry,
An ax to edge on her whetstone.
There was work to be done.

If all goes well,
If I got it right,
It won't matter
Which path she roams;
She'll always know
Which lead her home.

The words flow like water
Drip dripping from my mind
Like a father’s pride for his daughter
Even after he caught her
Doing something he never taught her
Smoking **** with her friend
Why does childhood have to end?
He laments and he vents and he grounds her for a month
A punishment for growing up, for rolling a blunt
For changing so much
But deep inside he knows that every child grows and he has to let go
That’s the way my words flow

my favorite girl is honeycombed
a heart of bitter jelly locked
the ants crawl but dissipate
amidst, i blush coquettishly
i am her prince, blue and fond
stranded in abundance of wild grass
somewhere in Texas
my throat is dry and my mouth lingers
on the sunflower seeds i spit aimlessly
into the dirt
Waiting for seedlings to crawl, a spurt of
"this love will grow someday"
i can taste the spit of the tongue
that knows my name by heart
and wouldn't have it any other way
no i wouldn't have it any other way

In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.

Daily she put on shmattehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty

even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,

to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.

Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups

for her to drink the sweet
sacramental wine of fulfillment.

The story shone in her as through
tinted glass, how the mother

gave up and did without
and was in the end crowned
with what? scallions? crowned
queen of the dead place

in the heart where old dreams
whistle on bone flutes
where run-over pets are forgotten,
where lost stockings go?

In the coffin she was beautiful
not because of the undertaker's
garish cosmetics but because
that face at eighty was still

her face at eighteen peering
over the drab long dress
of poverty, clutching a book.
Where did you read your dreams, Mother?

Because her expression softened
from the pucker of disappointment,
the grimace of swallowed rage,
she looked a white-haired girl.

The anger turned inward, the anger
turned inward, where
could it go except to make pain?
It flowed into me with her milk.

Her anger annealed me.
I was dipped into the cauldron
of boiling rage and rose
a warrior and a witch

but still vulnerable
there where she held me.
She could always wound me
for she knew the secret places.

She could always touch me
for she knew the pressure
points of pleasure and pain.
Our minds were woven together.

I gave her presents and she hid
them away, wrapped in plastic.
Too good, she said, too good.
I'm saving them. So after her death

I sort them, the ugly things
that were sufficient for every
day and the pretty things for which
no day of hers was ever good enough.

Her tears, suspended from one cheek
Like liquid tassels
The other, immune
And dry as the dust bowl
There are two sides to every story
Yet this one is beyond two dimensions
Her explanations have layers upon layers
Like an ambiguous onion that begs to be undressed
And once exposed to the air, its bitterness once again
Provokes her tears
I do desire to ride down the rocky path
The one that steeply descends to the shore
Where anger will put to flight
And heap upon me, understanding
And a daughter's trust

A middle-aged couple
Stares out their front window
Happily watching the workers
Busy on their front lawn, digging a hole.

They had lived in this neighborhood
For three years
With their three precious daughters,
The family dog, and only two trees.

The mother would often complain
Because the houses looked bare
The father was sad,
Said the air was stale.

But they know well that each day that brings a trial
Brings a blessing, too.
Today, the dog is barking
And there's plenty of work to do.

Still, they smile.
Because today they get a brand new tree.

Who I was
Is not who I am,

     Quarter Moon
Beams of Where's
My Daddy tears hit
And the lonely nights
Have taken toll on me.

Where are you now
Little GIRLS?
I want to see you,
I need you,
I'm better now.

It's ok Daddy,
Echoes of the crescent
Regret arc over my soul,
And the hint of seeing
You again drives me to think
You still remember me,
You still love me,
I regret everything.

Just because I'm your father
Does not make me a good one.

Lost in conversation at a party
with a friendly person
I ended up almost tardy
but the event was worth it

This woman older than myself
had lost her youngest son
He had a bout with depression
and used his father's gun

A teen that never listens
comes with the territory
Blamed herself for doing the same,
called it her "horror story"

A touch of blue hit her face
as she remembered his smile
Her hands continued to shake;
they had been for a while

It got me thinking quite a bit
of what we leave behind,
be they achievements or kin,
by them we are defined

We tell the world of our struggles
with words and demonstration
and teach the kids how to live,
preventing devastation

Our legacy will continue
past their life expectancy
and through the passage of time
raise their dependency

The stench of death is rotten,
but still our biggest fear to date
is living life to the fullest,
yet remaining forgotten

And not to mention
raising sons and daughters;
we do our very best to keep them
from the guns and slaughter

Living in the here and now,
ever considered a future
where your experience today
will tutor newer users?

So* leave your mark - *be it poetry, melodies,
artistry, pedigree, even guiding infancy or
serving in an infantry, believe in your legacy
You're remembered infinitely.