At four, you took my hand and pulled me to your bed,
your small form cuddling, curling, you urgently said,
"Tell me… tell me a story! Story, make it long",
I began to tell the story, the story of when you were born.
Drums and bugles, bubbles and balloons,
somersaulting clowns and calliope tunes,
you came out to meet them, on the day that you were born,
and they were there to greet you, through a January storm.
Lions and gorillas marched to military airs,
snowmen and snowwomen danced without a spring time care,
somewhere in the harbor, a tugboat played a note,
and all the while you smiled a smile, upon a birthday float.
Just like a circus troupe, we formed a great parade,
and sauntered to the birthing bed where your mother lay,
she picked you up, she held you, as close as close can be,
her hand in mine, she softly said, “Now... we are three.”
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
180827F
Children always want to know who their parents are; their thoughts, hopes, dreams, fears and actions at stages in their lives.
This poem, a poem in several parts (only the first part here), portrays a father for his child, through the manner in which the story of the child's birth is retold at various stages in their life together.
