Frozen fire
Never said a word
Muted choir
Always seen and never heard.
Don’t react
The control is not subliminal.
Trained in guilt
And treated like a criminal.

If your children are prisoners
And raised to have no voice
They grow up untutored
In how to make a choice.
If questioning is not allowed
How will they ever learn?
This is how we teach them
That frozen fire can burn.

Frozen fire
Never said a word
Muted choir
Always seen and never heard.

If saying no is tantamount
To picking up a weapon
Then sooner or later
Their rebellion will deafen.
The children cannot exist
In a world that makes them whole
If they are raised and treated
As if they had no soul.

Don’t react
The control is not subliminal.
Trained in guilt
And treated like a criminal.

So ask yourself some questions
About what you were taught.
Some family traditions are
Better abandoned and fought.
Is there any act a child can do
That needs a slap across the face?
If not then there may be
No hope for love in our race.

Frozen fire
Never said a word
Muted choir
Always seen and never heard.
Don’t react
The control is not subliminal.
Trained in guilt
And treated like a criminal.

It’s common in the human race,
They helped their son to death.
Might as well have covered his face
And robbed him of his breath.
They gave him everything he wanted
The dear child of their hearts.
But their bestowal of gifts, a bit vaunted
Were about them from the start.

The parents wanted everyone to see
How well they treated their kid.
But when it came time to say ‘no’
They went someplace and hid.
They ironed out the bumps in the road
So the kids never had to learn
What they should do when that road
Takes a sudden calamitous turn.

So, the kids, ignoring all good sense
Listened to their peers instead
And started finding external means
To fill up the inside of their head.
They learned life could be postponed
And so could ever growing up.
They could find some kind excitement
In something rolled or in a cup.

And who was there to stop their plunge
Into a kind of lost weekend life?
It certainly wasn’t their father for sure
Or his confrontation-free wife.
No, they didn’t want to **** the kid off
Because that would mean strife.
Let’s just leave the kid alone and watch
As she meets her demise over life.

It all started out when parents chose to
Become their kid’s best friends.
So, who was there to teach them things
Like hard work and discipline?
Who showed them the rewards to be found
In learning to postpone gratification
When they were sitting in front of the TV
Grossing out on mental *******?

Imaginary home plate was just off the back stoop.

I tossed a rock up a yard or so and as it fell
I whacked it with my stick

and watched its skyward arch -

conjuring fantasies of Tiger Stadium.



      The phantom crowd stood and roared.
      “It looks like a long one folks - going, going ...”

CRACK!

Mr. McCrary’s garage window
splintered into a thousand shards.
My stadium vanished and I was naked in the garden -
desperate for a fig leaf.

I fled into the house (where I could not hide)
shaking with mortal dread
and not being catholic, I had no choice
but to confess my sin to my actual father.

Dad cradled my terror in his hands
and led me to Mr. McCrary’s back porch
where I knocked then stammered out my sorrys.

Soon, with dad as foreman,
I chiseled, measured and glazed away
until Mr. McCrary’s window
was entirely healed and restored.

Pushing the mower a half year later
I sensed movement across the fence
and looked up to find myself
staring into old man McCrary's eyes -

My guilty heart shivered as I
braced for the verbal thunder to follow.

But there would be no storm.
The old man's face softened into a smile;
he tipped his hat and pressed his *** into the soil.

Forgive me my Little One
That you have to see and endure this crunch
I know you long for your old man
But he chose to leave and will never have the chance.

My heart aches when you look for him
You’re way too young to understand his whim
But know that I’ll never leave your side
However things turn out on the other side.

Hush dear child, Mama's got this.
Fear none, my shields are endless.
You and I, we're infinite;
Forever threading the waves of life.
Highs and lows.
Scars behold.
Together we'll rise unscathed.

Do you only touch in anger?
Do you have the habit of hugging your kid?
Or do you prefer not to
Just like the parents of criminals did?
Do you think hugging
Will make your child turn out to be soft?
With nobody home to turn to
Would your child then be better off?

Does your son or daughter
Go without being touched in love for years?
Is the only emotion allowed
Obedience and silence, never any tears?
Does your perfect child idea
Amount to something like a stuffed toy?
Does your list not involve
Things that are normal for a girl or boy?

Is everything else important,
But not the issue of your child’s happiness?
When your child asks questions
Do you treat it as just smart-mouthedness?
If your child questions bad ideas
Do you take that as a personal attack?
Do you find yourself thinking,
And saying, you want your freedom back?

If any of the above is true
You are not being a loving kind of parent.
If your child’s image of you
Is of an angry person given to swearing
And calling them names
That should be reserved for enemy,
Then wake up and realize
That’s not the right behavior to use on family.

I was raised on ridicule
Scorn and blaming.
Belittling laughter
Jokes and shaming.
Though nobody who knew
Seems to doubt it
They sure as hell wish I
Would shut up about it.

That’s just the way it is today.
Abused children, it seems
Upset people; therefore they
Are best not heard, just seen.

Four Eyes, Toothpick and Brat
These are a few of the names.
You might as well call them freaks
And creeps. It amounts to the same.
Screwup, ******, fumblefingers,
Bones, Spazz and Stumblebum.
Pantywaist, wussy, ditz and then
Plenty more where those came from.

From birth to death it seems
Sometimes, throughout all of life
Some people just don’t care
That scorn can cut like a knife.

It makes people question
Every move they might make
When somebody keeps on
Calling them things like flake.
The condemnation and rebuke
Aren’t covered up by the laughter.
People should question deeply
The effect they think they are after.

So cut the kids a break
It won’t turn out wrong
And the ridicule of a child
Can last their whole life long.

He’ll spare the rod only to spoil
The gagging throat with castor oil.

O.O