"Go ask your Mother"

'But she told me to ask You'

"Well, it's fine by me"

God has a wife

Mother nature's her name

And we as their children

It is safe to say

We're the epitome of rebellion

Misguided young minds

Universe of investment

To nurture mankind

We've ruined the household

From which we live in

Our parents so caring

Simply say nothing

Godly calm patience

They hope we grow up


And one day


Learn something

today
for the first day in a span
far too long since last occurring,
a son’s gaze to meet without hesitation.
before him, standing as—
a man,
deserving the title—
a father,
but never deserving, forever
aspiring.

a choice made,
though
for the man, not the best,
yet,
the choice—
a just decision.
its wake
waves of consequence—
each proving impotence.

to drown impossible when
offered the outstretched hand
of a child.

Consider, If you will,
I pray,
The certainty
On Christmas Day,
If Infinite Wisdom
Should decree,
Christmas Day
To be snow free.

Pray to avoid
Inside woes,
Happy homes
Need Christmas snow.

Get kids on skates, sleighs and skis,
Bundled well so they don't freeze.
History dictates outside toys
Combine real fine with outside clothes.

Skates match well
With socks and toques,
Sleighs are steered
When warm in boots.

Snow awakens sleepy heads,
Riding sleds instead of beds.
Toboggans hurling down the slopes,
Big brothers begged to man sled ropes.

For smiling cherubs
On Christmas morn,
Hope and pray
For snowy lawns.

There in safety
Kids can mold,
A fortress
Or a snowman bold.

HA! Now listen to my homily,
Snow's not for kids only.
What would we do
On Christmas Day,
Ready kids,
No snow for play.

Imagine kids,
Your very own,
Being inside
All day long.
Your son,
So eager with his horn,
Playing Gabriel
In early morn.
Then recall
Your rush for games,
The lines, the crowds,
It's so insane.
And they won't play
Outside at all,
They're pushing us
Against the wall.
Yes,
Screams of laughter, resounding;
Peels of joy, echoing;
Happy shrieking, pounding,
On
Silent Christmas morn.

It's like
that bed is calling my name
"There's no shame in going to sleep early,"
but there's a room full of kids back there and I'm pulling my hair trying to get them to feel the same.
So, I have a drink
and think too much
and get on to them over and over
and my daughter begins to cry to yours about her "Daddy."
"I wanted to give him a hug and a kiss!"
Those sobs are real and deep and I turned off the the TV because they wouldn't sleep and she wouldn't have had this moment if I'd just let them stay up watching Howl's Moving Castle for the second time in a row.
In about two hours, she's five years old... at least she knows his face. That's more than I got until twenty-eight.
And, I know that you say I'm a great mother. You tell me I'm good to her and her brother.. but when she was crying and asking for him, the whiskey speech kicked in and I told her I didn't know. Not where he is or what he was doing. "And these kids wouldn't be here if your dad was here, do you understand? I don't know why he hasn't talked to you. I don't care if you cry but you can't keep screaming and keeping everyone up."
Tough luck for that girl having me for a mom. It's not the worst she could hear by far... but a hug... maybe that's better for her heart.
But instead,
I'll let her talk to her four year old friend in the bed.
My head has no answers. My heart crowds out comfort with hurt.
There are books about this.
Psychologists
counselors offering advice.
I just have vice
and you to offer the soft kind of love I can't give.
I never knew the donor
that was my father
and the pain that incurred was hard to bear from the time that I knew two parents could be there...
And only time made it better and worse altogether.

a statue the envy of Michelangelo
destiny unknown, the medium—perfection,
growing with age and process,
moulded by the hands of an unworthy artist

the sculptor a paragon of ambition to be,
with enamoured eyes the living stone watching me
a selfish chisel striking cruel and careless,
driven by a hammer of regret, tears resultant
unknowing confused questioning and blameless
staining the surface as sadness' garment
the err of inexpert hands curse by
marks impossible to be unmade despite
a love absolute for the victim of his craft

a father undeserving his son
mouth to match heart, hands to mirror soul
my failure
to see through promise made in
reply to infant breath
by youth's eye the world so meagre
my blessing to be king by innocent observer
a man, by title defective
an artist in whom little may be redemptive
words a patchwork of reparation
futile to hide errant strike, reclamation of relation
so daunting subsequent degeneration

your each tear
my sorrow's weight
my son, forgive me—
forgive
your father's abate

To be the man I want to be,
that I know I should be.
Father, friend, husband, lover,
these are the things which escape me.

I look at you, at her, him,
in eyes I see within
my failure.
The way you look upon me,
wishing I were someone other—
our mutual hunger.

Each night I pray,
forgiveness, guidance, love and understanding.
The very same I myself
reluctant advancing.

My cheek stings by correction's notice.
Loving him, to love my clan.
To ask him, is to beg man.

An apology, not in word but in deed.
To seek and uncover a new self,
not insuring soul redeemed.

Rather to show than say,
my sons, wife, I am sorry—
tomorrow is
a new day.

alone,
but not.
here because I have to be,
but want to be.
here,
but another time.

this place
always so full, but so
empty.

it never sleeps
this place,
it never
dreams.
always working, learning.

but it does dream,
this place.
it dreams of being
awake—
together.