"ruminations" poems - Hello Poetry

the child of the child of my woman, cries in the night, rooming next door, down the hall and he is all children that cry in the night, but he is more mine by right of quantity numerous are the kisses lavished, this biannual visit upon, his four year old oversized head, (so full of 'bains') his undersized, protuberanced belly body, a combo making him no longer baby, nor a grownup, both states, he denies accurately, maturely in a wobbly voice of utter certainty, but lacking the adjectives of what lies between, he debates his state thoughtfully, until distracted by other more pressing matters of state he is boy, little but vociferous, quiet, pensive, his head a weapon of...confusion and certainty that being four years old, he must perforce be permanently in skeptical awe of the world this is the best position ever, he has ascertained, to filter and behold anything, whatever newness arrives, which is constant, streaming and unending until new is fully digested, analyzed, and classified, as if he were a zoologist in a wild and untamed land only certain of what he knows with perfect certainty, he consults with me still, "you kidding?" such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory, wise in the ways of grownups, who, prone to deceive gleefully his very suspecting mind, so much so, they must be challenged and rebuffed all too frequently he cries in the night, normal tears of discomfort, physical or mental, I cannot tell, for his father his parental hearing more practiced, refined, has preceded me, such, as it should be, and I am dispatched back to my 3:00am bed, left only to ink contemplative ruminations on the state and nation of being four... and sixty, and still uncertain, even more than the little boy of wizened age of annualized four, the child of the child of my woman, on what is real, what is kidding, in a quest unending to better ascertain, the state of my own being and the transitory nature of everything all of what is thought certain, falls aside, under the withering, unwavering, critique of "you kidding?" and in this we are more kin than if our blood was physically shared

0

Nov 29, 2014

Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

On Being Four Years Old

the child of the child of my woman, cries in the night, rooming next door, down the hall and he is all children that cry in the night, but he is more mine by right of quantity numerous are the kisses lavished, this biannual visit upon, his four year old oversized head, (so full of 'bains') his undersized, protuberanced belly body, a combo making him no longer baby, nor a grownup, both states, he denies accurately, maturely in a wobbly voice of utter certainty, but lacking the adjectives of what lies between, he debates his state thoughtfully, until distracted by other more pressing matters of state he is boy, little but vociferous, quiet, pensive, his head a weapon of...confusion and certainty that being four years old, he must perforce be permanently in skeptical awe of the world this is the best position ever, he has ascertained, to filter and behold anything, whatever newness arrives, which is constant, streaming and unending until new is fully digested, analyzed, and classified, as if he were a zoologist in a wild and untamed land only certain of what he knows with perfect certainty, he consults with me still, "you kidding?" such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory, wise in the ways of grownups, who, prone to deceive gleefully his very suspecting mind, so much so, they must be challenged and rebuffed all too frequently he cries in the night, normal tears of discomfort, physical or mental, I cannot tell, for his father his parental hearing more practiced, refined, has preceded me, such, as it should be, and I am dispatched back to my 3:00am bed, left only to ink contemplative ruminations on the state and nation of being four... and sixty, and still uncertain, even more than the little boy of wizened age of annualized four, the child of the child of my woman, on what is real, what is kidding, in a quest unending to better ascertain, the state of my own being and the transitory nature of everything all of what is thought certain, falls aside, under the withering, unwavering, critique of "you kidding?" and in this we are more kin than if our blood was physically shared