Here is a series of poems I wrote for my son. Some deal with his condition. Some with the joy my son has given me. Share them and pray for my son.
The Pain I need to Share After Learning about my Son's NF1
My son, my son,
I weep for you. I weep for the world;
the world cruel in its self-hatred, cruel in its love
of violence. I will not abandon you, son, even as I
am weak, weak in will and strength. God,
I pray to you for strength and will, for forgiveness
For life is not a Disney movie, but filled
With suffering. How to protect you, my son?
Protect you from the terrors of biology,
Flesh, and pain, and how little you look
To face the taunts of the world; the taunts,
The cross, I know too well. I have
No shield to offer but my love,
My soul, and my god. My God
Who hangs bleeding from a tree. My God,
My God abandoned by friends and followers.
Rise from the grave, my soul and my son needs
You. As it is all we can do, my son, my son, we will stand
Together, awaiting Easter, calling it compassion
Song to the Lord of the Crowded Street
To touch the cloak of God, we must work through
the crowds cheering, and must work through the fear
of divine rejection. Of evil, we know only of our dear
failures of our hearts. Hearing the terror embedded
in the cry of a newborn, we can understand the condemned.
yet we continue past the disciples, past the inner circle,
to the back of he who is God. Hemorrhaging, we touch for life.
Lord, who I am to ask you to stop, and turn around to ask
who touch your cloak? Yet, I want to stop you, the divine and
point to my son, and demand healing. Lord, I know you know
what it is like to weep for your son. So I ask, plead, and bleed
for you to stop, turn around and notice us.
Baby Boy's Milk
A voice calls out in the night. Answer the cry
with milk. Answer the call with love. Answer
the cry with fear and trembling. Time
will move us beyond this stage of being small. He
is small, not yet ten pounds. I am small,
not yet confident. The night unfolds. My boy
searches for questions to his hunger. Feeding
in my arms, I wonder if am holding him
right. A way moves through our space.
He is old in his wisdom as I am young in fear.
Prayer comes at the end of us, circling
us like a dark bee in search of nectar.
I think about God and address God.
What is there to do in the darkness
of a late night feeding? I wonder,
Then I change his diaper...
Psalm to my Lord from my Front Lawn
I planted last fall the grass seed mix with faith
in water, sun and soil . I hope to see the unseen
seeds sprout in this year's Spring. It has
appeared. It has taken root and mingles
with three leafed microclover. Taking a blade
in one hand, and a three winged leaf
of clover in the other, I lounge with my soul.
I look to our newest friend, a young oak we just
added. The newness of life fills me with longing for
Sweet Lord, who moves in the wind,
who moves me beyond my smallness,
makes me take notice of others in love,
to take notice of the young
couple living to my left raising their first
boy, not even one. Our boys , both babies now,
will grow up together. To my right, a man,
barely into his twenty, drinks the poison
of fun, parties and rootlessness. Without
aim, he finds purpose in a case of malted
mash, and cheap beer. Behind me, my family,
the gift of being alive, my baby boy discovering
the sweet taste of milk and Moma's voice.
He has learn to cry at the prospect
of sleep. Why sleep when life awaits,
demands to be experienced?
He sings the song of creation in his voice,
He will soon grab a handful of grass and clover.
For now, I bring him a clover to smell
he laughs and smiles. St Patrick would understand.
Today, my baby discovers a new smell.
Today, people fight for their freedom in Iran,
people mourn the death of Michael Jackson.
Today, we will share dinner with friends. Today,
we will place ancient flagstone of coppers red
and earthen browns on the side of our house
and plant creeping thyme to fill the spaces
between to stones. Today, I will sing
praises to my Lord.