These are the happiest times,
The days for which I’ve longed since my own youth.
These are the vibrant hours, which
Each one relished as a perfect petaled rose,
Draws my mind away from future cares . . . .
(worldly concerns I once revered so high),
and rivet all my Being
on the pivot point of Here and Now.
My fair, sweet precious child,
Before you, I was a philosopher,
A rebel, a system-maker,
A seeker of all things fine – for all mankind.
And thus I marched us through your infancy,
Through walking, talking, counting 1,2,3.
It took awhile for you to change my purpose.
But gradually I re-made myself, re-made my world, for you.
Your pre-teen years
Gave me a tan-skinned, quick, athletic boy to watch,
still cuddly-sweet, as babies are.
Your love for me, so priceless, made my life complete.
How fascinating can one little being be
In antics, jokes, and supple little limbs?
Ah, the choicest of companions.
Ah, and I in a position to enjoy!
I had not planned these days,
Did not know they ever could exist,
Nor can I plan their end.
They are, quite simply, sprung from an infinite truth:
A mother is her offspring’s love and light.
A child is a mother’s own rebirth.
For now, there’s nothing I can do
That counts for more than watching over you.
So…. Now you’re 10
As of yet, my world is world enough for you
And I seem all you need . . . . .
I know, though, in ten years or so
you’ll sail away from me,
And I’ll be left behind. Standing proudly . . . . .
Waving to you gaily from the shore . . . . .
Holding back the tears, as mothers do . . . . .
And staying quivering lips
Which quiver some for you, and some for me
For what becomes of Mothers
When kids don’t need their mommies anymore?
What next will I be?
I'll find a new profession, paint the sea,
Be a potter, write a book of poetry.
What passion will be my next reality?
These days will end.
For sure I know they will,
I know they will,
And all my friends and all the literature I’ve read
assure me that they will,
So . . . . . how shall I prepare?
They say it’s very dangerous to care.
There’s heartbreak there.
So how shall I prepare?
That question, percolating often through my mind,
Is answered by my Heart
In crystal-clear, unarguable tones.
I shall not prepare!
I cannot, Should not! Won’t!
For prudence has no jurisdiction here!
Wise counsel says “You know it’s coming. Please prepare.
And by all means begin now to prepare.”
But this is mean, absurd, unwise . . . .
Would steal from me life’s greatest prize,
And is impossible besides. I am too vibrantly alive
With love for you!
So hear me one and all:
“For these too precious few maternal years . . . . .
Unbounded love! Connection! These are mine!
The future may go on and plan itself
With all my blessings, and a prayer
That I won’t be forlorn in future years.
But please, I can’t prepare.”
Only fools becloud a gift of joy
With fear of future woe.
I simply cannot plan another course
for these sweet precious years, but loving you.
I simply can’t imagine who would fail
To raise their glass in toast
After pondering my defense, which lies below:
No one enjoys such perfect days as these
But saints, and gods, and me.
You, son, are my immortality.
These are the vibrant hours, which
Each one relished as a perfect petaled rose,
Draws my mind away from future cares . . . .
(worldly concerns I once revered so high),
and rivet all my Being
on the pivot point of Here and Now.
My fair, sweet precious child,
Before you, I was a philosopher,
A rebel, a system-maker,
A seeker of all things fine – for all mankind.
And thus I marched us through your infancy,
Through walking, talking, counting 1,2,3.
It took awhile for you to change my purpose.
But gradually I re-made myself, re-made my world, for you.
Your pre-teen years
Gave me a tan-skinned, quick, athletic boy to watch,
still cuddly-sweet, as babies are.
Your love for me, so priceless, made my life complete.
How fascinating can one little being be
In antics, jokes, and supple little limbs?
Ah, the choicest of companions.
Ah, and I in a position to enjoy!
I had not planned these days,
Did not know they ever could exist,
Nor can I plan their end.
They are, quite simply, sprung from an infinite truth:
A mother is her offspring’s love and light.
A child is a mother’s own rebirth.
For now, there’s nothing I can do
That counts for more than watching over you.
So…. Now you’re 10
As of yet, my world is world enough for you
And I seem all you need . . . . .
I know, though, in ten years or so
you’ll sail away from me,
And I’ll be left behind. Standing proudly . . . . .
Waving to you gaily from the shore . . . . .
Holding back the tears, as mothers do . . . . .
And staying quivering lips
Which quiver some for you, and some for me
For what becomes of Mothers
When kids don’t need their mommies anymore?
What next will I be?
I'll find a new profession, paint the sea,
Be a potter, write a book of poetry.
What passion will be my next reality?
These days will end.
For sure I know they will,
I know they will,
And all my friends and all the literature I’ve read
assure me that they will,
So . . . . . how shall I prepare?
They say it’s very dangerous to care.
There’s heartbreak there.
So how shall I prepare?
That question, percolating often through my mind,
Is answered by my Heart
In crystal-clear, unarguable tones.
I shall not prepare!
I cannot, Should not! Won’t!
For prudence has no jurisdiction here!
Wise counsel says “You know it’s coming. Please prepare.
And by all means begin now to prepare.”
But this is mean, absurd, unwise . . . .
Would steal from me life’s greatest prize,
And is impossible besides. I am too vibrantly alive
With love for you!
So hear me one and all:
“For these too precious few maternal years . . . . .
Unbounded love! Connection! These are mine!
The future may go on and plan itself
With all my blessings, and a prayer
That I won’t be forlorn in future years.
But please, I can’t prepare.”
Only fools becloud a gift of joy
With fear of future woe.
I simply cannot plan another course
for these sweet precious years, but loving you.
I simply can’t imagine who would fail
To raise their glass in toast
After pondering my defense, which lies below:
No one enjoys such perfect days as these
But saints, and gods, and me.
You, son, are my immortality.
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