why then the poems

Why do they come,

to me.

No children have I created,

nor will that ever be.

Two children I have, 

a gift from the handmaiden.

Though they are the very joy, of my life,

They were not my creations.

The poems then are my creations.

The need to create drives me now.

These revelations from the muze.

Like a great pouring, of lava, 

flowing forth, from a caldera.

Has it always been there?

Deep within my soul?

Out it comes now, all the heartache, 

pain, and joy

It redirects the streams of joy,

flowing forth from my soul.

That I may nourish the seeds,

hidden deep in your soul.

This then the drive

This then the drive, to visit, one of the babies.

Nearly grown now, is he?
He is tall.
He is smart.

One of the babies, we raised, together.

But the choices, he made, what of the choices.
He is not what he did, he is one of the babies.
So a used van, I buy, to take them, for a visit.

This then four hours, we will drive, one way.
In the van, my wife and I will sit,
while mom and dad visit with the baby,
now a young man.

I hold a prayer, that is all I can hold.
No influence have, I over this baby.
All I have is my love.

He could have been my first baby,
But grandpa loved him first.

So all I have is my prayer and hope.
A hope that he will become more then he did.
More then he is, now.

This crime, this thing, forgiveness will then come.
For to love is the only choice I have, today.
To choose any other is to damage my soul.
So I will love the boy I have no influence over,
and I will cherish this memory, we make today.