Recently I posted about the incredible and world shattering fact that my oldest son has reached the age of two and twenty. It’s a fact I am still puzzling about. I am really not certain how this all transpired. Wasn’t it just a short time ago when I took a full thirty-five minute video of him swinging in his sling? Yes, more than a half hour of nothing but squeak squeak, squeak, as he slept, his head lolling to the side, and me sitting there all starry-eyed with the camcorder catching every forth and back motion, the proud smile of a total dufus on my face.
Well, since friends like Jennifer, Vincent and Kristine seem to like when I post my own poems, I thought I would include this one here. I wrote it for my sonnet submission in my final project for a creative writing course. You won’t remember it, Josiah, but one of those days I had to bring you to class with me, and Dr. Brown taught most of the lesson, carrying you and bouncing you from one hip to the other. This poem, she agreed was the masterpiece of that portfolio, so thank you, a tad belatedly, for your help in getting me that A grade.
Your tiny fingers stretch and reach for mine with grip so strong and firm for one so small as you. I watch them tense and curl, so fine, so warm. I gently touch, caress them all. A tiny mirror whom I reach down to hold, amazed that you are part of me and yet a person of your own, a tale untold of future heartache, joy and sad regret. I smile and smiling back you stare at me with eyes as wide as moons that watch the sky. Am I too a mirror? What you may someday be? What do you see as quietly you lie within my arms? But while I keep this wondering, you softly fall asleep. - David J. Bauman (1991)
- My Firstborn Hits 22, How is this Possible? (dadpoet.wordpress.com)