To My Son

       It occurred to me recently that years ago I typed all of my poems from grade school on into our first computer, which crashed long ago with all hands on board. Although I still have a scrapbook of originals, hand written or typed on our long deceased manual typewriter, I realized I should probably put them here and in my documents where I can back them up. Since I have babies on the brain, thanks to my granddaughter being born this week, the first poem I will post is one I wrote about my first son, Will.

   

 To My Son

You tug at my breast

with gentle insistence

in this first exchange of

love and warmth,

still so new that I hesitate

as I call you son.

You tug at my hair

with unexpected strength

and deadly accuracy,

 making me wonder if

your spastic, baby movements

are merely a clever ruse.

You tug at my leg

with a grip of iron

and powerful determination,

a tyrant on wobbling legs.

You tug at my hand

in utter amazement

at my reticence to see

the new worlds you have discovered

the beautiful rocks,

the tasty flowers.

You tug at my heart,

too grown up now for hugging,

only in play do we touch much.

In a young man’s ways

 you give your love,

yet still I feel the insistent tug.


1985