Words

I have a little something to share with you before you read the three poems I've posted on this page.

My oldest son Robby, who is now in graduate school, was at a time in his life,

when he'd come home on weekends, and stay out until all hours, with his friends.

On this particular Saturday night, we had an ice storm where everything was

just covered with a gorgeous, treacherous sheet of ice. The trees, looked beautiful, &

the streets, too were all covered with at least a half inch of solid clear ice.

I awoke at about 2:00 A.M. to the sound of the ice hitting the rooftop, and

immediately got up to check to see if my son was in bed safely asleep.

He wasn't...

Now this is the son, who gets upset with me, for being what he calls an

underachiever.

You see, I had opportunities, and in his eyes, threw it all away.

God gave me talent, but I didn't want to become an exhibitionist, using my

talent to become narcissistic with conceit...It's very easy to become self absorbed, especially when you're young.

I thought of it as a sickness...thank God I

decided to follow Jesus...

So, getting back to my story, I made myself a cup of tea and sat in the dark to wait for my son to come home. While I waited, I wrote

the following poem to my son, who didn't understand why I didn't want the fame...These

are only words, but words are all I have,
to take your heart away...Bee Gees: Words

I Did Get A Life...

In the still of the night,

While you are out to roam,

Freezing rain pelts upon my rooftop;

I pray God's angels bring you safely home...

In my quiet solitude,

I find amidst my pondering,

The little lad you one day were,

With wide eyes, hope, and wondering...

I was once your hero...

Whatever happened to those eyes?

You now see a lesser person,

Unaccomplished, you surmise...

You're up so high on that pedestal,

I placed you on, long ago.

With deliberate ease, you sprouted wings,

And off you went to crow...

You see, however you envision me,

There's one thing you should know as true.

I chose to be non–famous.

The only fame I want is from you...

Celebrity, celebrity, so easy to attain,

With lures and cures and witches spells,

All lurking in the wings.

I saw a life, a simple life,

Raising family, and kin.

No guilded cage for this sole,

I've saved the soul within...

And so, I speak to your soul,

I've nurtured from it's start.

I've always been the person,

You hold within your heart...

For mother's of sons everywhere...I know you will relate to this following poem, which I wrote for both my sons, Robby and Joshua, for as little boys grow, they balk at their mother's affection...

Let Me Hold You While I Can, My Son...

Let me hold you while I can, my son;

Let me hold you while I can...

For tomorrow you will walk away,

Taking my heart in your hand...

I fell in love with life through you.

We bonded from the first.

As your little arms would hug me,

I thought my heart would burst...

Oh, let me hold you dearest babe of mine.

You've brought me utter joy...

No other love can yet compare,

To a mother's love for her little boy...

Let me hold you while I can, my son;

Your teen years soon will start.

Then other loves will come to you,

And I'll have to share your heart...

This poem was written for obvious reasons

Artists Woes

My family is oh, so busy, day and night.
They track their footprints on my wet floors,
They never pick up their clothes.
They even leave without closing the doors.

Mealtimes are hard to pin down,
For when the food is cooked, no ones around.
They say, "oh, I've already eaten",
I sit and eat alone, totally beaten.

Then I decide to pull out my paints.
With free time to spare, inspiration is ready.
I gesso a canvas, lay in the background.
Start the detail, keeping my hand steady.

The phone rings, the doorbell chimes,
I ignore them all, I have no time.
When in they come asking, "what's to eat"?
I answer them, "it's on the heat".

All of a sudden they want me to serve.
When it's out, they have some nerve.
An artist, who's a mother and a wife,
Has to deal with this kind of frustrating strife.

The inspiration goes a fleeting.
My palette dries, my creativity woes.
Duties, chores, chauvinistic minds.
Have drained all my artistic floes.

I clean my brushes, put everything away.
Until there's time another day.
Artists have studios, I now understand,
Without phones or doorbells, or hungry demands.

Copyright © 1999 G.O. Perri (Gloriajean O. Perri, Gloria Perri) 4/9/99

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