Poetry at Home

April is National Poetry Month and I spent some time yesterday looking through my bookshelves. Poetry has often brought a sense of peace, solace during difficult times, and I often feel wonder at how poets can express emotions so beautifully and completely. Sometimes they can even adroitly point out things you didn't even know you were feeling. I only have a few volumes of poems on my shelves and nothing really struck me. Then I remembered I am lucky enough to be the mother of poets.

Ryan wrote this as a school assignment back in sixth grade. His teacher was taken with the imagery, submitted it to Creative Kids magazine, and he became a published author. I remember reading this for the first time and shedding some tears myself, thankful for being able to see things through his eyes, and that he could describe a perfectly average scene from his window so beautifully. I'm not impartial in any way, but I do love this poem. In honor of National Poetry Month, my oldest poet son who still has a way with words, I'm sharing:

 Gutter Filled With White Flakes

Gutter filled with white flakes as they billowed out-

ward, roof dappled with melting snow. I sat watching

 birds. By chance, I saw them, flooding by like water in

 the rapids, rippling, fluttering about madly as dragon- 

flies. Small, dark, brown birds with tan flecks all down

their bodies ending in bristled curls on their tails. One

halted its skyward ascent to sit on the edge of the

snow-filled gutter. A twig snapped above the bird's

head and plummeted. The bird, startled, slapped its

wings and gracefully soared away from its certain peril. 

One bird gone, yet another replaced it almost immedi-

ately, squatting down, making itself look ever more

pudgy, so pudgy in fact, that I almost had to laugh. 

That bird's visit, too, was cut short. A heavy truck rum-

bled down the road startling the bird, it drove onward 

in its trek to an unknown destination. A cardinal sits

on a tree branch, tree's trunk striped with ribbons of

rolling droplets as if in tears, weeping with sorrow 

at the cardinal's departure. As the smudges of dirt with 

which my window is speckled begin to cloud my view, 

I begin to slip into the world of knowingness. I turn

away, in tears, vowing to look back on this day and

behold again all the glory and peace it brought.

Justin wrote a lot during his high school years. Most of his writing was penned only for himself, privately filling many journals. He wrote this one in high school and it was published in the school literary magazine. He told me the other day that he is still writing poetry, and this makes me and my heart happy. As his mother, I'm completely partial, but I do love this poem, even as it breaks my heart. In honor of National Poetry Month, my youngest poet son who has the ability to use just the right words and has things to teach me, I'm sharing: 

Callous Liasons

Sympathetic?
             No.
Malicious?
             Yes.

Everyday,
Struggling to hear
             Yearning for the words.
Why can't they say
             Yes?

We all covet it
At some point.
Sometimes at
             Ten,
                          Twenty,
                                       Forty.
             Arduous for some
             Effortless for others.

High school.
Should be simple,
             Right?
             Not for me.
                          Not for them.

Not an ordinary
Weekend.
             Met once before
             Mesmerized then
                          Still now.
Must restrict myself
             But I asked.
I got an answer.

She said
             She must shout.
So my heart can hear
             The lethal response.
                           No.