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Sample from My Son the Poet
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by Brian Weilert

Damn, my son is a poet

I suppose I may be to blame

When he was still making deposits

In a diaper that no one wanted to withdrawal

I would lay down some sweet

Rhymes from Mother Goose

Letting loose some Little Boy Blues

And Three Blind Mice

But it was me who was blind

Blind to the fact that I…

I was creating a poet

Who would have thought that

When I was spittin’ some Ittsy Bittsy Spider

He would be forever changed

 

It was beautiful how a rub a dub dub

With the men in the tub

Taught him to share

and from the whole Miss Muffet fiasco

he learned he needed to grow a pair

Jack Sprat gave him a dietary direction

And Little Bo’ Peep well, she gave him a tiny-erection

 

Now I knew he was a bit of a stinker

A Georgy Porgy free-thinker

A rebel ready to challenge the man

  ………….and

When he was 8…9…10

 

He was cool…

 

And I didn’t care

 

But when his younger brother

                        Post bathroom episode

whispered secretly to his mother

“I think he has hair…down there”

 

I was like, “Whoa!” my boy has become a man

 

And I turned into my dad preaching the cookie cut, carbon copy, college, cubicle,

respectable, tax paying, not 27 on my couch laying, PLAN

 

Fear I suppose

Fear of having a kid lost in a world ready to eat you

                                    And not in a good way

Fear of being a failure when asked at my class reunion

“What does your son do?...Mine is in college…Harvard…curing cancer…

with plasma lasers…shot from nano-bots…that he designed…”

 

“Yeah…well… my son’s a….my son’s a….a…”

 

Damn….my son’s a poet

 

So, I shifted into action

trying to topple the teen

I had set upright

 

Shoving this misshapen ameba into a mold

Trying to weave straw into gold

But he wasn’t buying the magic beans I sold

 

Just trying to get my son up the hill

To fetch a pale of success

Knowing that poetry would

Cause him to tumble down

Regardless of any metaphorical Jill

 

I too was a rebel

And the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree

 

I just didn’t realize the man he would challenge, was me

 

 “Remember, I’m the Baa Baa Blacksheep

Yes sir, Yes sir three bags…..FOOL!”

 

“How dare you say you’re my dad.

You don’t deserve that title…don’t use it!”


Stick and stones do break bones

Words pound steel into tin

 

And All the Kings Horses and All the King’s Men couldn’t put

This Humpty Dumpty back together again.

 

So I did what any good father would do...

I pushed!

 

“Hey, you can Hey Diddle, Diddle your butt right out the door!”

            Which he did

“and go live in a tent!”

            Which he did

“In one of your friend’s parent’s yard!”

            Which he did

 

Years passed

Runnin’ rings around the rosy

 

“You have to get a job and go to school son”

            Yeah, well, you’re a jerk

                        And around

“You are never going to amount to anything son”

            Yeah, well, you’re a jerk

                        And around

“I can’t keep bailing you out of everything son”

            Yeah, well, you’re a jerk

                        And around, the not-so-rosy

                                                                        future

 

College failed, Work fired, work fired, work quit, college failed,

Hospital, Long unemployment, jail, hospital, work quit…quit…quit

 

He was killing me bit by bit…Contrary to Mary

It was me that was about to be planted in her garden

 

But all this time he was writing…

To read the rest purchase the script