Tibetan Treefrog Publishing

Sample from My Son the Poet
Product Catalog Page
About Us
Contact Us/ Message Board
The Total Package JUST $250
TTF#1: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#2: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#3: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#4: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#5: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#6: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#7: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#8: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#9: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#10: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#11 Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#12 Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF#13 Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF #14: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
TTF #15: Titles/ Samples/ ORDER
News and Events
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


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



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