I Write Poetry
(My first poem, written when I was much younger)
The Art of Growing Young
A father and a son, and a little time we will need
A few cents for this and a few cents for that we agreed
Some string, some glue, some paper, he said
Or maybe some twine would be better instead
The cool March winds will help a great deal
Like grease on the axle of a wagon wheel
With our kite now completed, we stood back for a pause
Though its framing was simple, love hid the small flaws
Out near our hill, the winds strongly blew
Pushing white clouds across miles of blue
Cautiously but surely, my father ran hard
He was thinking of last year when the moment was marred
Up, up, up into the sky, climbing higher and higher
My father ran on, till his body would tire
Dipping and diving, poking and playing
I hoped it wouldn't end when I watched it swaying
As it danced in the sky, the years slipped away
Just a couple of kids who'd gone out to play
My father had joy in making a slow or fast turn
When he was quite young, it was easy to learn
I was so eager that I gave it no thought
On how to control it, I just wanted a shot
I clamored for the reins of our small wind medium
Doing this is better than school and other tedium
He handed them over, quite gracious in fact
I think that he knew that I'd studied his act
With unskilled hands, I sensed what to do
It took all that I saw, yet none that I knew
It flew into the sky, but I ran out of string
Farther than I could see. Where is that darn thing?
The low flying clouds kept it hidden from view
Still, I wish I could see how high that it flew
But the sun went down as the fun wore on
And before we knew it, our experience was gone
As I grew older, I thought back to those days
Those Marches, Junes, Aprils and Mays
I am newly a father now and yet I still know
To the moving pictures, my son and I will not go
We will fly kites and we will not say, “Let's drive our Model T!”
Because they're just fads anyway
The Art of Growing Young
A father and a son, and a little time we will need
A few cents for this and a few cents for that we agreed
Some string, some glue, some paper, he said
Or maybe some twine would be better instead
The cool March winds will help a great deal
Like grease on the axle of a wagon wheel
With our kite now completed, we stood back for a pause
Though its framing was simple, love hid the small flaws
Out near our hill, the winds strongly blew
Pushing white clouds across miles of blue
Cautiously but surely, my father ran hard
He was thinking of last year when the moment was marred
Up, up, up into the sky, climbing higher and higher
My father ran on, till his body would tire
Dipping and diving, poking and playing
I hoped it wouldn't end when I watched it swaying
As it danced in the sky, the years slipped away
Just a couple of kids who'd gone out to play
My father had joy in making a slow or fast turn
When he was quite young, it was easy to learn
I was so eager that I gave it no thought
On how to control it, I just wanted a shot
I clamored for the reins of our small wind medium
Doing this is better than school and other tedium
He handed them over, quite gracious in fact
I think that he knew that I'd studied his act
With unskilled hands, I sensed what to do
It took all that I saw, yet none that I knew
It flew into the sky, but I ran out of string
Farther than I could see. Where is that darn thing?
The low flying clouds kept it hidden from view
Still, I wish I could see how high that it flew
But the sun went down as the fun wore on
And before we knew it, our experience was gone
As I grew older, I thought back to those days
Those Marches, Junes, Aprils and Mays
I am newly a father now and yet I still know
To the moving pictures, my son and I will not go
We will fly kites and we will not say, “Let's drive our Model T!”
Because they're just fads anyway
13-15, M