So many wonders abound
And such amazing sounds
And plenty of love around
With you so very mild
But life so free and wild
And every day unbound
In the eyes of your child
Bouncing ball to play
One child sees much brighter day
And what should we say?
Yes, be like the child
Just carefree and fun and wild
And yet meek and mild
Leave behind the fray
And, oh, go the child’s way
And for awhile stay
Jesus once said that you have to become like a child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, for the Kingdom is made of children. Perhaps, then, we adults need to learn to grow down?
How can it be that you’ve grown so quickly?
Ah! It was only yesterday that I carried you
Along the pathway through the city park
And secured you against that dog’s bark;
Has it been so long since I taught you
To play hide and seek, to ride a bike?
Was it not only a few weeks ago
I showed how to climb the tree?
Now I look and see beauty in a young lady,
And I’m stung and tongue-tied and defied
By time that’s passed by so quickly,
Deftly stealing away my little girl . . .
How can it be that you’re now so grown up?
Only yesterday I was shown a baby,
But today I see an outstanding lady!
Nobody told me such loveliness in my child,
So meek and mild, could hurt so very deep
Where I will forever keep you in my heart;
And can I say, ‘happy birthday?’ Yes . . .
And many more as you tear my heart away
And say, too, ‘I love you . . . and always will!’
Yesteryear is somewhere I hold not dear,
And shed not one tear that I can only peer
Into my past – to cast but a quick glance –
And it does not last . . .
Oh, yes, there’re fond memories, I’m sure
But they do not serve to cure my dejection
And so my rejection of too much reflection
Comes with ease with ne’er ghostly figure
To tease, and no shade to rise up to please,
Nothing to freeze my soul in bygone years;
And tell me, what could be more charming,
If not alarming, for an avid pupil of history?
Ah! an invigorating story I love, so savory!
But really there’s not one bone of interest
To pick from my own,
Sown in the mundane . . .
So yesteryear is not dear but rather drear;
But, then, I hear it is medicine for the soul
To reflect, to recollect, and so it might be,
So, you see, I do reminisce in quietness;
No, I do not hate the past, so I meditate,
Yet this does not last very long;
After all, I belong here and now . . .
Yesteryear may be as near as one thought,
But reliving those days cannot be bought
With the world’s gold, not even one’s soul,
And why try? To want to live in yesteryear
Comes from fear of bowing here and now,
Turning ‘golden days’ into towers of power
Under which one cowers . . .
And this came to mind as I was pondering
Ah! I’m so sorry, my rose, that your gardener knows so little
But tingles with self-ambition from head to toes, though you
Grow best in the garden where you are, with so much sunshine,
Rain and stars, in such lush, sweet garden where lovers meet
And admire your beauty as you abide your duty in lovely glow
To show all passersby just how one flower can flourish despite
Slack care and lack of cultivation by the gardener, who is hard
Pressed to truly impress anyone; you have been rooted in good
Soil with other healthy shrubs and trees and flowers, and from
This you’ve drawn strength and power without allowing yourself
To sour from neglect, misuse and abuse; yes, and you grew into
An awesome rose in all, tall in magnificence without pretense,
But now … ah! but now how the gardener is ripping you up by
Your very roots while sipping on poisoned wine, perfectly fine
With the decision to replant you with scant attention to your
Health and well-being, seeing there is more to gain in another
Garden despite what pain it causes you and how askew the plan
As if laid out by a madman, but can anyone ban the transfer?
Kinsman, clergy or wise man? Oh, but each one tries in vain
As the gardener only continues to lie, claiming the uprooting
Is best and will ultimately invest you with even more charm
And beauty, though we all know it will only harm … only harm;
And I’m so sorry; it breaks my heart, tears it apart! I’m sorry
If I could I would leave you just where you are
And plant the gardener in scant soil instead!
Sometimes it’s easier to ignore the problem, pretending it’s not there,
Even though it’s staring you in the face, or tell yourself it’ll go away
While the monster grows, showing itself more and more, boring a hole
In your soul; oh, but it seems simpler just to keep up a ‘normal’ pace
As you look into your sweet child’s face and you clearly see the trace
Of pain and suffering; it’s far more comforting to remember your child
As that meek and mild infant, that toddler at play on sunshiny days…
But deep inside you know something is wrong, something is there that
Does not belong, but you’d rather sing a happy song than to bring the
Problem out into the open and talk about it, with openness and honesty,
And tackle the trouble head-on; you’d rather live in a bubble of joy,
However fake than to take the time and make the hard effort to fight
An unnerving battle with all your might … but the sight of your child
Decaying will never be made right by grand illusions and self-delusion;
So what will it be? Love that goes above and beyond the call of duty —
It is your duty — or intense pretense of caring without bearing any
Weight of responsibility for the fate of your very own offspring? Eh?
Sometimes real love is rough and tough precisely because it is love!
Child, I’m not frozen,
And I’ve chosen to spend my time with you,
So cheer up, my dear,
And don’t veer away from me every day…
Time does fly, my child,
And then we must say ‘goodbye’ at last;
Then comes a fast blast,
When you realize how you cast your dice;
But, dear, I am here now,
So how do you want to spend your time,
As the clock chimes eleven,
And so soon heaven will surely call me home?