Saturday, May 29, 2004

A Poem for My Grandson

Tired of my outrageous politics, my hyperbole, my vitriol? Me too. My life includes a lot more than an overtaxed spleen.

I do have a soft side, the side that takes care of a little boy for a few days each week. What follows is quite a deviation from the regular exhibitions here at The Museum of Madness, as far from madness as is humanly possible, the exact opposite of madness, the antithesis of madness!

This is a piece I wrote for my grandson, Chase Michael Adams. He'll be four in July 04.

I've kept him 3-4 days a week (ever since he was the size of a cantaloupe), so you can imagine how attached we are. He calls me "papa" and is the joy of my life.

I can watch him sleeping and start to cry from the crushing weight of my love.


There is a small, special place
where the laws of Nature go ignored,
where physics is transformed
by the sound of a child’s voice---

Where the concept of Pixie Dust lifts a great ship
to sail through the sky on windy tides
past unseen islands and glowing galaxies.

There is a moonlit sea
that hovers overhead;
a young boy weighs anchor
and aims for the stars.

There is a small, special time
that defies the arc of the sun
and shifts the shadows in the garden---
that makes the morning last forever
or until the call to come home.

Science here is humbled,
experiments made moot---
for a laundry basket is a rocket ship,
the driveway, a beach---
the yard, an ocean---
and God, a young boy.

He flutters His fingers and flies;
He closes His eyes and becomes invisible;
He points at a lion and says,
“That's me.”

* * *


Blogger CW Fisher said...

I don't know how to say this without sounding like a fraud, but that's a beautiful poem. I was tingling from line three all through. If you sent it to The New Yorker, they'd publish it, but your persona would be destroyed forever. Of course, a poem of such caliber wouldn't be signed by "Shark." Right? Mark Cayman could have written that. Use him for your new pen name!

Chase. Wow. In a way, a very remote way, a distant speck of a way, I envy you, but in a much larger, more titantic way, I don't. My own children are finally grown and if they start a'poppin' I don't know where I'd run. I'd just take off.

But I love the poem, and I've felt all those things before. But if I have grandchildren I'll lose this crusty old suit!

1:40 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Nice poem! It illuminates the unfiltered imagination of children very well. My son is 3.5 years old, and he turns everything he finds into a toy. Today, at the patio store, he played with an outdoor thermometer while we waited on line to pay. It was a rocket ship, with lots and lots of sound effects and a conversation between two "guys" in the ship.

Your grandson is adorable. Love the red hair. Sweet little face!

But what's that little red, white, and blue thing on his shirt? Could it be an American flag? What's a good America-hating liberal like you doing letting your grandson be caught in a shirt like that? The shame....


9:34 PM  
Blogger Shark said...

Gosh, CW, BHW, thanks for the kind words. Nothing gets to me quicker than admiration for my boy. He's not only cute and cuddly, but he's kind, smart, and well-mannered (just like Papa!).

RE: New Yorker - yah, I've got tons of 'do-able' material -- screenplays, plays, novels, poems, and short stories, but as I mentioned elsewhere on the ol' blog; I've stopped marketing.

re: the flag - bhw, how cruel of you to notice. His parents (read "common enemy") are materialistic logo-buyers. (Apparently, Leftist attributes skip a generation!), so grandpa has little control over the ads he wears. I do allow for one tiny american flag, tho, since this happened to be on July 4th of last year.

(To make up for this picture, I do have a photo of him as a tiny baby holding a copy of "Culture Jam"! Seriously. Yeah, I know it's sick, but I thought it was better than "Ulysses".)

8:06 AM  
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