Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

My Son’s Face

In the silence of morning, kitchen door creaks,
dishes clang in chorus, coffee pot steams,
recall wakes up urged by the cries
of David's grandchild next door, and inside me,
I hug you just like the time
you tumbled into my arms, complaining,
"A giant from first grade hit me!"

Thinking of you quiets my thoughts,
masking the news sounds of TV,
visions of bombing raids,
incinerated towns, bodies, who kills who,
who messes up the president's plan,
who puts rotten strawberries
in the bottom of supermarket baskets
and all missed chances.

Oh, once more, this renewed uproar!
I focus on the middle of my brows,
as Buddhists do, so you to return again,
for your quiet face to calm me cell by cell.


prompt: being quiet