I'm not the poet of the family. My brother, Tom, is
Tom takes moments and turns them into transcendent threads of gold. He writes about things that are too scary to express--depression, solitude, regret.
He also writes about his music. Mostly, though, he writes about his lady friend, Emily.
It's a pretty wonderful part of my day to log onto my account and see a new poem waiting for me to unwrap like a present.
In honor of National Poetry Month, Tom is attempting to write a new poem for every day of the month. So, in an attempt to support his action, I'm going to attempt to write a real poem, today.
This is so out of my comfort zone.
I whisper prayers in the darkness,
"Please God, please let him sleep tonight."
Let us all get the rest we need,
so that during the next day I don't feel like Sisyphus,
pushing two boys up the same hill.
I whisper prayers when Paul goes on his long runs,
a mere speck, trudging past makeshift memorials,
flowers and teddy bears, commemorating the less fortunate.
I whisper prayers when the anger courses through my veins,
when all I want to do is slap that small, curious hand,
or literally shake sense into that developing mind.
I whisper prayers when I look in the mirror,
seeing the wrinkles in my smile,
the dark circles under my eyes,
the persistent jiggle around my middle.
I whisper prayers when I'm alone,
because my heart is somewhere else,
and I must protect it.
I whisper into the cosmos,
hoping that the words take flight,
and serve their divine purpose.