I have a writing journal, hardbound and blood-red (not sure about the gradations of red, but "blood-red" got flair), an anniversary giveaway of Mercury Drugstore, which began as my physical training journal: sets and reps of push-ups, sit-ups, etc. for the day. But now it's a writingjournal -- make that The Writing Journal! -- proud bearer, holy repository, of snippets of poetry: drafts of haikus and shorter; ambitious epics and longer! And sometimes, my grocery list (oftentimes, wife's). * * *
I have long accepted, being my father's son myself, that parents (fathers, in particular, as a father myself) will always love their children so much more than the other way around. Now my children are children, but they will grow up, and discover my misdeeds -- sins or crimes, even! -- and may end up despising me, cursing me, till I die. And perhaps wish me dead as soon as possible, sooner than God or nature plans. But how much should it matter? It's a given that I'll try to win back their love and respect. And if it would be in vain, though they may curse me every second and every day till the day I die, I'll still love them more and more till the day I die. (That is, if ever love can be measured via hourglasses and calendars.) * * *
Must be the Sword of Damocles hanging,
above and parallel to, the line of toll booths
cutting across the grey expressway,
that all them metal carriages, grind to a halt,
full stop -- one at a time, one after the other.
Then, upon compliance, just enough to catch
their gasoline breath, with engines rumbling still,
but volume down, they start rolling again --
one at a time, one after the other -- grudgingly,
increasing momentum, divided among three lanes,
but moving through one direction,
to branch out to each one's own destination.