Soapbox

Imperfect Weapons

Our poems are our children.
Conception of a pensive moment, striking image or casual word,
gift of happy accident or design,
you feel the first stirring of their life within you
puzzling, exciting,
as the idea germinates and grows.

In due time they make their entrance into the world
a little sticky, perhaps, when first they see the light of day.
Like Athena from the mind of Zeus
spring poems forth fully formed and ready for battle,
but many come into the world bearing little resemblance
to the verse they will one day become.

You clean them up and nurture them
give them time to grow and mature,
love them for what they are
and wonder how much more they might be.
You offer them wisdom gleaned from your mistakes
and sometimes spend restless nights
wondering why, though you try to teach them the steps
they remain awkward and clumsy, even to your loving eyes.

Every parent knows that the most beloved  child is flawed.
Coming from you, how could they not be?
Coming from you, how else could they be?
And while many live happy lives in mediocrity and obscurity,
still, we all want our children to be respected
and even admired by others.

It's one thing to know that your child is imperfect;
it is another to allow the callous intonations of stranger
who do not love and understand that special child,
who do not appreciate that profound moment of conception
from which they sprang
and love them for being the expression of that moment-
to dictate who your child must become.

I know there are children
who return better for a stint done in military school,
who come back stronger and more keenly honed,
for time spent at the blacksmith's hearth,
melted down and reshaped against the anvil,
a weapon better able to pierce the heart.

A child of mine,
off-spring of my own imperfect making
would emerge, not tempered, but immolated,
it's heart a moth's moment of bright sacrifice
at such a forge

I  find that I prefer my children happy, imperfect weapons,
blunt-edged, perhaps,
but flawlessly true to the moment from which they were conceived
rather than see them hammered and forged
into a more brilliant but lifeless blade.