Ben

Ben, a young boy from India, wearing a scarf of red,

Stares intently and shakes his head,

“I’m full of love and curiosity,

Adopted when small even though the agency,

 Thought for sure I might be,

Difficult to place for it was agreed,

I could be malformed, for no one had a clue,

That I was as normal as you,

It was thought I might not make it,

Because I was so tiny I could fit,

In a shoe box, but I grew,

Changing the life I once knew,

And with lots of fresh air,

Good nutrition and loving care,

My adoptive parents gave

Me love which my life it saved,

 

It was what I wanted and needed,

And through the years I proceeded,

To just be a unique, growing young lad,

Usually good, but sometimes bad,

It was plain to see that I was part of a family,

That loves the world and especially me,

My parents call me their joy,

For I’ m bright, happy, and all boy,

Now in my portrait I watch for visitors, a few steps up the stair,

Does my family know I’m here? Perhaps they’re not aware.”

The Poem Not Written

My poetry is a time of curiosity, of smiles,

And childlike satisfaction of using guile,

It is a gift, a talent, imagined or real,

That lets my heart express how I feel,

It shapes itself from thought to pen,

And stirs my soul to write again,

My muse is often witty when she has her say,

Mediocre poems are due to her really bad day,

They may be laden with imagery and flow,

Or fall flat on their faces with little to show,

But the worst poem of all is the poem not written,

It waits swollen with promise, as if snake bitten,

Stares forlornly as other poems strut their stuff,

And never ventures out, it’s not good enough,

Nor does it climb into one of my dreams,

Pestering to be written as a beautiful theme,

The poem not written gets left behind,

Forever out of sight, and finally out of mind.