One Autograph for a Ten Year Old

One Request to the Famous

A ten year old boy lies quietly in bed,

He’d rather be outside playing instead,

His spirit is strong as he welcomes each day,

As he looks at the tubes that keep him at bay,

His smile is there even when he’s in pain,

His treatments are dreadful but he rarely complains,

He’s a brave young man unless tempted to cry,

When he sees the fear in someone’s eyes,

Too young for cancer to put him in strife,

But it’s there uninvited to control his life,

The doctors are doing the best they can do,

They’re waiting to see if the chemo comes through,

Being careful with our words to keep his spirits high,

To meet his wishes the family would like to try,

Signatures he’s requested to place on his board,

From celebrities who are willing of their own accord,

Although bedridden, his eyes would dance,

Knowing someone out there gives him a chance,

Leukemia is not an easy disease to subdue,

Signatures would lift his spirits, perhaps from you,

If you’re a star in sports, music, or screen,

It will make his day for your name to be seen,

Politicians and writers, you’re included too,

Please be sure you include what you do,

If you’re a friend or relative of a fabulous star,

Send those autographs from wherever you are,

His condition is critical, he’s confined to a bed,

The hospital has limits, and no visitors can tread,

If you can meet his request just simply reply,

Mail a short note with autograph to the little guy,

If you would like his address to be sent,

Ask me for his information in a comment.

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.