05-06-2022
10-31-2018
10-21-2018
Bound to (6-16-2018)
Bound to
After over fifty years, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, engaged in an endeavor I entered into by choice and choice alone, suffice to say, fatherhood is not an undertaking that can be carried out to anywhere near perfection. It is a lifelong event, a conviction, thousands of prayers, to stand by and defend, come what may. Siring is not fathering, nowhere near fathering.
Making the choice to be a father five times in a row are decisions I have not spent a single moment regretting. Over the years, sometimes all in the same day, I believed I was the worst, most mediocre, and best father to have ever existed.
I owe thanks to that boy, over fifty years ago, for the tough decision he made, glad to be the man who, through a helluva life, stood by that decision and lived to tell the stories. I have known and cared for these five people the all of their lives, my children.
Thousands of masks wore my face. Underneath them all was the face of who I truly am, a father’s son, a father.
After over fifty years, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, engaged in an endeavor I entered into by choice and choice alone, suffice to say, fatherhood is not an undertaking that can be carried out to anywhere near perfection. It is a lifelong event, a conviction, thousands of prayers, to stand by and defend, come what may. Siring is not fathering, nowhere near fathering.
Making the choice to be a father five times in a row are decisions I have not spent a single moment regretting. Over the years, sometimes all in the same day, I believed I was the worst, most mediocre, and best father to have ever existed.
I owe thanks to that boy, over fifty years ago, for the tough decision he made, glad to be the man who, through a helluva life, stood by that decision and lived to tell the stories. I have known and cared for these five people the all of their lives, my children.
Thousands of masks wore my face. Underneath them all was the face of who I truly am, a father’s son, a father.
Bound to (6-16-2018)
Memorial Day
On the ride to work each day
I watch the soldiers' cemetery pass.
Everything appears equal there,
stone tablets standing at attention,
grass trimmed by wiry brown-skinned men.
I see a lady bend down;
she kneels,
sets a cup full of wild flowers before stone.
I feel a hitch in my breath to watch.
Flags ever in evidence,
the here and now of this place
and this day, each grave adorned
with a tiny standard, its solemn face.
A warm day, end of May
I roll to a stop, set my kickstand down,
senses immediately assaulted
by a most deep and haunting sound.
My legs walk away from the Harley standing.
I stood open witness, his one-man parade,
tartan kilt, regal attire,
pipes slung over his shoulder,
moaning, set the morning afire.
The perfect precision of his gait,
distance practiced, known too well.
Here marched the spirits of these soldiers
to ring their lives with his mournful bell.
My heart was flushed with guilt in its watching.
His lady, with a single flower,
came to gather up her man,
his pipes with their mournful singing.
She took his arm with her hand.
I went to the stone of her choosing
where Ian the first was lain,
then to the end of the piper's walk,
the sky shed a tear of rain.
These eyes confused in their seeing.
A newer stone whose name the same,
here lies Ian the third.
I followed the voice of the piper,
loneliest sound ever heard.
And there was Ian the Junior,
standing aside with his wife,
a fair compliment of mourners
bidding farewell to a life.
What greed mine curiosity shown.
The pipes trailed away in their singing,
a reverend mumbled words to the sky
that Lord, they are brave in their going,
these lads to their sweet by and by.
A final note owned the moment
to soar with its spirit way up high.
The crack of twenty-one rifles,
exclamation marks against the sky.
What mortal undone was I.
Ian the second passed by me,
his proud pipes bellowed once more.
His wife let fall of her flower
on top of that last mortal door.
And he paced from Ian to Ian,
this man no one could save,
whose soldier's sin was still to be living
with father and son in their graves.
And the rain hid my face from his eyes.
Those without Graves was published by International Veterans Poetry Archives 2004
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018
I watch the soldiers' cemetery pass.
Everything appears equal there,
stone tablets standing at attention,
grass trimmed by wiry brown-skinned men.
I see a lady bend down;
she kneels,
sets a cup full of wild flowers before stone.
I feel a hitch in my breath to watch.
Flags ever in evidence,
the here and now of this place
and this day, each grave adorned
with a tiny standard, its solemn face.
A warm day, end of May
I roll to a stop, set my kickstand down,
senses immediately assaulted
by a most deep and haunting sound.
My legs walk away from the Harley standing.
I stood open witness, his one-man parade,
tartan kilt, regal attire,
pipes slung over his shoulder,
moaning, set the morning afire.
The perfect precision of his gait,
distance practiced, known too well.
Here marched the spirits of these soldiers
to ring their lives with his mournful bell.
My heart was flushed with guilt in its watching.
His lady, with a single flower,
came to gather up her man,
his pipes with their mournful singing.
She took his arm with her hand.
I went to the stone of her choosing
where Ian the first was lain,
then to the end of the piper's walk,
the sky shed a tear of rain.
These eyes confused in their seeing.
A newer stone whose name the same,
here lies Ian the third.
I followed the voice of the piper,
loneliest sound ever heard.
And there was Ian the Junior,
standing aside with his wife,
a fair compliment of mourners
bidding farewell to a life.
What greed mine curiosity shown.
The pipes trailed away in their singing,
a reverend mumbled words to the sky
that Lord, they are brave in their going,
these lads to their sweet by and by.
A final note owned the moment
to soar with its spirit way up high.
The crack of twenty-one rifles,
exclamation marks against the sky.
What mortal undone was I.
Ian the second passed by me,
his proud pipes bellowed once more.
His wife let fall of her flower
on top of that last mortal door.
And he paced from Ian to Ian,
this man no one could save,
whose soldier's sin was still to be living
with father and son in their graves.
And the rain hid my face from his eyes.
Those without Graves was published by International Veterans Poetry Archives 2004
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018
In loving memory of Mom & Dad, love, hope & prayers for brother Jack, deepest devotion to my children & grandchildren, all those in the wide & deep of my family~
Spirits awander
anchors aweigh
flyin’ in winged ships
sandwiched ‘tween oceans & clouds
It is a wonder we find each other
can’t remember why we left
glad to step in steps
made in younger days
We got home
We got family
Gotta hold on
Family Thanksgiving
Spirits awander
anchors aweigh
flyin’ in winged ships
sandwiched ‘tween oceans & clouds
It is a wonder we find each other
can’t remember why we left
glad to step in steps
made in younger days
We got home
We got family
Gotta hold on
Family Thanksgiving
Baskets full of hugs & kisses
a slice of cherry pie
warm smiles on a cold morning
a place to go & cry
stories to tell & secrets to keep
those kites that refuse to fly
holidays at Grandma’s
& there’s Grandpa’s knee to ride
A symphony of tiny voices
pictures hanging on the wall
loneliness & happiness
bathtubs in the hall
beginnings & birthdays
& fires in the fall
those letters that say, “I miss you
I miss you most of all”
Fourth of Julys exploding
when there’s a scraped-up knee
magic kisses chase the pain away
& cats up in the tree
new shoes & hand-me-downs
those brand new glasses, “I can see!”
fighting & loving & loving & fighting
the past that’s the past of “me”
Bicycles & training wheels
time gets in the way
fairy tales & teeth under pillows
that place where the old dog lays
seats to sit & blankets to hold
report cards & bright sunny days
children's pockets full of bugs & bolts
picnics, camping & weekends away
Where some friends belong & some are just friends
all kinds of neat stuff to share
noses & roses & photograph poses
everyone’s favorite chair
countless messes made by “Mister No One”
the search for the three-legged teddy bear
pennies in couches, pencils & cookies
the feeling: there’s always someone who cares
It’s you I’m really talking about
& the others I’d like to see
What we are is what it truly means
to be part of a family
I guess drifting apart is natural
the way life's intended to be
to be apart & a part, full circle
yes, part of a family
We all must grow in our own direction
We struggle & try to be free
Ever so often we should meet & remember
what it means to be family
It is you I’m really talking about
the pieces of you that are me
the pride I feel in the sharing
being part of a family
Family Thanksgiving was published by Mel Brakes Press 2010
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2016 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 ©
a slice of cherry pie
warm smiles on a cold morning
a place to go & cry
stories to tell & secrets to keep
those kites that refuse to fly
holidays at Grandma’s
& there’s Grandpa’s knee to ride
A symphony of tiny voices
pictures hanging on the wall
loneliness & happiness
bathtubs in the hall
beginnings & birthdays
& fires in the fall
those letters that say, “I miss you
I miss you most of all”
Fourth of Julys exploding
when there’s a scraped-up knee
magic kisses chase the pain away
& cats up in the tree
new shoes & hand-me-downs
those brand new glasses, “I can see!”
fighting & loving & loving & fighting
the past that’s the past of “me”
Bicycles & training wheels
time gets in the way
fairy tales & teeth under pillows
that place where the old dog lays
seats to sit & blankets to hold
report cards & bright sunny days
children's pockets full of bugs & bolts
picnics, camping & weekends away
Where some friends belong & some are just friends
all kinds of neat stuff to share
noses & roses & photograph poses
everyone’s favorite chair
countless messes made by “Mister No One”
the search for the three-legged teddy bear
pennies in couches, pencils & cookies
the feeling: there’s always someone who cares
It’s you I’m really talking about
& the others I’d like to see
What we are is what it truly means
to be part of a family
I guess drifting apart is natural
the way life's intended to be
to be apart & a part, full circle
yes, part of a family
We all must grow in our own direction
We struggle & try to be free
Ever so often we should meet & remember
what it means to be family
It is you I’m really talking about
the pieces of you that are me
the pride I feel in the sharing
being part of a family
Family Thanksgiving was published by Mel Brakes Press 2010
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2016 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 ©
Veterans Day (November 11, 2016)
On the drive to work each day I watch the soldiers' cemetery pass. Everything seems equal there, stone tablets standing attention, the grass trimmed by wiry brown-skinned men. I see a lady bend down; she kneels, sets a cup full of wild flowers before two stones. I feel a hitch in my breath to watch.
Flags always in evidence, the here and now of this place and this day each grave is adorned with a tiny standard, its solemn face. A warm November day, I roll my window down, senses immediately assaulted by a most deep and haunting sound. My legs walk away from the car standing.
The first time I witnessed his marching, tartan kilt, his regal attire, pipes slung over his shoulder, moaning, set the morning afire. There was certain precision to his gait, distance practiced, known too well. Here walked the spirits of these soldiers to ring their lives with his mournful bell. My heart was flushed with guilt, its watching.
His lady, with a single flower, came to gather up her man, his pipes with their mournful singing. She held his arm with her hand. I went to the stone of her choosing where Ian the first was lain, then to the end of the piper's walk, the sky shed a tear of rain. These eyes confused in their seeing.
A newer stone whose name the same, here lies Ian the third. I followed the voice of the piper, loneliest sound ever heard. And there was Ian the Junior, standing aside with his wife, a fair compliment of mourners bidding farewell to a life. What greed mine curiosity shown.
The pipes trailed away in their singing, the reverend mumbled words to the sky that Lord, they are brave in their going, these lads to their sweet by and by. A final note owned the moment to soar with its spirit way up high. The crack of twenty-one rifles, exclamation mark against the sky. What mortal undone was I.
Ian the second passed by me, his proud pipes bellowed once more. His wife let fall of her flower on top of that last mortal door. And he paced from Ian to Ian, this man no one could save, whose soldier's sin was still to be living with father and son in their graves. And the rain hid my face from his eyes.
International Veterans Poetry Archives published Those Without Graves 12/29/2004
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2016 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 ©
Flags always in evidence, the here and now of this place and this day each grave is adorned with a tiny standard, its solemn face. A warm November day, I roll my window down, senses immediately assaulted by a most deep and haunting sound. My legs walk away from the car standing.
The first time I witnessed his marching, tartan kilt, his regal attire, pipes slung over his shoulder, moaning, set the morning afire. There was certain precision to his gait, distance practiced, known too well. Here walked the spirits of these soldiers to ring their lives with his mournful bell. My heart was flushed with guilt, its watching.
His lady, with a single flower, came to gather up her man, his pipes with their mournful singing. She held his arm with her hand. I went to the stone of her choosing where Ian the first was lain, then to the end of the piper's walk, the sky shed a tear of rain. These eyes confused in their seeing.
A newer stone whose name the same, here lies Ian the third. I followed the voice of the piper, loneliest sound ever heard. And there was Ian the Junior, standing aside with his wife, a fair compliment of mourners bidding farewell to a life. What greed mine curiosity shown.
The pipes trailed away in their singing, the reverend mumbled words to the sky that Lord, they are brave in their going, these lads to their sweet by and by. A final note owned the moment to soar with its spirit way up high. The crack of twenty-one rifles, exclamation mark against the sky. What mortal undone was I.
Ian the second passed by me, his proud pipes bellowed once more. His wife let fall of her flower on top of that last mortal door. And he paced from Ian to Ian, this man no one could save, whose soldier's sin was still to be living with father and son in their graves. And the rain hid my face from his eyes.
International Veterans Poetry Archives published Those Without Graves 12/29/2004
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2016 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 ©
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~fathers’ day greetings!!!~
~family~
~kathy & tom~
~grandchildren~
Is there a reward comparable in life to raising children? My qualified answer is no. I say qualified because I have enjoyed the company and fellowship of five wonderful people the all of their lives. In 1969 I became an eighteen-year-old father. This wondrous event was repeated in 1971, 1975, 1980, and 1987. One of my sisters had an arrangement with her husband. He would be the parent one day and she the next. I’ve heard folks speak of loving their children but bemoan the fact they’re no longer unattached and single. I don’t understand any of that, have never entertained such.
I’ve screwed a lot of things up across the span of my sixty-four years, made my share of mistakes raising my children. Through the all of it, watching, listening, and sharing with them made life more vivid, gave it a lustrous quality. On dark days my spirit was buoyed, anchored, made calm to rest by the very reality of their existence. My days of epiphany, well, they are my days of epiphany. I have written and sung to them for over forty years, such as what follows:
~magick fingers of love~
“Catch me Daddy! Catch me if you can!” I was always good for the chase. I ran after them, my beautiful boys and girls. With far reaching fingers, I touched the back of their feathery hair. Then, as if by magick, they twisted and turned, caught a burst of speed, and escaped my grasp.
One by one, the magick disappeared as they came of a certain age. My extended fingers filled with air, I caught my breath (the only thing, by the way, I ever did manage to catch). Truly outrun and outmaneuvered, I laughed as if nothing had changed. “Next time!” I declared and, sure enough, next time I’d get a wisp of hair-touching close. Then off they went, under the power of a bit of manufactured magick.
They have all grown now, past the magick of the daddy chase. I sit and wonder when the moment came with each of them, when the daddy magick passed from my fingers into their hair. I sure can’t catch them now, probably never could.
I’ve screwed a lot of things up across the span of my sixty-four years, made my share of mistakes raising my children. Through the all of it, watching, listening, and sharing with them made life more vivid, gave it a lustrous quality. On dark days my spirit was buoyed, anchored, made calm to rest by the very reality of their existence. My days of epiphany, well, they are my days of epiphany. I have written and sung to them for over forty years, such as what follows:
~magick fingers of love~
“Catch me Daddy! Catch me if you can!” I was always good for the chase. I ran after them, my beautiful boys and girls. With far reaching fingers, I touched the back of their feathery hair. Then, as if by magick, they twisted and turned, caught a burst of speed, and escaped my grasp.
One by one, the magick disappeared as they came of a certain age. My extended fingers filled with air, I caught my breath (the only thing, by the way, I ever did manage to catch). Truly outrun and outmaneuvered, I laughed as if nothing had changed. “Next time!” I declared and, sure enough, next time I’d get a wisp of hair-touching close. Then off they went, under the power of a bit of manufactured magick.
They have all grown now, past the magick of the daddy chase. I sit and wonder when the moment came with each of them, when the daddy magick passed from my fingers into their hair. I sure can’t catch them now, probably never could.
~the fatherhood song~
~let me tell you about the choir~
~singing in my heart its sweet messages~
~life songs that support & sustain me~
~those wonderful singers, my children~
~whose voices I heard first cooing and gooing~
~mimicking songs I sang them to sleep~
~lullabies & daddy’s voice whispering~
~tickling their ears when first I learned~
~the fatherhood song~
~I hear them in the rivers of blood~
~coursing through my veins~
~hands over my ears, eyes closed~
~I hear them each & together singing to me~
~Christmases & birthdays, any-days~
~little People loving me large~
~recording themselves on cassette tapes announcing~
~“This is for you, Daddy”~
~what meant so much & more since first I began to sing~
~the fatherhood song~
~I lay me down at night sometimes & find my mother there~
~it’s difficult because she isn’t anywhere but she’s another voice~
~in the choir who encouraged her son to sing~
~shared her voice with my children all those years~
~those long years, Silent Night Holy Night~
~when she finds me, reminds me~
~“We are poor folk, good folk.~
~You are a man of good heart~
~whose children have taught him to sing~
~the fatherhood song.”~
~let me tell you about the choir~
~singing in my heart its sweet messages~
~life songs that support & sustain me~
~those wonderful singers, my children~
~whose voices I heard first cooing and gooing~
~mimicking songs I sang them to sleep~
~lullabies & daddy’s voice whispering~
~tickling their ears when first I learned~
~the fatherhood song~
~I hear them in the rivers of blood~
~coursing through my veins~
~hands over my ears, eyes closed~
~I hear them each & together singing to me~
~Christmases & birthdays, any-days~
~little People loving me large~
~recording themselves on cassette tapes announcing~
~“This is for you, Daddy”~
~what meant so much & more since first I began to sing~
~the fatherhood song~
~I lay me down at night sometimes & find my mother there~
~it’s difficult because she isn’t anywhere but she’s another voice~
~in the choir who encouraged her son to sing~
~shared her voice with my children all those years~
~those long years, Silent Night Holy Night~
~when she finds me, reminds me~
~“We are poor folk, good folk.~
~You are a man of good heart~
~whose children have taught him to sing~
~the fatherhood song.”~
~zedidiah & hannah~
~harley blue, jesse & eli~
I remember back to what you guys were to me, harken forward to what you are to me. It certainly gives me pause to consider children in daddy’s arms and riding his horsy foot, now with children of your own. Is love a different experience than I imagined, diminished and enhanced by time, deeds done and/or undone? No, though melancholy slips in once in a while, our love, what it was, is what it is.
I was mystified as a younger man, challenged, expectant and satisfied by the task set before me upon the miraculous events of your births. Though a bit uncertain as to how to proceed, this promised to be the good work, what I might dare name love and remain so enamored in its progression. I would hardly notice its evolution, stages and wonder of growth, so engrossed was I in the day-to-day implementation of fatherhood. I remain intimidated by the lessons I had to learn and you had the patience to teach. A man ruminates on his life, his children. Melancholy slips in. I am inclined to give it the boot, help it slip out.
I am mystified as an older man, challenged, expectant and satisfied by the task set before me.
I was mystified as a younger man, challenged, expectant and satisfied by the task set before me upon the miraculous events of your births. Though a bit uncertain as to how to proceed, this promised to be the good work, what I might dare name love and remain so enamored in its progression. I would hardly notice its evolution, stages and wonder of growth, so engrossed was I in the day-to-day implementation of fatherhood. I remain intimidated by the lessons I had to learn and you had the patience to teach. A man ruminates on his life, his children. Melancholy slips in. I am inclined to give it the boot, help it slip out.
I am mystified as an older man, challenged, expectant and satisfied by the task set before me.
~tommy & heather~
~christy & troy~
~tammy & john~
~If I Father~
~eighteen when my first daughter was born~thirty-seven when the fifth child~
~my second son came to join us~those three girls & two boys have had quite a time with me~
~sharing life with them~the single most significant event of my being~has been a prayer~
~the oldest of eight children~searching for a lifeline~I wondered~if I father~
~I have watched each of them sleep~
~tasted the perfect bloom~
~of their sweet child breath~
~thought of myself ~
~as the great protector~
~keeper of precious fragile flames~
~not so much I think~
~as I witness their awakening~
~into the dawn of youth~
~the embrace of young adulthood~
~parenthood~
~I listened to their stories~
~told one to the other and others~
~voices pure and beautiful ~
~as fine silk~
~texture my ears could touch~
~while listening~
~I learned of their suffering~
~that their lives had been staggered~
~by sullen blows of doubt~
~& fear that I~
~their father~
~might come crashing~
~through those doubting walls~
~to discover them~
~in the company of the ghosts~
~of their imperfections~
~eighteen when my first daughter was born~thirty-seven when the fifth child~
~my second son came to join us~those three girls & two boys have had quite a time with me~
~sharing life with them~the single most significant event of my being~has been a prayer~
~the oldest of eight children~searching for a lifeline~I wondered~if I father~
~I have watched each of them sleep~
~tasted the perfect bloom~
~of their sweet child breath~
~thought of myself ~
~as the great protector~
~keeper of precious fragile flames~
~not so much I think~
~as I witness their awakening~
~into the dawn of youth~
~the embrace of young adulthood~
~parenthood~
~I listened to their stories~
~told one to the other and others~
~voices pure and beautiful ~
~as fine silk~
~texture my ears could touch~
~while listening~
~I learned of their suffering~
~that their lives had been staggered~
~by sullen blows of doubt~
~& fear that I~
~their father~
~might come crashing~
~through those doubting walls~
~to discover them~
~in the company of the ghosts~
~of their imperfections~
~in the night~
~voices speak to me~
~the tiny ones of my children~
~who have come to go~
~will always remain with me~
~grown past the child whispers~
~I aspire to hear~
~I answer them~
~in fatherly mumbles~
~tears in my eyes & melancholy~
~for what has passed~
~in my time of living~
~you see they are the protectors~
~of my imperfections~
~I congratulate myself on a job well done~
~because they need me less now ~
~than ever before~
~& never so much as I imagined~
~in my fatherly throes ~
~my attempts to interpret~
~fatherly duties~
~do’s, dues, & don’ts
~a symphony of tiny voices~
~echoes ring down~
~the spiral canyon of my years~
~they speak to me~
~in a perfect symmetry~
~of childhood wisdom~
~they fairly embrace me to stand~
~voices speak to me~
~the tiny ones of my children~
~who have come to go~
~will always remain with me~
~grown past the child whispers~
~I aspire to hear~
~I answer them~
~in fatherly mumbles~
~tears in my eyes & melancholy~
~for what has passed~
~in my time of living~
~you see they are the protectors~
~of my imperfections~
~I congratulate myself on a job well done~
~because they need me less now ~
~than ever before~
~& never so much as I imagined~
~in my fatherly throes ~
~my attempts to interpret~
~fatherly duties~
~do’s, dues, & don’ts
~a symphony of tiny voices~
~echoes ring down~
~the spiral canyon of my years~
~they speak to me~
~in a perfect symmetry~
~of childhood wisdom~
~they fairly embrace me to stand~
~there are those~
~who accuse me of talking to myself~
~they got that right~
~my children are myself~
~the very ones I am addressing~
~ones I have become~
~I may be answering questions~
~from a score of years gone~
~by and by as I watch~
~my daughter with her daughter~
~my oldest son in conversation~
~with his brother~
~twelve years his junior~
~yes daughters & sons~
~with sons & daughters~
~to all of them I say~
~I am your father~
~that is all I am~
~& in that complete~
~you lend me strength~
~make me proud~
~in a most beautiful revelation~
~the knowledge & carriage~
~of our shared imperfections~
~stepping forward through it all~
~embracing & supporting one another~
~you carry me to a place~
~of unconditional devotion~
~love without fear~
~lighting candles~
~in the dark corners of my spirit~
~I am made to be free~
~a man~
~my children have been~
~& remain yet~
~perfect sentinels of my journey~
~If I come to see beyond the shadow~
~If I come to walk into and through the fire~
~If I come to feel~
~to love and be loved~
~If I father~
~who accuse me of talking to myself~
~they got that right~
~my children are myself~
~the very ones I am addressing~
~ones I have become~
~I may be answering questions~
~from a score of years gone~
~by and by as I watch~
~my daughter with her daughter~
~my oldest son in conversation~
~with his brother~
~twelve years his junior~
~yes daughters & sons~
~with sons & daughters~
~to all of them I say~
~I am your father~
~that is all I am~
~& in that complete~
~you lend me strength~
~make me proud~
~in a most beautiful revelation~
~the knowledge & carriage~
~of our shared imperfections~
~stepping forward through it all~
~embracing & supporting one another~
~you carry me to a place~
~of unconditional devotion~
~love without fear~
~lighting candles~
~in the dark corners of my spirit~
~I am made to be free~
~a man~
~my children have been~
~& remain yet~
~perfect sentinels of my journey~
~If I come to see beyond the shadow~
~If I come to walk into and through the fire~
~If I come to feel~
~to love and be loved~
~If I father~
