By Karen Wallace
He is hanging from the stairs, 10 feet above the ground
My heart jumps in my throat as I try to be nonchalant
Great swinging George, we smile.
90 miles an hour all over the house,
Let it outside, it will wind down eventually.
3 foot 8, 40 pounds of pure energy.
Was I ever like that? I think I was years and years ago.
What, why, how, always full of questions
He wants to know everything, and he will some day.
Enough to be president, or a rocket scientist
Watching his tornado dance, he can be a rock star, or a karate master
Whatever he wants, the future is wide open
As long as we don’t ruin him with our
Fears and disappointments
Our doubts and disillusionments
Our shattered lives.
Hope, Confidence, Dreams
Never let these things go
By Paul O’Halloran
He stands alone,
the old man in Winter.
Aloof to the cold
in a white field of frost tipped grass.
He is unshaken.
Snow flakes fall gently on his shoulders and crown.
He does not brush them off,
too proud to shiver.
The wind cannot knock him down.
He stands even taller.
200 years old today,
the last survivor in a world of progress.
His body is frail and contorted,
his arms twisted and bare.
He has lost his beauty.
In Autumn, as Winter approaches,
the old man weeps auburn tears.
But Spring will arrive, then Summer,
and the birds will remind the old man
how to be young again.