Five Love Poems About Family

As it is with all of us, my life has had its share of loss and loneliness. The better part, however, has been filled with joy; nurtured, grown and given to me by those with whom I share relationship. Planted like a seed, the meaning of life grows there, and brings forth its blessings to me and to my family.

In recent weeks, like the stretching of the heart across the miles of our persistent separation from one another, I have felt called to speak out to those I love most dearly. The following series of five poems is my ode to their love for me. I pray that this might touch their hearts, and—in sharing it—that it might whisper to your heart as well.

Thank you, reader, for taking a walk with us…

A poem begins with letting go
and listening for the silences.
For silence is the source of the deep music
that life allows us to sing.

Sacred Silence...

How well I remember the years
I spent dancing with you,
watching.
With fragile hands
and fragile dreams,
you shaped my world
like the flight of a bird
soaring across the waters
of a virgin land,
filling my days
with the whispers of wonders
just beyond the horizon.
You flirted with me,
always laughing,
and your lips tasted,
always,
of sweet and exotic spice.

Once
I asked you to take my hand—
to sit and talk with me.
You laughed at me,
invited me to dance,
and whispered
softly
in my ear
until I forgot.

At last I left you there
alone.
It felt like stealing—
like betrayal—
but you see,
someone came.
She sat and talked
and held my hand.
She did not shape my world,
she entered it
and spoke to me.
And it was I
who flirted with her
till she held my hand…
so simple and warm.

I chose.

How I remember the nights
I spent weeping as you lay
dying.
How your fragile hands
and fragile dreams
crumbled to dust.
How the bright
shining bird
fell
like a stone,
or a mountain
ground
into the Earth.

Now
I touch the world
with simple hands:
a cup,
a home,
a robin sitting on the fence
the hand of a child,
his face turned up
to me.
It is warm
living here
out of your deep shadow.

Farewell, my Future, and fear not.
I will not forget to dance
on the soft green grass
that covers your grave.

It began with a simple request:
Can I help?

So I lifted you up and sat you there
ready to begin:

Move the eggs from the carton
to the tray.

Such a simple task, yet
dangerous.

I saw the delicate eggs dropping
like yolk-filled grenades,

exploding in a cascade of vivid yellow,
sticking everywhere—

over you,
over floors and counters.

The visions were clear in my mind,
but I knew it was time.

I sat you
on the counter, turning away.

You
began.

Turning back,
I saw more clearly:

the careful curve of
your concentration,

moving an egg with precious care
from carton to tray.

Seeing it pulled
at a thread

hidden
in my heart.

A line
of something more than life

woven through me
and through my father

back to your grandfather,
whom you have never known.

It pulled at something hidden
and unfathomable—

made it visceral
and vivid.

There it was shining out
from the careful turn of your eyes

and the soft curve of your hands
suspended in this precise moment.

As I sit there alone in restful silence,
you leap to my lap with sudden
and rambunctious laughter,
opening the world with a smile.

Your eyes look up
as they shine for me
and the universe collapses
into one small face...

The earth becomes
the curve of your cheeks,
radiant
and warm.

Smooth and soft
and woven together
with delicate freckled designs,
humming with restless energy.

In the open sky, light shines
down from two identical spheres:
passionate flowers, spiced with shades
of cinnamon, green and deepest indigo.

The sight sings without speaking,
harkening back to the very source
of color and shape and shadow.
Across the silence it echoes

with the music found in the beat
of every human heart,
each movement of breath,
each small exchange and gesture.

Thus suspended
in this moment,
it becomes the measure
of all other things;

the very source
itself
of shape and form
and meaning.

I cling to it,
knowing it will pass…
your sitting here upon my lap
at the very center.

Soon your cheeks, your eyes,
and your own dear freckles
will hop down
and away.

Off you will go
to the pressing
business
of a child’s life.

Birds will sing again.
The light of the sun
will return to take
its proper place.

But I will remember.
This
always
I will remember.

It is floating across the wide sea
alone, contemplating your favorite joke.

It is a brilliant performance
played to an empty hall.

It is the finest of meals
eaten alone.

It is the most marvelous thoughts
recorded in an unopened book.

All are beautiful—
strong and peaceful,

waiting
to be discovered.

They are like a decadent
cheesecake

sitting upon the table,
waiting.

We see it,
we seek it,

we smell it,
and we crave it.

But somehow we cannot taste it.
Not really.

This is my life
without you.

So come to the table;
let us feast together!

(And yes—of course—it’s chocolate.)

I am the pen
placed on the paper,
but how shall I write myself?

I see only the blackness
of what I draw
and a listless expanse white.

I forget
that this is not my poem—
that I am not the poet.

For the pen, Lord,
is Yours
as is the paper,

and the unfathomable dreams of God
are realized
in putting His beloved pen to paper.

This is love.