-
A couple of boys I know.
-
Funny, I just discovered this poem in an old file. Never printed a copy, never thought about it again, though I can faintly recall writing it a few years back. I don’t write many poems anymore, though I used to write them often. My first love as a writer, in fact, and certainly a good education for any aspiring wordsmith. As Donald Trump says, “Even bad poems can teach us bigly.” In this case, I surely figured, not good enough, and rolled on. Like usual. I’m not sure I’m even okay with the idea of attaching the word “poem” to this rambling meditation-slash-manifesto. But today, before I think better of it, I’m going to take this forgotten thing down off the shelf and place it before you. Kick it, pull it apart, ignore it, whatever. Because what are blogs for? My poem, “Boy.”
BOY, by James Preller
I am a boy.
I can pee standing up.
Some days my dad knows
exactly how I feel.
Other days, it’s my mom
who understands.
I am more than farts and fire trucks.
Though I won’t deny —
farts are funny
and fire trucks are cool,
especially if they let you
scamper up,
wear the hat,
and blast the horn.
I am more than
rocks and spitballs,
dirt and hammers –
though I am that, too.
I am boy
and I am friend,
tustled head
and wicked grin.
I am sweetness,
I am love,
I am trees in the wind,
kites crossing a pale blue sky
like the billowing sails
of pirate ships at sea.
I am pieces of bright glass
found by the curb,
jagged things,
bee stings and
dead birds and fascinating bugs,
cars and dinosaurs
and trampolines.
I love secret places to hide
and spy
and see unseen, invisible
to every eye.
I am boy,
so much more
than cupcakes
and rainbows, farts
and firetrucks,
but I’m those things, too.
I am laughter and I am love.
I am boy.
-
My cousin Billy and yours truly, 1968.