Tuesday, January 31, 2012


Here I am, born (but not stillborn).
I’m being passed around, to be admired,
to be compared with others’ offsprings.
When I laugh for joy of life or scream
my being generates my parents’ joy.

Later in life the picture changes
for novelty is a transient gift;
siblings bring rivalry, seasons pass,
hair sprouts in strange places. Secret’s
out that you’re not so welcome round the house.

Sometimes you’ll see in the garden perched
on the birdbath, remote, as if moping,
a solitary dove or mudlark.
A closer look reveals lesion upon
lesion about head and neck. An outcast.

Time and the hour may run through rough days
but life is a road paved with travails
of separations. One after one they mark
love’s toughest lessons ever after
that moment when we were wet from the womb.
                                                                                    Glen Phillips © January, 2012.

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