john harms
The Children
A blank piece of paper:
Canvas for a painter,
Opportunity for a poet.
It must be marked upon.
It stares at me,
wanting my attention,
The pen caresses the paper
up, down, all around.
For either the painter or the poet,
a child is born.
Whatever becomes of it,
it’s my child.
I put it with the others,
giving them attention at random
putting some on the walls
or tearing others down.
They are mine to mark upon.
I know they love it.
Their faces brighten with each stroke
and every scribble.
Each sing their own song,
each have their own mood
some are bad and rough,
the others are sweet and good.
They’re my children.
I’ll always love them
and take care of them
no matter what happens.