Poetry & Writing, The Cork Board


I wrote this for my son about 10 years ago.



I threw you high and laughed at your delight,
and higher still, till fear, sleek in it’s disguise,
stole time in handfuls and we stopped.
Or I did.

Heading for home our Spitfires, all pencil ‘tash
and lady killers, flew raids into head-on winds
with dipping wings, and us,
grinning heroes.

Hangared, you blew zoot on your kazoo, dropped
into my suit, big as the Albert Hall, and
hung before hanging, cool
beyond your years.

You honed your childhood’s clarity. Chose early.
The first crocus, you knew
where the sky was,
which route to take,
how the land lay.


Bird blew bebop but Miles drew blood


You kick back to the click track
tip the spit from your horn and lay way back
playin’ it long, boy, till it all soun’ black
ain’t it a pity the city
don’t blow back




The wind skinned the first crocus on the Turnberry coast.
The curling sea called

I am here.

12 thoughts on “Crocus”

  1. Very very good indeed. Captures the passing of time and our children growing into adults themeselves. I like the beat beatitude of the closing stanza.

  2. Beautiful language and layers here, Al.

    I lingered at “Bird blew bebop but Miles drew blood.” It kept me in that ‘two people’ space like a delicate but firm anchor. I love that this begins with you but seems more about your son and his path. And you seeing.

  3. Oh my.. I really like this poem..
    Stanza 2 is my favorite (although I like the entire piece)
    What wonderful words from your heart to your son..
    Fortunate lad!

  4. When I read this I was flooded with beautiful, shifting, vital imagery: a boy thrown loved and laughing into the air, someone moving their lips and body in time to music, wind and ocean — and all of these intertwining with each other like the shared milestone moments of a relationship.

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