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About This Poem
Joel Allen My Son
Taking my gold black tipped pen
Words flowed on white parchment
Like tears intermittent streams.
My baby you are in heaven now.
Son you're in God's arms, not mine.
Looking down at my verse,
Before I could comprehend,
As if influenced by a spell
My paper like wings on wind
Gently lifted, flickering in air.
I shield my eyes from the sun.
A hum heard, as I turned to see
My penned words on parchment
Laying back on my writing table.
Golden flecks dusted my verse.
Psst, can you hear me?
A tiny angel whispered.
For Michael J. Falotico's contest, "Boomerang...Send A Poem For A Ride"
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