I saw them in the city park The dad was chatting on nearby; Her brother got her going, then He saw her eyes begin to fly And when she curved around he clapped, And helped her stop, and start again; For sometimes it's the boys we need Instead of those we might call Men
Men make jokes about bananas,
phallic as they are:
but there are other analogies there,
one needn’t look too far —
The time when your time has not yet come,
and nobody will want you,
The time when the defects start to show
when each new spot will haunt you,
The time when there’s little left to prove
that you were once alive —
And the very brief moment, the day, or the hour
when you, for a moment,
thrive
He saw the needless suffering
And did his best to help
Always
He heard of needless hunger
And gave all he could to assist
Frequently
He knew of people needlessly neglected
In careers and at home
And he paid attention to them
But when he got home
After he had deposited his check
He was no longer needed
(Idea taken from a conversation with Vonita over at Passion through Poetry. I hope she doesn’t mind – Owen)
And so we men, we dream of being heroes
For those we love, our very cherished few;
We have romantic dreams as well as women,
But these are dreams we’ll never
Admit to
I have a wonderful family
Relatively good health
A great career
But, now, as has happened my whole life
A periodic insanity grips me
And I feel that
I would give everything up
If for just one day
I could be the type of man
Who women fall in love with
Just by looking at him
.
..
…
..
.
Which is never going to happen
I never was much of a man
By standards of the day;
I don’t have six-pack abs
Or have too many. Anyway —
I can’t fix anything that breaks,
Although I sure can break it —
I’ve not the confidence that makes
A winner. Nor can fake it.
And when it’s time for battle
In the world of strength and sweat:
By guile, I’ll hang in there,
But the strength’s not happened yet.
And when the guys with muscles
Come by shirtless, I will know
That I barely exist
And never have
And ever so
I have competing virtues
So I won’t give up — I’ll try —
It’s hard to be a man, though
When you are my kind
Of guy
(Note – more the twenty-five year old me than the fifty-two year old me)
Testosterone starts killing us
Around, oh, age fourteen —
And never lets up from then on.
It’s usual routine
Is to drive us hard to court
The women of our dreams:
Impregnate them, then move along.
And empty as that seems
It’s even more so in real life.
But who comments or bothers
These guys who serve as donors
Rather than
Husbands
Or fathers?
