to a 3-year-old

the father asks his son to wait

and not rush to grow up soon

for childhood is a clock so great

it halts the withering of the moon

ram cobain

bruised not beaten

yes, violence hurts; that much is true

it turns a crowd into a few

yes, the law sings differently in different hands

(but this also you must understand)

that true, your sticks can break my bones

turn my fiery slogans into groans

but see here also, the opposite

see what they do to my spirit.

ram cobain

unsung

beneath the shiny smile and out of sight
inside us all rages a private fight

a lonely long war that we must battle

through demons that dance and preen and prattle

through hope that sweetly soars only to fall

like a baby’s soft fist hitting a wall

through every day that seems like a farce

with laugh lines drawn tight to disguise scars

remember then; the game face is a warrior’s mask

that holds a raging rapid in an iron flask

for courage is just pursed lips singing a song

and fear becomes bravery by playing along

so while the world sees only what you show

here’s to the hero within that nobody knows.

ram cobain

immortality

across chasms deep and vast

long after I’ve breathed my last

after I’m nothing but dust to see

my words, they will breathe for me.

ram cobain

someday

someday soon enough I hope

even as today we sit apart and cope

a day will come when all will be fine

like the hot healing kiss of winter sunshine

a day when we’ll not have to rehearse rhetoric

or defiantly defend our own illogic

no, then we’ll not need to lift our voice

or find victory in the strength of noise

someday, the day will come I’m sure

when for even our hurt, there’ll be a cure

then we’ll speak again like wife and man

like how many moons ago, we once began

hopefully we’ll finish thus; hopefully we’ll end

not just as spouses but as best friends

because we’ve seen so much, you and I

‘tween the unyielding earth and the limitless sky

we’ve grown so much more than just grown old

and through these cracks still shimmers gold

it’s the gleam of love, of delight and of peace

of old photo albums perused on old knees

and so in that hope these lines do I write

wishing that this pen loses ink this night

and that someday without even saying a word

we will be understood, and not just be heard.

ram cobain