The romantic in me assumes good intentions even though we often sway like a pendulum through life, an oscillating adventure, prone to good and bad deeds. What is goodness if nothing more than instinctive attempts to be sincere.
This poem was written decades ago, a lost relic in a sea of poems. I was on a Navy ship, writing about morality and mortality. There was a war going on at the time, and I struggled to understand the utility of war. We have such a short window of time to conceptualize our faith in something bigger than ourselves; therefore, we end up rolling along, overwhelmed by the flickering light in the night, stunned into silence as our ardent pleas to do good deeds are lost among the winking stars.
A Good Son
Like a good son
my blue jeans wore
at the knees
Mom taught me
ways of mending
patches of denim
to pray they endure
the constant kneeling
during rough play
then there were moans
among our home
umphs or acks or eeks
and ohs echo
from her knees
genuflecting retching
great doses of chemo
to heal a body
beyond its agony
beyond a son's
patchwork of denim
mending my frayed faith