Why I shouldn't write poetry

I want to be big, he told his Dad,
strong and large like you.
I want the things that you have had,
to learn and see me through.

As he grew still young, so did his dreams,
the mindlful father there.
Through school, and sports, and music themes,
his life without a care.

The teens approached, ideas changed,
he wanted more his own.
Thoughts of hero’s rearranged,
now that he was grown.

Eighteen years, it happened fast,
time to find his fame.
Off he went the world so vast,
to stake his honest claim.

A time for love, a time for laughter,
these younger days a joy.
This is what he'd been after,
grown now, not a boy.

The message came as quite a shock,
to the one who had it all.
Dad had walked his final walk,
no time; no goodbye call.

Quietly slumped on the wooden seat,
he felt the emptiness.
Friends spoke of love so hard to beat,
born of tenderness.

Where would he turn to, what should he do?
his thoughts swirled with great speed.
The man who always saw him through,
was gone this time of need.

And then it struck, as from above,
the answer crystal clear.
Return to your own the same kind of love,
as taught you year by year.

You see, the young man finally viewed,
the lesson from the past.
Was to forward the wisdoms so imbued,
that make good moments last.

The little boy with eyes aglow,
hastened to hear and learn.
From the son of the man to the son of the man,
time circled it's return.

JL4 9-1-06