Jeff McCallum

I don’t know why I write these poems. I start thinking about my children, four men age twenty-two to twenty–nine, how much joy I wish them, and suddenly the world is there. I begin a Mother’s Day poem and my mind shifts to orphaned and abused children, wondering what that day holds for the not so fortunate.

Sometimes I have difficulty staying on task, but you know what they say, a father’s work is never done.

Water Water Everywhere

I

like you

dream for my children

not for simple things

like a home with a real roof

and running water

or a homeland

where I don’t pray I am first in line

for the relief trucks

with our ration of rice and water

not even for a place

where the mosquitoes don’t bring malaria

from fetid swampy water

or strangers don’t spray bombs and bullets

on their neighbours

until a priest is required to wash their war torn bodies clean

with Holy Water

I

like you

dream in America

not of it

of scholarships to lofty institutions

letters in athletics

the debate team

a home on the ocean

a cabin on a lake full of clear water

a good job

a good spouse

4^th of July barbeques

with steaks

fireworks and imported mineral water

you know

the good life

Isn’t that what dreams are all about