A Poem For Mothers of Naughty Boys

Grace.

Confounded soul of mine, give grace!

What can decipher their plight?

Perceiving eyes, soulful listening, growing experience?

None of these, I say,

So give grace.

Disturbed stomach, perhaps.

Oncoming flu, we’ll see.

The prick of some slight performed out of sight, who knows.

Poor sleep? 

Caged oomph?

Wants with no voice?

Fears without comforts?

I guess at the cause,

But even mother knows not. 

God alone comprehends,

So give grace.

And take no offense at rebellion.

He means it not against you.

Every child pains in growing

In this war between I and us,

Brain evolving,

Man-a-making

A dig, unearthing discord after discord.

As in me, so in them.

Give grace.

Unhand mastery;

For the Master must rule.

Entrust fears;

I, mother not maker.

Leave vanity and pride

To stoop lower
Rising higher

Unto grace.