The Mystic Visionary
The bond between a mother and her son
should be one of unconditional love,
not limited by language barriers,
different appellations for the light.
Under the moon, I love my mother
as I loved my father too, whom
it would seem would deem it jolly good,
the food we ate in Italy recently.
Orange is the sun when it sets there too and
then in the clouds Heavenís bars
sell upturned jars of sunset, making
you claim that even plastic can grow.
The colour of a red toy car with my
fingerprints on it could then seem to be ďdetunedĒ
like a guitar string, and counting numbers
seem steps down into the earth...
I love the bones my mother grew
inside her warm womb long ago now,
before the trauma of birth separated us,
and I face the music, dreaming big.
Wow! I canít believe the things Iíve
touched with my own fingers but my
fingers have crashed, I type, and my
mad, crashed fingers have connected.
John F.B. Tucker
If you have any thoughts about this poem, John F.B. Tucker would be
pleased to hear them