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Flying fire in my eyes. Poetry from an 8-year old.

Flying fire in my eyes. Poetry from an 8-year old.

The mind of a child is so pure.

Well, until they start playing Halo 5 … *

Kids are like sports: unpredictable. That’s what keeps it interesting. I have no idea what his poem might be about before he writes it. What’s he going to write? Did they have a topic? He’s 8 years old. I know, I get all sappy about their ages, but sometimes I just have to say it out loud (or at least type it out loud) to remind myself that today he is 8. He’ll soon be 9 and then he won’t be 8 anymore. Once he hits 10, it’s double digits for the next 90 years. I’ll enjoy every one of these single-digit years.

Oreos going into mouths.

I think it’s a good poem because good poems usually don’t make a whole lot of sense for me. I read them and, maybe like some artwork in a modern museum, I say, “Uh huh. Yes, hmm. Aha, yes. Hmm.” But I probably don’t take away much meaning. That’s OK, I see them like a collage of thoughts, maybe a scrapbook, from this moment, from this day, from this boy who is 8 (did I mention that?) and who lives in San Francisco (or San Fransisco), apparently likes rock ‘n roll and Oreos and looks like he used an honest-to-goodness typewriter (I’d ask him, but he’s asleep).

Who is “kindly saying Hi”? The fireworks? San Francisco is here. Did it go somewhere? Is that where he is? I actually like not knowing–just like I wouldn’t know in a museum. The plaques often don’t help a whole lot either, “Abstract work by the artist done in a variety of media.” Yeah, well I could have told you that.

*We don’t have Halo 5 or any Halo as it scares me … and hopefully would scare my kids.

Flying fire in my eyes.

Flying fire in my eyes.

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