The last couple of poems have been a little heavy. Here’s one
that’s not. No poem with the word “monkey” in the title can be
Dance with the Monkey
I’ve seen actors on the screen,
clowns at the circus,
dancers at the ballet,
singers at the opera,
musicians at the concert.
But I have never seen anything to compare,
to my 2 year old grandson,
when he first saw a mechanical monkey,
playing a tune and smashing cymbals together.
The boy watches,
stomps his right foot, then his left,
leans to one side, then the other.
He giggles and laughs,
but best of all he smiles—no beams.
A grin that spans his whole face.
is worn like a badge
and shows he is in a perfect place,
loving every moment.
And as he sways,
he hasn’t the faintest idea what worry is.
I know that expression,
it’s pure joy,
something I have pursued my whole life,
but never found.
As he wobbles, claps, and bounces
he is as close to heaven on earth
as any human can be.
Maybe I too felt like him early in life,
but if I did, I lost it,
and never found it again.
If I could give him a gift,
it would not be money,
it would not be power,
it would be to help him keep that delight,
to stay so happy that others
feel gladdened by his very presence.
I don’t know how to do it,
I don’t where to find it,
I don’t even know what I’m looking for,
but I will do everything I can
to keep him glowing with happiness
the way he does when he dances with the monkey.