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| The Probate
and Family Court Judge |
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The Probate and Family Court
Judge rules when divorces are
filed,
whatever mothers want is in "The
best interest of the child." |
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He tears fathers from their
families all for the children's
own good.
No punishment is to severe for
the crime of fatherhood. |
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Lawyers always play by his rules.
They're guaranteed to get rich,
robbing the father's lifetime
work, and sharing it with the
b...witch. |
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When she's coached to say she's
fearful, they can seize without
delay,
with a cruel restraining order,
her husband's kids, house, and
pay. |
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The judge is aided by lackeys;
a clerk in a comely dress.
His eyes betray his plans for
her during the noontime recess. |
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Not so the court social worker
who berates fathers for fun.
She has looks, charm, and demeanor
matching Attila the Hun. |
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The Probate Court Judge sits
smugly backed by the ruling elite.
The rule of law and due process
lie trampled under his feet. |
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He defiles the Constitution
to enrich the black widow,
blind to the tears of the children,
and loving father's sorrow. |
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| - Michael P O'Neil,
mike.oneil@juno.com |
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| Recording from "The Children
of Children," Copyright.
Used by permission. |
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| The Shell |
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It's cool and dark and safe
in this protective little place.
I can't hurt anyone from here,
nobody can come that near. |
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It's my home where I'm all alone.
I take it with me wherever I roam.
Nobody can hurt me here, nobody
can come that near. |
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I'm growing a shell to protect
me in my private hell,
and each layer that I apply causes
part of me to die. |
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There's not room enough for
me. I know fitting in can't be.
I hurt Mom by loving Dad, I hurt
Dad by loving Mom back... |
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Do you know what it's like to
be a prisoner in here with me?
It's not my fault, but then again
it is. Is there anything worse
than this? |
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| (Reprise) |
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Should've known it'd be a waste
to bring them face to face.
There will be no healing here,
no one will come that near. |
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I'll retreat to my little home,
the only home I've known.
There will be no healing here,
no one will come that near. |
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I'm closing the shell that entombs
me in my private hell.
Whatever was left inside can wither
away and die... |
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There's no life here for me.
Pierce your hearts and let them
bleed.
Have you nothing better to do
than to run each other through? |
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Do you know what it's like to
be a prisoner in here with me?
It's not my fault, though you'd
say it is. I never dreamed it
would come to this. |
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|
Madmen and Dreamers. |
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| My Son's Dozen |
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Happy Birthday Charlie! Though
we're apart, our refrigerator
still holds your art,
and you always have a place in
my heart. |
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Your childhood is almost done.
Enjoy it now; have your fun.
You will always be my son. |
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The small amount of time we
share is dear and precious
and quite rare;
it's not enough to show I care. |
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You are growing up much too
fast. I've got to make the
moments last
or the future becomes the past. |
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Today, you have a dozen years.
If I could, I'd erase your fears
and wish for you a thousand cheers. |
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Here's my birthday desire for
you: As you reflect when each
day is through,
you will learn things useful and
true. |
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| - Love, Dad
(Don Mathis) |
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| One Evening in
Portland |
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She said, I
hope you don't mind spending
this time with me tonight,
as we strolled
in the cool Maine air by the
harbor in the lamplight. |
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Mind? I said.
There is no place on earth right
now I'd rather be,
while we looked
for the right restaurant, in
an autumn breeze from the sea. |
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| We
talked and laughed about our
hopes, our fears, our dreams
and our lot, as we ate by the
waterfront. Mind? I thought.
I'd prefer this spot to any
garden or palace anywhere in
the Milky Way. Mind? If only
I could save this moment forever
and a day.
Then all too
soon, a goodbye hug, standing
in leaves by the dorm door.
Mind? I will treasure my time
with her, even when time is
not more. Yes, I thought,
on the hundred mile drive home
through the New England night,
when life fades
and flesh turns to dust, in
her smile my soul will delight. |
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| - Michael P. O'Neil, |
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| The First Time |
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| You
tell your father "I love
you." is not easy. For
we are taught to love women....not
men. My father was the one I
wanted to be near, to feel his
strength, to know his passion
for life. The distance between
us went unnoticed until that
fateful day the phone call.
It would be my first airplane
ride from Cincinnati to Detroit,
ironically, to be with him at
death. Funny, for years I saved
the ticket stub not sure whether
to remind me of my first flight
or his death. Standing next
to him, I remember being strong
after all, I was his namesake
and others were expecting me
to be a man. The day I cried
was months later, when I went
to my mailbox for his weekly
letters and poems. The box was
empty no letter, no poems. I
was so alone. Lost.
Confused. I had been taught
about sex, but no one had explained
the overwhelming sensations
that arrive with the death of
the man who for twenty years,
I called "papa." |
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| He
lay so still, properly embalmed.
His amigos from the Monterrey
Pool room paid their final respects.
The priest said some stupid
prayers. I cursed God for the
strange feeling of being a young
man without a father. I wanted
to hug him one last time
or would it be our first? The
line from the poem he wrote
to me, after my leaving home,
"it was papa who took a
drink and wanted to hug
you tight". floated around
like a bad taste in my mouth.
Now the distance between the
family has separated us to different
parts of the country.
Mama, lost her voice, she quietly
waits for your return at the
Nightingale Nursing Home. She
teaches us a lesson‑how
sometimes death sneaks slowly
up on you weakens you till your
last breath. Now, I struggle
to be father for my beautiful
ten year old daughter. You are
not here but I want you to know
I don't blame you anymore. The
poet in me wants to share a
poem with you, make you smile,
laugh but all I can do is tell
the children " . . . my
father was a poet."
I feel so proud, at the precise
moment when I express your words
with my voice: but I remember
too well how the first time
I told my father "I love
you" . . . was not easy. |
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| -
Trinidad Sánchez, Jr. 7/26/1993 |
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| Line-Up |
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| His
fingers wrapped like bungee
hooks
Around the cyclone fence.
Face pressed grotesquely through
wire mesh.
Eyes straining toward early SUVs
worming to the pick-up door. |
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Who would come for him?
Would he have to stay and line-up
forever
At the swings, at the fountain,
at the restroom
Before forced naptime for the
afternoon? |
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"Those of you whose parents
did not come,
Over here with me!" a perky
afternoon worker called
And into line he went from his
fence vigil -
The line of leftover children,
unclaimed, staying late. |
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| After
his turn on the swing, then
water and the bathroom,
Music started and he lined up
to collect his pallet for rest-time.
Lights dimmed and workers walked
around enforcing quiet.
He rested, then slept, dreaming
of an early dismissal. |
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In his dream, his mother came
to pick him up -
Then his father - a mix-up in
custody arrangements.
Suddenly he began to cry out in
his daycare naptime.
A gentle childcare worker asked
him what was wrong. |
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He tried to tell her his dreamtime
dread,
Explain the vision of his divided
parents
Both waiting to take him to his
separate homes.
All he said in quivering voice,
"I don't know where to line
up!" |
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| - Jane C. Perdue,
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| Resources |
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The Fourteen
Percenter is an international
newsletter that seeks to promote
equal parenting rights in the
US, the UK, and worldwide. We
welcome feedback, as well as
any article, poem, or review
relating to the child-parent
bond. Send your letters
to
.
The Fourteen Percenter
thanks A-1 Product Distribution
for donation of their printing
services. Typesetting, binding,
and laminating are other services
available at 2015 McCullough
in San Antonio, TX. Contact
210-734-9355, 800-652-8477,
or
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