Memory Poem

The Sage

When I was ten I saw the light of the fire,
glowing and fuming with blue screams.
Father had placed a shaking hand on me,
dubious of my attraction to it,

but asked me for assistance.
He gave me my sword of wood,
telling me to stir the monster from its wake;

I poked and prodded it,
unsure of the lumps and oozing liquids
that relaxed in the circular shield.

He laughed at my actions,
but told me in slow and delicate tones,
as if I were made of glass,
and guided me on this tutorial

that would surely help me in the long run.
His wrinkled hands,
(old with strain; young with age)
with pulsing veins seemed more pleasant
when he was tugging my smooth ones.
I stirred and stirred the beast until

all of his bubbles popped and the fire crackled.
He laughed
as one particular bubble popped
and hissed its venom on our faces.
Thankfully, we were courageous heroes
that were use to the spattings of angry beasts.

I looked at my Father,
no, I looked at the Sage;
old with his knowledge
and ready to hand it to me.

My clammy hands held the sword tighter,
we stirred the beast to its full wake.
The beast hissed and roared
with steam as its words

evaporated into the air.
Father had pulled me back;
it was now his battle.
He told me to wake my brother from his warm sickness,
I followed as told and yelled

inside that snoring room:
“Spaghetti is ready!”
I said with a laugh.
My brother exited, fatigued and dizzy;
never aware of this fierce battle
between Father, the beast, and myself.