A variation of this poem was written in honor of the birth of my son Matthew who turned 43 on September 15, 2011.  Since September 15, 1968, Matthew has known joy and sorrow, triumph, victory and defeat, pain and ecstasy.  He has proven through his endurance, perseverance and affirmation of life that it is good not to be Billy Budd.

To Matthew

The father sees innocence

overwhelming his newborn son

fragile on pastel bedding

guarded by soft, white light softly reflected off soft, white walls.

The father sees naivete

flowing from the restful child

enveloping him in the secure sterility of bright, white clothes.

His son could not know of harshness. He is Billy Budd.

The father sees innocence and naivete and

fearfully, dreadfully wishes them eternal for his son.

His son could not know of harshness. He is Billy Budd.

But there is none. There are no Billy Budds, dressed in bright,

white innocence, shrouded in the soft, white light of naivete

who survive and thrive  and

it is just as well.