Thisper

I never wrote a serious poem before I became a part of creative writing. However, this one year unlocked a lot of words inside me, and I found myself scribbling little ditties for every emotion under the sun. This is my catalog of them. From the beginning, grasping the right word came easy to her. There were no bounds in her mind. There was no reason in her head why a word needed would be blocked off as preposterous to the situation of the poem. Metaphors were mixed. Insensible words were tried. The first poems were easy and simple— When I was young, I had blue-grey eyes Like sunny day and cloudy skies And momma would say, "Tell no

Tell me there's truth in the world, Somebody, Tell me that the darkness that fills up our cities like a sickness Will dissipate, tell me that children Will stop dying Hurting Suffering Will stop, will stop being sold by their fathers Mothers, brothers, oh, tell me Tell me that innocence is not only a whisper of something good that dies In each of us like some kind of shell Some cracked fragile, flicker of white hope— A porcelain fragment— To be crushed underfoot. Tell me! Tell me the truth, tell me One day men will have self control And I, a girl, won't have to fear Anymore, Oh, Oh, Tell me, say, say that ever

     The air was cold as I stepped up the curb to the bus stop, lugging my canvas bag of jars. It clacked on the ground as I dropped onto the rain roughened stone bench provided by the city. It was early, and the breath of the boy huddled on the other side of the bench rose up with mine in the air, like fragile, glorious morning prayers. It was the beginning of February, I remember. The bus would not be there for some time.     I was quiet and preoccupied, watching the shadows change on the stoop of the industrial building far beyond us, across the open, broken, empty morning road. Far, far off, cars were warming the streets, and people wer