This poem is…a very tough one for me to read sometimes.  I wrote it in the perspective of a little girl whose mother had recently died of Aids.  A little girl in Africa was in my mind, and she had a little teddy bear…a little teddy bear which she told everything.  No rhyme scheme, but there is a dialect written into the piece, so I hope you can hear it when you read it.  Thanks!

July 6th, 2005

Mr Teddy? Are you awake?
I’m a little scared and it’s very dark.
I hope I don’t squeeze you too tight.
Just tell me if I do, ok?

Are you getting wet, Mr Teddy?
I’m sorry. I can’t stop my tears.
I think I’m more wet than you though.

You know very well why I’m cryin’.
You have ears too, you know!
Yes, you do. They’re sittin’ right on top o’ your head.
I see them. I do.

And your eyes can see too.
You saw them take her away,
With my favorite blanket over her head.

I miss my blanket. Momma stitched it for me,
Just for me, not for you.
Why would you need a blanket like that?
I don’t want it back though.

No, she’s not comin’ back.
I know a’cause Abby said so.
Abby wouldn’t lie to me, ‘cept just that once.

You do too remember, my goodness!
Remember when the doctor came over.
Abby said he was for Gramma,
But he was for Momma.

Gramma did get sick and she left too.
Momma said she went to Jesus.
I guess that’s where Momma is too.

Last week Momma said Abby would watch me
And take care of us.
You better be more careful a’cause
Abby doesn’t stitch like Momma did.

You might fall apart a’fore you know it.
Mr Teddy, please be careful
So you can stay a long time with me.

Momma said if I hugged you, you would hug her.
You must do it when I’m gone
A’cause I always see you when I’m here
And Momma’s not here no more.

I’m tired now and I think I’m out of tears.
Momma always said I could cry a river.
Good night, Mr Teddy. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

Sarah ><>

February 17th, 2005

This man I see with a coat of brown
There’s no name that he claims
Just smiles and walks around town.
I wonder, just who, just who he may blame?
A black bag he carries on his back
Who is this guy and what is his game?
He never answers or tells what he lacks.

Just walking and walking he
Rarely sits down but to watch all
The people go ’round the city.
Not very large but fairly tall
He ne’er troubles himself with things,
Except for the bag, nor does he call
To anyone who may be passing.

Sitting one day, I watch him pass by
With his black bag and coat of brown
And I watch him in sly
Like many who see him ’round town.
To the garbage he goes and reaches in
And into his bag he puts the good down.
What do I do? Do I tell of his sin?

No, I sit very still and watch him continue
Inspecting the treasures so carelessly tossed.
My beautiful, scenic, no-obstructed view
Of this simple, peaceful man seemingly lost
In the shuffle of day to day life
And all the trauma and pain of cost
Just trying to get by without strife.

My heart goes out to him, this man
Who is walking away from me now
Unaware of my observance. I have no plan
Of what to do to bless or change. How
Can I go back and try to live down
My life full of clutter to which I bow?
Walks away the bag and coat of brown.

 – Sarah ><>