Xapa to the World

Category: Poetry

  • Poem: Mr. Teddy

    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 ><>

  • Poem: Faded Glory

    May 26th, 2005

    This place which You created,
    The earth I call my home,
    Is a beautiful workmanship
    That calls me out to roam.

    Every eyeful I receive
    Brings my thoughts closer to You,
    But it’s all a faded glory
    You’ve told me this is true.

    No matter where I go
    I see it and I know,
    There’s something greater set apart
    For this race of man, dull of heart.
    I hear it in my ears,
    And I feel it in my tears,
    Both we and earth were made for more
    and so this heart of mine implores,

    Take me to the place
    Where Your glory’s clearly seen
    Where my heart is just as rest –
    Yes, I know I’ve never been

    But it’s right where You are
    And my heart won’t hold the scars
    Of the brokenness I felt
    When I left You and fell.

     – Sarah ><>

  • Poem: My Trees

    This poem…I work at a bank, right?  Right across from the bank I used to work at, there was an empty lot with some beautiful trees that grew in the plots between us and the lot.  They were so sweet.  Very soon, construction started up and the trees were one of the first things to come down.  It happened in the Spring, when the leaves were at their brightest green.  Birds were flying and flitting all around the branches.  After the trees were felled, I saw the birds float forlornly over the dying trees.  It was so sad to me.  And then, in true “Sarah” form, I began to introspect.  And this poem came out.  I hope you enjoy it.  I was under a lot of influence at the time by Robert Frost…so, you might notice some parallels in sound from him…I can’t help but mimic what I’m hearing.  🙂

    May 13th, 2005

    The tree that grows gracefully –
    Brown trunk, straight, solid
    With verdant, jagged leaves –
    Lightly tosses in the breeze
    Of this warm May jour.
    Through my window, beyond cars
    Choking the air, grabbing at the green
    From chutes overhead, I watch
    The trees shimmer in the sun.
    The greed of paper faces soon takes
    My mind and I look down at a tray of
    Keys with letters and another face of light.
    I glance up at the tall giant and smile
    At the secret of Life we both share.
    Some men out passed the rows of
    Cars, passed a silver grate of separation,
    Take plows and dig into a mound of earth.
    The trees stand tall, a tender show of
    A miracle abounding – as do I.
    And then they come, not as surveyers of
    Beauty and life, they simply do as they must.
    My heart betrays as I see their task.
    Though I know the necessity, my heart breaks
    As the testimony breaks simply. The giant
    Of green, my co-companion in glory, falls –
    Quickly, silently, through my triple-paned glass.
    How could they? How could they not
    See the green leaves, catching the sun
    And glowing bright? Could they see
    Them tremble at the break,
    Falling in a breathless heap? Or,
    Is this just my heart I see?
    This sight of splendor and craftsmanship,
    No more a tall display of a Maker’s care,
    Is this the tree or me I see?

    Sarah ><>