Poetry From My Past

I’ve been slowly sorting through many of our storage boxes.  Yesterday I found a folder with some of my writing from a high school creative writing class (over 30 years ago – yikes!).  Reading my poetry and prose has been like a trip back to my 17-year-old mind.  Some of the pieces are not titled, so I’ve changed the alignment to differentiate between one piece and the next.

Men are dead, children cry
Mothers weep, do or die
War is done, bodies lie
Open fields, battle cry

Looking for Laughter
The war is over, the summer’s begun
Where is the laughter, where is the fun?
The sun is shining, the clouds are gone
I can’t hear the singing, I can’t hear the song
There’s no longer fighting, the battle is done
Where is the laughter, where is the fun?

Self-denial, sacrifice
Words we hear, cold as ice
People sing, children cry
Elders wonder, then they die


The Virgin Mary awoke me this morn’
T’was a dark and gloomy day.
She whispered softly and guided me
To the grave of my Aunt Etta Mae.

“Here lies the body of a blessed old soul,
She perished in a darkness past.
Your aunt, my dear, still lives in here,
Remove the top of the cask.”

She dropped my hand and drifted away
As a saint, I imagined, would do.
While in the coffin my aunt remained
And the words I began to review

The Virgin’s whispers echoed through the trees
As a reminder of what she had said
So I listened intently to hear her faint voice
And realized my aunt wasn’t “dead”

She had merely risen from the face of the earth
And may never return again
But I, as a believer, would see her someday
In the land where the true see their friends.

As a child my tears flow
The songs I hear but do not know

They’re sung aloud with joyous hearts
As I, a child, my conscience in parts
I’m on the trails, you’re on the passes
A world divided in two main classes
Two different worlds within one place
Two different people, a similar face
The roads are the same leading opposite ways
We’ll meet at the end when my status is raised
But until the day when our paths intertwine
I’ll suffer and struggle to make this life mine.

changing tides
death and uncertainty
problems of the past
things that make us wonder
things that come so fast
life and its morals
conflicts we avoid
good old sigmund freud
murder and corruption
outwardly, inwardly tied
renewal and desire
who wants what and why
the ocean’s tides

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