Writing Scraps
7 Days
7 days until I’m free
7 days for me to be
7days unlike myself
7 days of hanging on this shelf
7 days of misery
7 days in hiding to be
7 days to think it over
6 days to run for cover
6 days to turn around
6 days to recount
6 days the memories lasting
6 days my life bypassing
6 days to test my soul
5 days to make me whole
5 days now the time is nearer
5 days and now my sight gets clearer
5 days and I can’t give in now
5 days to question and ask how
4 days to forget
4 days to forgive
4 days to love
4 days to live
3 days ‘till I see the goal
3 days until that’s all I know
3 days I swear I’ll make it through
2 days ‘till I’ll know what to do
2 days to last a little longer
So that the last day can make me stronger.
1 day.
Titles
A New Poet
writes a
Reckless Poem
about
Some Clouds
on his
Birth Day
but his concerns are with
Timely Enumerations Concerning Sri Lanka
and are
Of Politics & Art
but
The Hymn Of A Fat Woman
gives him a
Small Comfort
After Years
of
Relearning Winter
Borderline Milk
We go to see my grandmother at least once a month. After we moved, she had no other family living with her, so now we visit. Usually we talk, watch TV, eat dinner, watch more TV, talk some more, and spend the night. This usually lasts us a weekend.
The only downside is that we have to be in the car for 6 to8 hours. It’s about a three-hour drive down and a three-and-a half to four-hour drive back up because of the new detour. You have to come prepared for a trip like this- you have to have all of your electronics (phone, Gameboy, iPod) and also a nice book to read in case the batteries die in all of them.
Usually I play Sonic on my Gameboy, but when we got to the city where my grandmother lives, I decided to have a look-see to see if anything had changed. The hair salon was still there, and so was the make-shift church. The fire station still stood alert. There was also an old trailer park. I’d never noticed it before. The trailers were rusty, dilapidated, and looked like they could crumble. Upon closer examination, I saw a boy no older than nine slipping between a trailer’s curtain and window as if to get a better look at the world.
He was small and gaunt, he didn’t have a shirt on and I could see his ribs. He was bony. He had deep tan skin and poofy brown hair that was almost comical.
I watched him as we drove by. He’d pressed his face and hands against the window and was surrounded by the red curtains. We passed the trailer.
Worried, I immediately wondered about the boy. Why was he so skinny? Were his parents there? Was he ok? Did he like to watch TV? Could he not eat a lot? Did he like food? Did he play with other kids a lot? Did he like sports?
I worried about him. I still do. I wondered if there was anyone to help him. I wanted to help him. What could I do? I decided I would pray.
“Dear God, help the boy in the trailer. Amen.” I said a few other prayers as well. From then on I decided I would try my best not to complain. I wondered in the boy in the trailer complained a lot.
On the way back home we didn’t drive by the trailers. I was a bit disappointed; I wanted to see how the boy in the trailer was doing. As we drove on, I began to woI looked into the trailer with the red curtains again. The boy wasn’t there.
I felt a bit distraught, and said a few prayers for the boy right there.
“Dear God, make sure that the boy in the trailer is safe. Amen.” I said a few more prayers.
Then I was worried. Where was he? Why was he gone? Did he go play? Is he eating lunch? Is he ok?
We drove by and went to my grandmother’s house. The routine was just the same, except we went out for dinner. I felt bad for not finishing my spaghetti, because I thought of all of those kids who go to bed hungry. I thought of the boy in the trailer. Did he go to bed hungry?
After dinner, the rest of the trip went normally. We drove home the next morning, careful not to pass the trailer park. I said more prayers for the boy in the trailer.
We visited my other grandparents. We got home. I ate dinner.
Before I went to bed, my mom said, “Don’t use the old milk in your cereal in the morning. I drank it tonight, but it’s on the borderline.” In other words, it would probably have gone bad by the time morning came.
And then I felt another pain in my heart. There was a good deal of milk left. I thought about all of the kids who go to bed hungry. And then I thought of the boy in the trailer. Did he ever worry about borderline milk?
sdg59wn 1 year ago
border line milk is my favorite!! i think you should add on and make it into a book or something!!
s98cau3 1 year ago
I love how you used all those titles in one poem!!!
srm8x9k 1 year ago
your poems are great i love it! your short story is great.