"Someone to Believe in . . ."
By Cherie Setzer
a wonderful person to spend my life with
my dreams, my hopes, my fears
a person to share the good times
who will wipe away my tears
Someone to believe in . . .
he was my shining star,
we fell in love so fast
making a life together
a life that forever would last
it all changed so quickly
my star was suddenly dark
the man I promised to love
would leave his permanent mark
his comments how they cut me
my self-esteem was lost
this man that I believed in
but look at what the cost
I am a smart woman
but he took my dignity
I had my eternal life
but he took my soul from me
getting out was hard
I knew no other home
I knew I had to leave
but I felt so all alone
a wonderful thing did happen
as painful as it seemed
I closed the door to all the hurt
and opened it to dreams
I finally regained
all that once was mine
I did it on my own
it just took a little time
from that point on,
my own two feet I stand
I will find my shining star
someone who thinks I am
Someone to believe in . . .
"It doesn't matter what you have done in your past or what you will do in your future. You do count: your life is important. There isn't anybody out there that should be allowed to tell you any different."
* * * * * * * * * *
"The Wooden Porch - Watching Seasons Pass"
By Hannah Bailey
Summer
The sun is beating down relentlessly on my damp skin
I soak it in willingly; I'm a reptile in need of its sustenance.
My fingers brush the pale wood upon which I lay
and a splinter pricks my finger
blindly I search for the source of pain.
The sun is bright, everything is white and fuzzy.
I look around and find myself alone on the porch
the dogs are running wild through the woods,
chasing whatever critter they can find.
I can hear June shuffle over the dead leaves and brush
and Toots sprints madly after something.
I can smell my mother's garden, full of vegetables
of every shape and size.
The tomatoes are ripe and juicy, my favorite
I pick an engorged red gem and pop it into my dry mouth.
The tangy tomato envelopes my mouth giving me the relief I crave.
I walk down the steps to the grass to investigate the outer limits of our yard.
The smell of freshly mowed greens overwhelms my senses,
and the clippings tickle my bare toes.
Flowers surround the porch,
bright periwinkles, scarlet, and golden yellows brighten
the once bare landscape.
The dogs appear out of nowhere from the forest
barking madly, and covered in dirt.
They lick my legs with eager tongues,
loving the salty mess that I am.
I pick them up, it's time for baths
***
Winter
The darkness is suffocating here
along with father winter the woods are silent and bitter cold.
Smoking my cigarette it is hard not to hear the prowling wolves
snap, snap, snap; the dead tress can't withstand their weight.
My heart pounds in my ears, rapid and strong.
I can hear them getting closer,
I cannot seem them,
But I can hear them getting closer, curious of what I am doing out so late.
It's so cold but I am too terrified to move.
My fingers are blue, my face is red, dripping nose
I can hear them, but I cannot see them.
Then the howling starts
loud and strong are their cries to the moon.
I look up, and notice how clear it is out here.
The stars like gems strewn about the sky
It would be so peaceful,
If not for the wolves.
***
Fall
The air has become crisper
much less heavy without the humidity of August.
Sitting on the steps I notice the proud pines
standing tall, immune to the changing seasons.
The oaks have bedecked a new shade of blazing gold
every once in a while one falls onto the precious lawn,
the only green left,
it hangs on for its life, the grass is a survivor in the land of the dying.
Smoke curls from my lips, grey and thick.
It's not quite cold enough for a jacket, but the wind is trying to change that.
It blows through my sweater,
sending chills up my spine, and dotting my skin with goose bumps.
Grey skies are overhead, with threats of snow.
The once buzzing forest grows quieter with each passing day.
I can smell the garden, once so plentiful
now full of death and decay
until next year when it can flourish again.
The brown vines tangle together,
hanging onto what is left of their life
not knowing that
winter is coming.
The caged area where it resides adorned with wind chimes
they sing along with the wind
a phantom tune of endings, and new beginnings.
[Per Hannah's mother, Hannah used to sit on the porch swing for long stretches of time. Those periods of quiet contemplation and observations of nature served as inspiration for her poem.]
