Here is a poem I started a year ago, and set aside - I felt like it lacked something, and I don't usually use a sad tone. I picked it up this morning and finished it. It's written on a ripped out, lined sheet of paper from a spiral bound planner.
The Joy Killers
They are circling the school yard right now - the joy killers.
They don't realize it shows in their eyes, their hard faces, their posture. Born without joy,
or having had it wretched from them - by the unfulfillment of their parents, the unrighteous jealously of their siblings,
the needy rabble roaming the neighborhood.
Now they patrol, joyless. The emptiness within has left them seeking to fill the gaping hole, the void.
And what is SHE doing right now?
So little, so sweet -
On the school yard.
I have taken no time to think about her all day -
selfishly involved in my own petty thoughts - working - the excuses we make to say what is more important.
But then driving somewhere else - passing the school yard at a distance -
a glimpse, flashes of children, running, bright colors, the little high screams and shrieks.
She's in there, somewhere.
What is SHE doing?
And who is try to steal her joy?
I wonder why the thieves don't have their own. What happened to them, what words or feelings were they not given, that my child has it and these others do not?
Were they simply not born with it, unlike her?
After all these years, my heart still pulls hard for her. Yet I'm grateful it's full, and glad it pulls.
They don't realize it shows in their eyes, their hard faces, their posture. Born without joy,
or having had it wretched from them - by the unfulfillment of their parents, the unrighteous jealously of their siblings,
the needy rabble roaming the neighborhood.
Now they patrol, joyless. The emptiness within has left them seeking to fill the gaping hole, the void.
And what is SHE doing right now?
So little, so sweet -
On the school yard.
I have taken no time to think about her all day -
selfishly involved in my own petty thoughts - working - the excuses we make to say what is more important.
But then driving somewhere else - passing the school yard at a distance -
a glimpse, flashes of children, running, bright colors, the little high screams and shrieks.
She's in there, somewhere.
What is SHE doing?
And who is try to steal her joy?
I wonder why the thieves don't have their own. What happened to them, what words or feelings were they not given, that my child has it and these others do not?
Were they simply not born with it, unlike her?
After all these years, my heart still pulls hard for her. Yet I'm grateful it's full, and glad it pulls.
-SLG
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