When I was quite young I thought that writing poetry would always be second nature, as everyone else had believed. I was always making up poems and singing songs. My poems and songs always made my father and mother smile and they would encourage me to recite and sing to them always in front of relatives and friends. But one day I found I couldn't recite anymore, my child spirit had flown away. And everyone wondered what had happened - it just disappeared in the night. As the years passed many times I tried to call my spirit back but it would never answer. I wondered where it had gone, where I had lost it? Many times I tried to close my eyes to feel its presence. Finally, one day I was able to recall a summer in the south. I traveled back in time to the years of hardship that my parents had to endure from working in the fields. Although a hardship for them, they were my fondest memories of childhood. As I reminisced, I could smell the honeysuckle and strawberry fields nearby and envisioned myself sitting on the one step that linked us to the abandoned shack that my father had declared home for the summer. Next to the shack was the water pump that would provide water for bathing and cooking - And, the covered electrical lines that my father had conveniently strung from the main lines so we could have electricity. I could still see the split shells of the stolen watermelon from the neighboring farm lying uncovered in the makeshift bin that we had eaten the night before. I'd remember how I would awaken, jumping from bed ready to start the day playing and bouncing about in my disheveled hair and bare feet. I'd raise my hands to the sun and dance gleefully underneath it, and he, the sun, greeted me brightly as did the sparrows and the butterflies. I recalled the early morning start for the fields and remembered anxiously watching my mother go aboard the old 1956 Chevy with my brothers while I waited anticipating their calling me to sit on their laps. |
The butterflies sat neatly on my hair waiting to play with me when there'd be no adults about to intrude on our play. Off the truck they went into the fields to pick onions, potatoes or cucumbers, or whatever it was that needed picking. And, off I went wandering about alone waiting for my friends to reappear and play with me again. The ladybugs were the most accommodating they would sit on my finger, transfixed until I would move them onto my hair. They became my fashionable comb for all to admire and wonder if they were real. Skipping along I would recite under my breath to the sun, the butterflies and all who would ask for a poem. "Recite to us dear child," the Sun would say. And, I would recite: Pretty sun oh so sweet I do like you like my feet They get dirty every day When I run and kick and play Then the butterflies would ask: "Recite to us dear child." Butterflies oh so nice You are nicer than other flies You are pretty with colors I like And, you never make me want to fight Each time I recited the butterflies would sit on my nose or dance around my shoulders opening and closing their wings. My child spirit was strong and I thought of songs and poems to recite all day long. But then one day, it began to rain and I could hear my brothers calling my name. "Cookie! Cookie, its time to go, there's too much rain lets go."I ran to my brother who scooped me into his arms. The rain was cool and wet - it trickled down my arms tickling me as it descended. My mother screeched that I smelled like a wet dog and everyone started laughing. The truck made an abrupt stop at a rest area so my mother could clean me up. There were other mothers with little girls with blond hair and blue eyes, who wore pretty ribbons in braids, and frilly dresses. I heard their mommy tell them not to get near me. Then, someone shouted something. I wasn't allowed to use their toilet. I said nothing. And, there was silence, no one said nothing.. That night, after my bath, I lay still in my bed. I thought about the little girls in the pretty ribbons and the mommy who wouldn't let me use the toilet at the rest area. I called my child spirit to sing with me to help me feel better but instead it said, "goodbye." Many days would pass where I would call my child spirit but it would never come, one day I stopped calling. Many years later, in a dark room in Southampton, England, it flew back and sang to me. I was no longer a child but my child spirit was strong. It allowed me to reach down and take pen and paper into my hand and I was able write and recite poems again! |
 |
 |
| Mother & brothers |
| Sisters & (center) me |
Echoes A familiar sound beckons near to embrace what has remained so dear In my mind her calls were sweet That awaken yearning to be heard again As the desire does not subside tears replace the final cry Fall they may upon the cheeks resembling a face not far from mine Forever, I shall wait to hear the sound benign that once knew my name |
 |
| STORY |
| An exerpt from the book "Feeding My Children - A book of Poems and Short Stories" |
| All Rights Reserved |
 |