The Ride
My master rides with dignity
and a great overload of pride
but as we clatter down the dusty road
a beggar hails us from the side.
Her clothes are torn,
her hair in tangles,
her dark eyes wide:
a peasant's child.
He doesn't stop,
doesn't slow,
till the poor little child,
bare feet in the snow,
runs to my side and grasps my reign
her gentle command "whoa," like sweetly fresh grain.
She looks up at him
hope gleams in her eyes.
It shines there, sparkles,
like dancing fire-flies.
He shakes her away and turns back to me.
I'm kicked hard in the flank,
unthoughtful as if to say,
"what are you doing?
Carry on, it's nearly the end of the day."
As we ride, dignified,
towards tasty meals and ignorance,
I glance back, wondering, and find her still outside.
The hope that danced there briefly,
that flickered in her face,
is now replaced by sadness,
sorrow, and disgrace.
A tear trickles silver,
tracking confusion down her cheek,
and her eyes stare unseeingly,
blind in disbelief.
this poem is dedicated to all those children in the world who know what harship and hunger is.
who know what loss is.
The Ride especially goes out to those in Guatemala.
may your country one day find peace within its borders.
copyright 1996
Alaisha Makalaster