Poetry flows freely from my pen onto yellow pads, yet it seldom finds its voice at the keyboard. Perhaps that makes sense since it’s difficult to walk leisurely through the woods while pecking away on a laptop. My appreciation for the stimulation that Mother Nature provides began as a small child while wondering the hill of the Missouri Ozarks. My love of poetry can be attributed to Robert Frost.
Mr. Frost shared the same love for God’s creations that I do. He created his own footprints in The Road Not Taken and he touched the hollows of my soul through poems such as Bereft. I felt a kindred connection to his need to share melancholy thoughts in the form of poems.
While I cannot compare my writings to such a master of the art, I share with you a poem that formed from my futile thoughts one evening after watching the local news.
From the Boughs of a Cradle
From the boughs of a cradle, much like you and me
So dependent on others, so innocent and free
He grinned with a smile that would capture your heart
No clue that his world would soon fall apart
Left alone once too often; forced to grow up too fast
The pleasures that warmed him were soon part of his past
The drugs and the booze became his whole life
Such a sense of abandon, such continuous strife
From street gangs to prison, he followed the path
Consumed by his anger, his hatred, his wrath
Now death by injection, the sentence he waits
So hopeless and helpless behind steel gates
The cradle is empty, the smile worn away
No family or friends to protect him today
Will his soul die before us as inevitable fate
Or will a spirit embrace him? Is it ever too late?
By Diane How