"Aliving" Mr. Teddy
"I'll make you real!" She little girl yelled, Fairest Flower
In mock protest pulling her hair.
"You're my friend, we'll have such fun!"
Glaring at her limp teddy bear.
Adjusting the straps of her new pink suspenders
She grabbed the bear by the arm
And rushed him to her little room,
With great care to do him no harm.
She promptly sat him on a stool,
And closed her eyes real tight.
She counted to ten and opened her eyes,
And supposed she has not done it right.
"Mr. Teddy, whats wrong? Can you hear?"
And gave the bear a flick,
Distraught, but not without hope, she guessed
"I know, you must be sick!"
She would not give up, and continued the game,
For she believed her could make her bear real.
Dragging the bear inside the bathroom,
She did something she knew he would feel.
She turned on the faucet of the tub
And waited til the water high,
Tossed the bear in, but still wore a frown,
"You're still not real!" She pouted, heaving a little
sigh.
Not dissuaded she pulled out the bear
The thing a furry sopping mess.
She spun around and furrowed her brows
And demanded the bear confess.
"Mr. Teddy, I wanna know? Do you wanna be my friend?
I bet you're faking, and are already alive!"
She poked the bear and wore a frown,
"I bet you don't wanna be alive."
Sadly the girl dragged the wet bear
And layed him on her room floor,
Picked up her stuffed giraffe with gusto,
And continued "the aliving" process once more.
No mortal can answer such.
But once upon a time ago a lady did,
For mere words a face too much.
Hellen the fair, was oft she called
"The cause of the war." 'twas said; some rival Roman ploy.
She with the face of an angel walked,
A heavenly glow so graced the palace of Troy.
Seldom a shard of truth is found,
Yet some believe not the lies,
For they alone who know the truth
Have had to look into her eyes.
To those who have not seen her face,
A shadow of a myth she seems.
"Surely a creature of such you describe,
Could only exist in dreams."
Papers and parchment have been lost in the past,
Tales of fathers, plates and combs.
Yet her face has remained in thoughts
Gracing script and minds she roams.
Poetry drips from her rosy lips;
Sweet honey dancing down from the first flower.
The sun can speak through amber eyes
As she lays upon an emerald grass bower.
Any woman's dream would be to be fair as she;
Legs as of swans, long slender and white;
As are her arms, and skin as smooth as milk.
Who could guess such gifts would be her plight.
Scent of a fragrant smile speaks of her past,
In her mind hidden by splendid gifts is her sorrow.
Angels weep topaz tears, its raining for her plight.
For all the men want her, yet there is none for her to
happiness borrow.
When she speaks butterflies dance for her;
A slowly swooning sky bends for her lady's grace;
Ambrosia of spring, her voice, thick rose honey
entrancing;
Seductive wind from rose lips, fine as new spun lace.
Hopes fade: Quivering in the moment as dew ready to
fall
With bated breath stopped at the lips for her a man.
Her first lover, alone, he's bent at a golden chair
Long ago his love swept away, and all he could do was
wait. "I did all I can."
He longs for her sunrise touch, but hope has faded;
Paris of Troy had long ago come and Hellen made the
choice,
"She left with him to the halls of Troy."
Its been years, and memories faded, he still a
quavering voice.
Hellen of Troy, the fairest of maids,
She with it all, and yet empty arms.
What pleasure is there in simply looks?
Only lust is felt for her, and men think not of the
harms.
Like as night doth approach, he comes;
Husbands wait while wives deliver, Jake "Trash Boy"
In the back of the class a boy bowed his head
To Draco(tehehehe):
As shadows bleed from stone, he trod;
Rolling thunder ages past echo in his wake,
Hollow beatings in a tired hall of stone.
Anger rests idly in onyx eyes; black embers waiting to ignite.
With a menacing stride he stalks through the dust,
Whips around corners, quick as malevolent death.
A daring face hidden by folds of his hood.
Upon which a smile, devl'ish yet set.
'O handsome evil, his innocence drained by pallid past,
For whom's bare throat doth thy slash out to greet?
Ready his side clutch'd a sword proven of worth,
Greeting many a man with slick steel to the throat.
Velvet black cascades of his cloak lick the floor
Billowing and snapping in deathly still air.
Who is he carries so much malice?
The ranger of darkness, a demon, tales say;
He steals into towns clad silver by moon
To leave with the smell of blood by his spilt.
What secrets have thee rest on thy lonely lips?
Doth they prove true what the villagers say?
Or chance truth was twisted and thou'st a good man.
But who hast the power to deal righteous death,
Can we not all be men of good meaning,
...Desire to kill or naught?
Popping pills to stem their shiver.
Buying gifts and throwing money;
To the malls do we go running.
"Forget the kids!" One husband did yell
To get to Best Buy's sale 10 trees he fell.
"Out of concern for the trees!" The stout man retorted.
"There's a tree over-population." Through the trees he
resorted.
Your children from the school doors flee,
To scamper home and turn on the T.V.
You buy them Zelda, Racing games,
Give it one year and they'll forget their own names.
A plague of a device someone created
Had no inclination of an evil belated.
What a gracious heart for the better of man-kind;
"Let us drop our morals, see what deals we can find!"
Such a corrupt austere device for all,
Waits behind every American wall.
This divine box from materialist heaven
Directs us strait to your nearest 7-11.
God, have mercy on our souls,
And rack this society over intelligence coals.
Trying to rid his brain of the words that had been
said.
Fighting back tears and an image in mind,
He raised his head with what dignity he could find.
But the kids jeering still echoed in his head,
And his face remained crimson; He wished that he was
dead.
He knew his jeans were tattered and socks full of
holes,
His hair not so tidy and so were his clothes.
He knew his shirts were ratty, his binder from last
year,
His tote bag brown and worn and his shoes were semi-
queer.
The boy wasn't too clean, and the kids don't let him
forget,
He's followed by sneers, and known as "trash boy" to
his peers with no regret.
Lunchtime for Jake is a very sad affair
He sits at a table with no one, and no one gives a
care.
A lone figure in a large expanse, he isn't hard to
spot,
But in the general opinion of his fellows: "I'd soon
as sit with him as rot!"
Alone is his stance and blatant his lonely shame,
name.
Not one child would care to know Jake had no parents
or a home,
That his older brother had enrolled him, and still the older roams.
In the lunch line Jake hastily counts coins with other
peers around
"65 cents. That's just enough!" Some pocket change he
had found.
3:15- The last bell rings and the well dressed kids run home,
Jake waves goodbye to his teacher and walks to alley
he calls home.
-Every student has known a "Jake", or maybe "trash
boy" to some.
Darkness settles on my soul that this knowledge had
not earlier come:
Every kid has a face but not everyone have a place.
Think before you open your mouth, and picture the
place some call home,
A few pennies from the road and no where to go but
roam.