Smog
Karen Hecht Springer
January 8, 2015
She lays there in smog mindfulness
The fever tries to break
And at her core she remembers
Meetings, papers, projects,
Atta boy, atta boy, atta boy
Promoted up, up, up
But with the date stamp of 30
Time stopped
On paper, she’s a wonder
A force to be reckoned with
But here in this dizziness
A scared little five-year-old weeps
Tries to get attention through the silence
As a thick-tongued subconscious says no, no, no
This isn’t who I am
Her mind’s eye streaming tears
The adult inside is screaming to nobody, everybody
Protect me, the child, the child…
Even as she knows
The only way out is through the now
Love ya!
Jane
Amen!
John Michael
Gosh, this hits hard. It is similar to when I help abused women trying to let them see that there is an exit from their gray maze of their private hell.
Ron
This poem really makes you stop and think.
Michael D.
Regis