Sunday, February 24, 2013



Your prophet, you'll forgive me
For thinking this, but the limits
Of my patience had long
Shredded to pieces
So I expected no heroics
From him, or any of them

And crimes against the likes
Of you—the innocents—have left
Me gazing through tears
Not my own, but those universal
Ones, oceans the world over
Are comprised of ...

So imagine the shock
To my undisciplined equilibrium
When a stillness so unexpected
Enveloped me in sublime peace
As your life-stealing inhumane
so-called parents,
Were finally charged
With first degree murder

I thought I might sprout wings
and fly to where you are
Just to see your smile, hear your laugh
Your never before heard baby laugh
At last


  1. Oooh ... to the whole poem ... but especially to the momentum to that 'killer' last line... "Your never before heard baby laugh." Beautiful

  2. Hard hitting poem, Sharon. Is this about the parents you spoke of some months ago? The last stanza caught in my throat.


  3. Thank you both - and yes, flaubert - these are the parents - just found out the charge has been reduced to second degree which means even tho' they starved and beat this tiny being,(and her sister who has survived the abuse, at least physically)there was no "premeditation" - really? I wonder what about this is "accidental" or unplanned... it angers me so but I guess that's pretty plain.

  4. oh, wow! I am blown away at all the different stories and such we concoct from the same set of words each week. Your words hit at such a monstrous way parents treat the vulnerable innocents. What I would do is illegal, and so...I will only feel and pray.

  5. No crime can be so heinous as that of stealing a new life before it has chance to bud. I can never understand "mitigating circumstances" when innocence is destroyed.

  6. Stories like this one literally turn me to jelly. Having been abused was hard for me, but parents who KILL? I'm not sure how best to punish them. I'm against the death penalty, so I guess life in prison and no contact with children, ever again.

    Heartbreaking, and yet your final stanza, wishing you had wings, was surprisingly cheering, buoyant. This is one of your best, Sharon, and that's saying something. Peace, Amy