It's a mother's right to brag
A few years ago I went into my office and found the following poem. I can't remember if I found it printed and lying on the desk, or if the computer was on and the document still open on the screen. As I read it, I remember thinking what a sad little poem it was. There was no atribution and I wondered who in the world wrote this lovely little, haunting poem.
Later that day or the next, I showed the poem to my daughter, who at the time was maybe 16 or 17, and still in high school. I asked her if she downloaded it or found it in a book.
Much to my prideful surprise she admitted she had written it. That was my introduction to the talent that my child possesses. She is a gifted writer. Moody as hell, sometimes, but those right brain thinkers are a beautifully, weird bunch. I love them all, even the ones I did not give birth to.
I asked her if I could share with you that poem titled O She, the Dreamer, and along with it a link to her budding blog. She has many, many journals full of the stuff she's written since who knows when, and I've encouraged her to add them to her blog or attempt to get them published.
Like I said...it's a mother's right to brag. I have two more children, so get ready...there will be more.
Later that day or the next, I showed the poem to my daughter, who at the time was maybe 16 or 17, and still in high school. I asked her if she downloaded it or found it in a book.
Much to my prideful surprise she admitted she had written it. That was my introduction to the talent that my child possesses. She is a gifted writer. Moody as hell, sometimes, but those right brain thinkers are a beautifully, weird bunch. I love them all, even the ones I did not give birth to.
I asked her if I could share with you that poem titled O She, the Dreamer, and along with it a link to her budding blog. She has many, many journals full of the stuff she's written since who knows when, and I've encouraged her to add them to her blog or attempt to get them published.
Like I said...it's a mother's right to brag. I have two more children, so get ready...there will be more.
O She, the Dreamer
Could you think of nothing fair to say
To a weary dreamer gone astray?
O dreamer lost, and Dreamer scared,
Whose mind at which you claw and tear.
That wish upon a star is dead,
The instant from her lips, 'twas said.
The starlet of a blossom borne
To a world of hate, a life of scorn.
She, lonely 'neath a shadowed moon,
Writes inside a sinner's cocoon.
Happy is the world alight.
Wounded is she from your might.
She, the Dreamer wants not for herself
Of riches plenty or flawless health.
She dreams, instead, of a life at ease;
To find within herself some peace,
To find within you, an open heart
To welcome her in open arms.
She falters as she yearns
To touch your hand, and yet she burns.
A dream, not to find a love so true;
But yet to find her soul in you.
A hopeless wish she casts upon her star;
To find herself in your stony heart.
But still you speak of nothing fair,
To ease Her mind at which you claw and tear.
O She, the Dreamer. Lost and scared.
Could you think of nothing fair to say
To a weary dreamer gone astray?
O dreamer lost, and Dreamer scared,
Whose mind at which you claw and tear.
That wish upon a star is dead,
The instant from her lips, 'twas said.
The starlet of a blossom borne
To a world of hate, a life of scorn.
She, lonely 'neath a shadowed moon,
Writes inside a sinner's cocoon.
Happy is the world alight.
Wounded is she from your might.
She, the Dreamer wants not for herself
Of riches plenty or flawless health.
She dreams, instead, of a life at ease;
To find within herself some peace,
To find within you, an open heart
To welcome her in open arms.
She falters as she yearns
To touch your hand, and yet she burns.
A dream, not to find a love so true;
But yet to find her soul in you.
A hopeless wish she casts upon her star;
To find herself in your stony heart.
But still you speak of nothing fair,
To ease Her mind at which you claw and tear.
O She, the Dreamer. Lost and scared.
©2000 RAB
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