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Meagan Whiddon Poem
I touch one,
The baby buds growing on the tree.
They're tender, vulnerable, and soft.
They promise new life to come.
What awaits these tiny buds?
Only seasons will tell.
One year might have more rain while a drought might have happened in the previous year.
Wind might blow them away,
forever carrying them away from their home.
I pluck one and hold it in the palm of my hand.
It's pungent smell not yet noticeable.
But I know when the tiny, green bud blooms,
The pretty, little white petals and the essence of the bloom, will contrast.
How can something so delicately pretty, so innocent,
emit such a intoxicatingly rich, pungent bouquet?
I know this little bud's future.
I drop it to the ground, hearing the soft fump as it hit.
I've decided it's fate once I've plucked it,
I'm like God in this way.
Dropping an angel from the sky,
To live his or her life in the arms of humanity and family.
To have the struggles I've predetermined so they can become who they were,
who I know them to be.
I've forgiven their pungent mistakes because I know the mistakes they will make.
Their family will nurture the tiny, innocent angelic baby, never knowing what the future
will hold for their child.
The now blooming adult will walk away, to take risks, to challenge life, to be carried
away by the wind.
Their lives are now guided by my hands,
If they so chose.
However, what choice do they have if I have predetermined their lives?
I closed the small hole in the ground with the pat of my hand,
took the clear glass cup,filled to the brim of precious water,
I poured.
I took the chance, a risk, so that a new life can begin.
Copyright © Meagan Whiddon | Year Posted 2011
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Meagan Whiddon Poem
A breeze brings a crisp bite to my skin,
the warmth of a soft jacket provides the warmth I need.
Somewhere,
I can hear the sparrows chirping,
Robins singing their songs.
Even Crows screeching, casting small shadows on the day.
I don't even care.
Those shadows won't cross my mind for today,
I want this to be a good day.
I only fought a little uphill,
the grass slightly brown from the Autumn air.
My apple tree of gold, scarlet, and honey hues stood on top of the hill,
with branches stretching for the sun's kiss.
A smile,
a tear from the corner of the eye escaping.
A tire swing gently sways,
giving the reminder of happier, melodious memories.
The tire was weather worn,
and the rope ripe with age,
the tree's youth had fallen to.
Crunchy leaves echo and mask the silence I was seeking for,
the bark was rough under my fingers.
Just like the months have been.
I laid out my patchwork quilt,
and slept the day away in peace.
Copyright © Meagan Whiddon | Year Posted 2011
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Meagan Whiddon Poem
In the air,
dank mist rise to great,
while gleaming, white teeth are gnashed.
Roots seem to stretch to meet with small, outstretched fingers.
Her heart raced,
a loud pounding, throb echoing in her chest.
The growls rumbled low.
Three circled around.
Two ready to spring.
One, ears laid back.
The Devil's Six.
Her body shook,
small tremors coursing through her blood,
her muscles spasm to stay in control.
Lungs contract,
expand.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Frozen.
Sweat dripped down her face.
She closed her eyes as the Leader lept.
Collar, shoulder, neck on fire,
her arm ripped, a chilling scream.
chest split, teeth sank.
Blood pours,
life's blood spent.
Gone.
Gone from the reach of others,
to be devoured by the Leader and his mate.
Relished and savored,
to fill the circle of life in an endless cycle,
Tastes fulfilled.
Copyright © Meagan Whiddon | Year Posted 2011
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Meagan Whiddon Poem
The world is gray.
Cobblestones,
People,
Trees,
Black are the shadows.
Footsteps echo and ricochet off the street to be cast into my ears.
The crowd part to let me through,
The sunshine is a white ball in the sky, casting a cold, glow on everything I see;
Color is not illuminated.
Water splashing in soft sprinkles of sound caught my attention, and to my eyes,
a young man is seated on the edge of the surrounding brick wall, parting the water
with his hand,
An expression of wonder on his face as he looks into my gray world.
His eyes alight on mine, beckoning to come near.
My step back made him spring forth from his perch and take my hand.
His enthusiasm of color and of life was enjoyable.
His humor matched my own,
I enjoyed his companionship.
His animations of life and color were not catching though,
I still saw gray, my life still the same.
"Give it more time, you will see."
I began to disregard his instances that color will come to my life,
His control was more adamant,
I began to shy away.
I am finished.
My life filled with gray and black only.
Sounds are my refuge of joy.
The birds chirping,
the mammals scurrying toward a warm home,
My words to people with whom I speak,
became my way of expression.
He is hurt,
for he could not make me see color.
I could not change that for him.
I am gone from him.
Maybe he will see my world of gray now,
Now he will understand my world,
When I could never understand his.
Copyright © Meagan Whiddon | Year Posted 2011
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Meagan Whiddon Poem
A baby,
so tiny and helpless,
the life the future.
Intricate toes and fingers,
eyes closed and blind to the world's horrors,
the cries of helplessness bundled in a blanket.
Warmth I can guarantee,
Love I can provide,
Dreams I can give freely,
Yet the world is to be discovered by You.
You who make our whole world revolve,
You who will endure,
You who will suffer.
A life without air is not a life at all,
when the systems of life begin to fail,
There is only one gesture I have to give.
A kiss to the brow.
Tears will fall,
as will sniffles and sobs,
but I will be there to comfort.
I will be there to hold your hand,
I will dream and live in the world of your reality,
while continuing with my own world.
A world of success and failures.
Good-bye my dearest,
I have prayed,
and it is time for you to go.
A kiss,
A tear,
Just once more.
Sleep dear one, sleep.
Copyright © Meagan Whiddon | Year Posted 2011
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Meagan Whiddon Poem
A rose that looks like sunshine,
Bright, but soft, butter yellow, with an edgy crimson outline,
floated in a vase alongside soft splatterings of Baby's Breath.
'Twas a gift.
It lived on the dresser;
my dresser in front of my bed.
Every morning, when the sun began to shine through my window,
the rose was the first thing I saw.
It had no thorns, it was perfect;
Perfection in a single flower:
I took a picture.
To capture the moment,
to capture the beauty before it began to wilt,
before it lost its perfection.
I would dream,
imagine that I would become an aspired singer,
that I could dance,
that I could be in the "In" society.
I would dream the impossible,
that I could be the first to count all the stars,
that I would sit on the porch with my love and enjoy morning hot chocolate,
that I could see the future God intended.
My reflections bloomed, like my rose.
They grew into a young woman of no horror in her life,
sheltered and nurtured under the love of parents and a close friend.
I woke up to my animal's playing and a resounding crash.
My shattered vase.
My gorgeous rose,
Baby's Breath and water all over the floor and under the dresser.
I cut my feet.
I cut my hands.
My rose had a tiny thorn under the wilted petals.
For you see,
I never saw the withered, ugly flower with a covered thorn.
I saw what I wanted to see;
A soft, but brilliant, yellow rose with edgy crimson outlines.
My dreams blended into the blood on my feet.
Reflections became none exsistant when I felt the pain of glass in my hands;
I saw my sheltered life sink into the puddle of water, slowly drifting under my bed.
With tears, I cleaned.
I scrubbed and threw away the pieces.
I bandaged the wounds and washed my eyes and cheeks.
Without aid,
I moved on.
Time told me of scars on my feet and hands.
All I can do is remember and glance at my framed, wilted rose;
the brittle petals cracked,
the stem a deep brown,
the thorns prominent and sharp.
I saw what I wanted to see.
Copyright © Meagan Whiddon | Year Posted 2011
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Meagan Whiddon Poem
In a night,
my flight turned into a storm.
Both rocky and calm,
Full of gusts and minor debris.
Rain pelted me,
The thunder struck behind me,
The wind chilled my body,
I am all alone.
My nest is gone.
My family is gone;
The cat dominated my home.
But now, I am flying.
Flying.
Flying.
Flying.
To the south,
Where warm weather and promise awaits.
The ocean below me is exquisite and powerful,
Under the moon and stars.
The water raging.
The water foaming.
The fish swimming in there schools,
The coral providing homes
Sunlight touched my chilled feathers,
The trees inviting my stay.
I preened and the wind ruffled,
A sound.
Alert.
Twist.
Take off.
I’m scared.
What am I to do?
Where am I to go?
Mountains loomed before me,
A rainbow painted across the sky.
I have to keep going,
I feel I must fly.
My life isn’t mine.
My goal not achieved.
There is more.
I know it.
There’s a house below,
It’s a cabin among the pine trees.
I can dream. . .
For peace, for serenity.
There is a window and a ledge,
A shiny, tiny bell waved on a collar.
A pipe sat on the side table.
The fireplace ablaze with fire.
Love.
Warmth.
Cheep!
The old man looked at me,
The orange tabby did to.
He opened the window,
My feet stayed on the ledge; I backed away.
Tabby looks curious,
Amber eyes a-glow.
He held his finger out,
I felt compelled to remain.
My feathers are still soaked.
He touched my wing.
I moved closer.
A peek at the tabby.
Hop.
Cheep!
Inside the cabin.
I’m calm.
Here I stay.
This is my home.
I play fly tag with Tabby.
I have my place on the fireplace.
I can stay.
Until I have to fly away again.
Copyright © Meagan Whiddon | Year Posted 2011
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Meagan Whiddon Poem
Sweet and sour,
chemicals in the air;
Blown in the evening breeze and in the summer morning.
An easy laugh,
friends circled around;
anything said is intelligent.
We must write it down,
to see our work,
as well as remember what was said.
It's calming,
soothing,
we must have it to solve our problems.
There is no longer a drive,
no need to work;
peace and government will save us all.
Maybe.
Aunty Mary,
Come join the gang,
chase our fears away,
our doubts,
our insecurities.
You are our love,
our family,
our reason of being.
There's Laughter and Joy,
deep thought and rambling.
Forget the real world,
Lets chill for tonight.
Copyright © Meagan Whiddon | Year Posted 2011
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