Three piles of stones…
Three I held most dear to my heart,
Three are those that perished,
Now three piles of stones fill the gaps,
That their ashen bodies have left.
Black reflective stones for my mother,
Who taught me all I know,
Who named me Green for my love of the garden,
My mother, who preferred blue-jay feathers to her pearls,
My mother, whose gap,
Occupied now by black stones.
Silver clear stones for my father,
Who was strong and honest,
My father, who once whistled a tune,
A tune returned by the surrounding sparrows,
My father, whose gap,
Occupied now by silver stones.
Pure white stones for my sister,
Who was beautiful and wild,
Who ran through the woods laughing
Who chased frogs through the mud,
My sister, who shone more bright than the moon,
Her gap,
Occupied now by pure white stones.
Three are those that perished,
The same number that I held most dear to my heart,
Ashes are their body remains,
Three piles of stones,
Now fill their gaps.
Ashes and stones…
Ashes and stones are all that is left,
Of the garden I loved to tend.
Zucchini and purple onions,
Peppers and blueberry bushes,
Row after row of prolific treasures,
Burned,
Banished,
Out of existence.
Onion and Ghost…
Onion,
My sister’s little terrier,
Who knew exactly what happened,
Who barked at the ash filled sky,
Onion,
The little terrier,
Who missed Aurora,
His watcher,
My sister…
My beautiful and wild sister.
Ghost,
The white grey hound,
A ghost dog,
White as a cloud,
Moving through the woods like mist,
The ghost dog,
Who resembled sorrow.
Onion and Ghost,
My two constant companions,
Who like me,
Have had their lives split into two halves,
The first, one of happiness and abundance,
The second, one of ashes and stones.
My neighbor…
The old woman,
Whose house stood in the woods,
Surrounded by an apple orchard,
The old woman,
Who had thrown stones to drive away,
The looters in my garden.
The old woman,
Who I repaid,
With a bucket and mop,
And made her house shine.
This old woman,
Wise and friendly,
Who traded birdseeds
For my bread loafs.
The Forgetting Shack…
The Forgetting Shack,
Where boys and girls drink gin to forget,
Where Heather Jones, with her white dress,
Dances around the fire,
Alone and lost.
Heather Jones,
Whose parents had perished,
Just as mine had.
Heather Jones,
Whom I gave my mother’s blue dress.
Heather Jones,
Who danced around the fire at the Forgetting Shack,
Whose feet were ****** from dancing all night,
Whose eyes were empty and sad.
Heather Jones,
Who soon disappeared,
Too busy with trying to forget.
Heather Jones,
Whose blue dress,
I found in torn pieces,
In the ashes of the fire.
Diamond…
The boy who ran from the fire,
Ran across the river,
In search of his mother,
Her portrait close to his heart.
The boy who didn’t speak,
The boy who was tired of running,
Who stood still as a shadow in my doorway,
Who wore his black hood to hide his eyes.
This boy,
Who I named Diamond…
Diamond,
With his hidden voice,
Me,
With my clouded eyes.
Leafs that were once black, now an apple green…
There was Onion and Ghost,
The sparrows and the wind,
And now there was Diamond.
I soon found myself singing,
Dancing,
Smiling.
The black ink leaves,
The black ink roses…
Slowly transforming into
Apple green.
Where did this change come from?
I was Ash,
With black ink in my skin,
With gray clouded eyes…
Green…
Diamond is gone,
Diamond, who brought about change,
Diamond…
Who kissed me goodbye.
I missed Diamond,
Who painted watercolors,
Who believed the garden would grow again.
I missed Heather Jones,
Who wore my mother’s blue dress,
Who danced too close to the fire.
I missed Ghost,
A white mist through the trees,
A ghost dog,
Who resembled sorrow.
Most of all,
I missed my sister,
Aurora,
My beautiful, wild sister,
Who chased frogs through the mud.
I dreamed of those I missed,
I woke crying,
I cried away the cloudiness in my eyes,
Sun shown out the window,
Seedlings grew in the garden.
From then on, there was no Ash,
Ash blew away with the wind.
I was Green again,
Green who tended the garden,
Green who sang with the sparrows,
Green who danced in the sun,
Green who smiled.
For my english class, we were assigned an independent reading project, and I chose to write a poem from the main character's perspective. The book is called "Green Angel" and the author is Alice Hoffman. Hoffman is one of the most beautiful writers of all time, and her books are extroadinary! I strongly suggest all you hello poetry friends to read it!