I am not a great poet or writer.
I am a simple girl and my soul is sick.

I see the picture everyday. It hangs by the television. Sometimes when I watch TV my eyes drift to the picture and my mind drifts back to that day.  His golden hair shines from the photographers light. I think he was seven, maybe eight, he had all of his front teeth again. His eyes laughing, his body relaxed and peaceful, so happy. I smile back at the picture; good memories. Then my mind is drawn back to the TV and the images of parents standing, waiting, hoping and praying, that they will see their child again.
                                      STANDING, WAITING, HOPING, PRAYING
Then my eyes go back to the picture. My son is now twenty-seven, doing well in his chosen trade. Trying to make ends meet from week to week like everyone else.  What an angelic face, so pure, so innocent.....so innocent.  My mind snaps back to the TV.  They say twenty-eight are dead, twenty are children they say. I fall to the floor and sob.  Tears run down my face and land on the carpet to be absorbed, for my heart can not....I don't want to live in this world anymore.....and I'm the lucky one. I raised my child. I had all those days that these parents would never have. These parents...STANDING AND WAITING AND HOPING AND PRAYING.....standing,waiting, hoping, praying.....standing, waiting, hoping, praying.   Did I use them well, my days? Did I hug him enough? Did I kiss him enough?  Did I listen enough? Did I love him enough........ I look back at the TV, at all those parents, standing, and waiting, and hoping, and praying, and I know, for their sake, I will love him more.

If the sun would shine on me for just a little more
I could finish these few lines and know who I write for
Darkness is coming soon and I find my time is fleeting
A pen and paper in setting sunlight with lines that need completing

My lungs are tired and my throat hoarse from screaming past the distance
Arms so sore from wrestling with my heart and its resistance
Persistently finding myself with no wisp of what to do
Trying to find the proper lines that lead me up to you

Sun stand still, keep your place in this purple, dimming sky
Let me finish the words to my beloved in one last try
All my trying has come to naught, in purple, black, or blue
Dearest lover, pray the sun stands so I might search for you

Hopeless to the brigade of cars homing in down the vertical hive
I’m one and five with the sun and its love with the ravine begins with your eyes and slips in the open crater sky
Ringing the pulse of the ocean
Firing a fever through tunnel vision of the birds locked in trees
The news crusades from a natural alley and falls on a peaceful summer afternoon dream wanted and desired with every mistake of my hunting hand and my foreign eye
The rhythm marks the dawning between the cross and our barren golden afterthought of mysteries and dinner
The mammal plagues the songs from the mountain
The monks always cross their eyes to wish that Autumn holds the coming day

But like the sun he turns her to ashes, for she didn't belong in his world.

Unexpected defeat
A shock to the nation
Politic Tsunami, they said
Time to mourn? Time to analyze?
Try to decipher this Tsunami
Being fed the same chocolate flavor
High time to switch to another
  Which flavors they fancy now?
of sweets, of biscuits of cakes
Do you know?
Creativity, innovate, concern
Listen to their plights
Why do they retaliate?
Blame the Tsunami again?
So unintelligent, put yourself under a microscope
analyze, examine, please understand more.