Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid

The Value of My Being

This past month I submitted two poems to a poetry contest held by OPEN (Organization Promoting Everlasting Neighbors) which was formed here in Jasper County in August, 1990. OPEN strives to strengthen its global outreach in the community by sponsoring and hosting exchange students from Ukraine and Taiwan. This allows citizens in our own communities to strengthen and form understanding and acceptance while learning about individuals in other countries. Being able to do this helps us to recognize and accept differences; thus strengthening relationships with others around us.

A fellow friend and advisor at the private university where I attend sent me information regarding this contest I only, at first,  considered it. Yes, later I reflected on the seriousness of the recent events in Ukraine, and what it might be like to be here, and have my family in another country. I thought about Taras Shevchenko and his strength to create, live and how he fought. The rights we have now were not without fighting for. So, it seemed appropriate to write something for those people who are stilling fighting to be heard and accepted.

One of these poems, “The Value of My Being” received second place in this contest. I pray it gives great strength to many.


I may reach my height of a hundred feet,
Or be cut down before my time.
But it is these roots beneath your postures,
Below your oppression and perspective,
That allows me to grow, and divide.

For the value of my being is deeper than your decrees.
Listen to the leaf upon my branches explain,
That I am much more than fire to burn,
More than a function of a species neglected to shelter you from the rain, the sun.

Do not overlook our value, our reveries,
But listen to our stories, and our poverties,
So that we do not become grey and fissured,
Or dry up at our origins.

Let us speak so our ancestries might live in amity and reconciliation.
So, we might bud again in the spring, and,
Cover you with our characteristic lobes.
Here, we are men, women, and infant.
We are but, a tree of existence.

Значення Мого Буття

Я можу досягти своєї висоти ста метрів,
Або бути скорочений до мого часу.
Але саме ці корені під вашими позами,
Нижче вашій гноблення і перспективи,
Це дозволяє мені рости, і розділити.

Для вартість мого істоти глибше, ніж ваші указів.
Слухайте листа на мої гілки пояснити,
Те, що я набагато більше, ніж вогонь, щоб спалити,
Більш залежності від виду знехтувати прихистити вас від дощу, сонця.

Не забувайте нашу цінність, наші мрії,
Але слухати наші історії, і наші бідністю,
Так що ми не стають сірими і потріскані,
Або висихають на наше походження.

Давайте говорити так наші родоводів може жити в дружбі і примирення.
Таким чином, ми, можливо, бутон знову навесні, і,
Обкладинка вас з нашими характерних пелюсток.
Тут ми чоловіки, жінки і немовляти.
Ми але, дерево існування.


Ballet shoes and Belly Laughs


These memories lay neatly placed in my mind,

As if they were coins in a Fenton bowl from past eras.

I take notice of my age,   

Those things to which I took for-granted would always be here.

Little girls in trick or treat costumes,

Ballet shoes and deep belly laughs.


Those warm faucet tears on your first day of school,

Have left like the seasons we lack to appreciate.

A life of thunderstorms and blizzards,

Just to get to tomorrow.


Little wet kindergarten kisses,

A dirty little hand that pushes your hair from your eyes,

Just so they can see your face.

So they can read your eyes.

Those memories in that marigold dish, I long to pick up,

To relive one more time.

Yet, they are merely antiques of a moment,

In order to just reach another day.

Forgetting the moment of now.

Painted On Expressions.


In this blanket of Queen Anne lace I lay.

Kindly hidden among things much sweeter,

Than I could have ever wondered of.


Your porcelain face,

Your painted on expressions,

Cannot soothe these reservations.

Yet, my pulse still thumps,

My fingers still tap, tap, and tap away.

Like dime sized hail on a windshield.


In the spring that never came,

The winter made herself at home in the trees,

In the nest of the Robins who were tricked into thinking otherwise.

The cold greeted them only to kill their babies.

Whose crooning would never resonate up into the air above me.

Never open their wings to fly.

Instead they lay cold in their shells,

Colored the softest pastel blue.


Just like your painted on eyes.

They, too, leave me cold and unfeeling.


As the world begins to bloom around me,

Around what I once was.

I yearn to smell the lilacs.

To feel the tiniest of paper cuts.

And watch as my finger bleeds.

Yet, instead, you have buried me amongst weeds.

A wild plant, given a beautiful name,

Only to tidy up their harshness.

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