Broken

Rough hands, worn face

Tired lines, blank gaze

Aching bones, back bent

A pain that stole the innocence

Trails of tears stain pale cheeks

Old eyes betray her youth

When "promises" flash all around 

Look close to see the truth

Strife and worry, fear and grief

What can mend a broken heart?

Valleys etch a weathered face

For too long it's been dark

Too young to learn not to love

Who hides behind the mask?

She must have been a pretty girl

In the mystery of her past

What made her hard and filled this sea

Of discouraged, broken dreams? 

What caused her to preserve herself

With sure, but shallow things?

A search for meaning in this life

A "why" to live or die

A shattered vessel, a million pieces

Do you hear her cry?

Fall away you old woman

Your time has not yet come!

There are still years to live and laugh

And taste the breath of freedom

A heart was meant to beat with strength

Cheeks were meant to bloom

Legs to dance, a zest for life

Eyes to sparkle through

Trade bitterness for quiet beauty

Shape a vessel from the shards

Others still desperately need you

A once healed heart is twice as strong

A Girl Writing

I'm thinking about writing...

Well, really I think about it every day, but that doesn't help much when it comes to actually doing it. I have faithfully kept a journal for years. I started a historical-fiction book in high school, but set it down after a year or so for personal reasons. Throughout college I began to write short poems on my inner musings. After I got back from Africa, I was determined to publish my journal. I was "supposed" to have it done by last fall. I haven't gotten very far. I didn't make any New Years' writing resolution for fear that I would fail. But that doesn't keep keep me from the desire to write! But why, when I get the time, do I dread it?

I read an article today that inspired me a little. First, commit to write at least 150 words a day. If you write 350 words a day, you'll have a whole book within a year! Second, DON'T edit while writing! I've heard that before, but it's hard for me as I like things to be just perfect.

I sit in the little nook at my writing desk. Something distracts me from my work at hand, a nuisance...or an inspiration? The amber liquid in my delicate cup carries an aromatic fragrance with the steam. I write a word...then stop. What is it I am trying to get across to my readers? I breathe deeply, and my story spills out from me like the ink on my paper.

picture by Henriette Browne

The Dream Deferred

Right now I am scrambling for scholarships for graduate school. Most of the times it feels like I'm shooting in the dark. I mean, how many other people are entering the random drawing for $10,000? What am I up against? What are my chances? Who knows. But..I came across something that seemed right up my ally. It was a short essay scholarship about relations between America and the Middle East. Well, since that is exactly what I want to do, to be a sort of bridge between the two, I grabbed at it. The theme was to be centered around this poem, which was equally fitting for my life story. I thought you might enjoy it...

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up 

like a raisin in the sun? 

Or fester like a sore-- 

And then run? 

Does it stink like rotten meat? 

Or crust and sugar over-- 

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags 

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

-Langston Hughes, 1951