Sophia White

Rookie ('90 / America)

Sophia White Poems

1. Promise Kept 3/3/2006
2. When Words Fail 3/3/2006
3. Composed At 10: 15 Friday Night 3/3/2006
4. The World Of The Toothless Alligators 3/5/2006
5. How Bright! 3/3/2006
6. Water Spoons 3/6/2006
7. Sharp Rocks 3/9/2006
8. Porcupine 5/10/2006
9. Art 5/10/2006
10. Pride 5/10/2006
11. The Constant Wolf 5/10/2006
12. To Ellen And Sarah: Friends Of Yesterday 5/10/2006
13. Vague 5/10/2006
14. Mother 5/11/2006
15. The Lighthouse Beacon 5/12/2006
16. I Cannot 5/12/2006
17. To Be Sure 5/12/2006
18. Three Mice Who Hoped 5/12/2006
19. Mother's Day Bouquet 5/12/2006
20. The Land Behind (Or) I Can See 5/14/2006
21. A Study In Murder 5/25/2006
22. Song Of Rusviel 5/26/2006
23. Song Of Roth 5/26/2006
24. Za'Anaia, Warrior Queen 5/26/2006
25. All Praise Saphilora 5/26/2006
26. These Past Few Nights 5/26/2006
27. Ria's Pool 5/26/2006
28. Alas 5/26/2006
29. The Poet, On Seeing A Mess, Groans: 5/27/2006
30. The Poet, While Hiding In Some Closet, Gloats: 5/27/2006
31. Mask Maker 5/27/2006
32. The Painted 5/27/2006
33. Essence 5/15/2006
34. Heroica 5/21/2006
35. The Three Quills 5/24/2006
36. Superhero 5/29/2006
37. Dilemma 5/29/2006
38. The Poet, On Losing Her Mind, Laments: 5/31/2006
39. Goodbye Stewie, Enjoy Hawaii 5/31/2006
40. I Don'T Want To Be Here 5/31/2006
Best Poem of Sophia White

Dare I Hope?

Dare I hope to hope?
Is it safe? Is it right?
Am I hoping for nothing
But a black and empty night?

Hope should make me happy.
I should laugh, sing, and dance
Because I am hoping. Right?
Ha! Not a chance.

How is it that hope can leave me
Trembling in the darkness?
How is it that something so “good”
Should leave me feeling helpless?

Dare I hope to hope?
What difference does it make?
Fate will be fate in the end,
It will either “make or break.”

Does Fate regard my hope?
Does She listen? Or care?
Am I shooting for a ...

Read the full of Dare I Hope?

Something About A Forest

There’s just something about a forest
That makes the turbulent soul fall still
And listen to the mournful dirge
Of the solemn whipporwhill.

There’s just something about a forest
That makes closed eyes want to look
At the rippling, tippling kaleidescope
Of the steady-flowing brook.

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