Sophia White

Rookie ('90 / America)

Sophia White Poems

161. Rewind 10/22/2006
162. Ria's Pool 5/26/2006
163. S Is For Sad 9/13/2006
164. Sea Of Time 3/2/2007
165. Sharp Rocks 3/9/2006
166. Shatter 11/15/2006
167. She Saw A Man On Television 5/28/2006
168. Sieze The Day 6/8/2006
169. Slay Without A Qualm 8/25/2007
170. Small Men 6/24/2006
171. Smallest Season 3/23/2006
172. So Strange A Dream 7/23/2007
173. Something About A Forest 3/3/2006
174. Song Of Roth 5/26/2006
175. Song Of Rusviel 5/26/2006
176. Sparring 8/23/2006
177. Sparring Ii 8/28/2006
178. Spiderwebs 6/21/2006
179. Stolen Kiss 11/29/2006
180. Succor 1/18/2007
181. Superhero 5/29/2006
182. Sweet Muse 7/29/2006
183. Take Me To Where The Music Comes From 3/7/2007
184. Tangible 5/31/2006
185. Tears Fill The Earth 12/1/2006
186. Tearstained Angels 3/29/2006
187. Tempting 7/8/2006
188. That Bitter Truth 7/11/2007
189. The Beautiful 7/17/2006
190. The Constant Wolf 5/10/2006
191. The Cows And I 3/16/2006
192. The Doomed Student 2/26/2007
193. The Girl With Stars In Her Eyes 8/28/2006
194. The Great Purple (Ersatz) Limericks 7/21/2006
195. The Humanist 7/21/2007
196. The Kids Next Door 5/31/2006
197. The Land Behind (Or) I Can See 5/14/2006
198. The Lighthouse Beacon 5/12/2006
199. 'The Lot Of The Poet' 4/24/2007
200. The Making Of Kites 7/29/2006
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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