Sophia White Poems

Take me to where the music comes from
To its very basest root or central core,
Where the beginning of every song is living
The matriarch of every rolling score.
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The last page is turned over, and there is silence,
As you sit still, blinking in a sorrowful confusion.

Dull and senseless; tottering drowsily
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So much time spent seeking
Not enough time for faith.
If I don’t stop looking
I’ll never find the way.
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They fill my every shelf and every basket.
My sock drawer holds more of them than socks.
My closet overflows with them – I cannot open the door
Without getting a toe or two smashed by their fall.
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Is all well? Is all well?
Why so silent rest the bells?
There is no one to tell,
As I sit, a shudder quell.
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To speak in paragraphs is fine,
I suppose some find it best.
But to conjure measured rhyme
That throbs with hearts and paces time,
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Through two doors.
Rows of books.
Swinging door.
Eleven to pause.
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Bending, leaning, bearing up so many years,
Looking to fall – but stronger than stone!
By the stony brook, he stands alone.
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I was here.
There you were.
You a him,
I a her.
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Oh, they are so cruel! They are so cruel!
How can such hate as this exist?
Oh God, dear God, dear mighty God,
How can you let it be?
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