Sophia White

Rookie - 3 Points ('90 / America)

Sophia White Poems

241. Color Me! 3/29/2006
242. An Angel And A Violet - In The Garden 6/5/2006
243. Fingerprints 6/6/2006
244. A Woven Web Of Light 5/25/2006
245. A Song 6/2/2006
246. A Child's Dream 5/8/2006
247. Paper Airplane 10/22/2006
248. Darklings 5/12/2006
249. To The Storyteller 3/2/2006
250. A String Of Simile 4/16/2007
251. Something About A Forest 3/3/2006
252. Dare I Hope? 3/6/2006

Comments about Sophia White

  • Dickson Mseti Dickson Mseti (4/26/2010 4:31:00 AM)

    POETS HAVE ONE THING IN COMMON. LOVE FOR THE PEOPLE AND THEY ARE LIKE SOLDIERS IN WAR.THEY RESCUE EACH OTHER, HELP EACH OTHER AND DIE FOR THE WHOLE COMMUNITY.THANK YOU FOR BEING A POET.

    6 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Brian Dorn Brian Dorn (2/26/2007 3:07:00 PM)

    Sophia, your poetry is so good it makes it difficult to comment piece by piece. Instead, your gift for words instills an urgency to read on and on. In my opinion, the mark of great poetry. You have an amazing talent... you are destined for greatness.
    Brian

  • Goldy Locks (7/8/2006 1:40:00 AM)

    Sophia White is a passionate, beautiful writer. Her delicate pictures combine
    clarities & understandings—aspiring for her youth. Long live her poems! Sus x

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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