Sophia White Poems

The more you leave in the cupboard,
The more you will have tomorrow.
‘Cause once you’re out, you’re done,
You can’t buy or beg or borrow.
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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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Walking down the cobbled street,
Wondering distantly how old those stone were
And looking with disinterest at the cathedrals,
And the columns and arches that rise
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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 move in flocks.
Like geese or like chickens.
Clucking to themselves,
Cackling with laughter.
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And the best part is –
Now that the mixing is over,
Now that the mixture is poured,
The mold is set in place, and filled,
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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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