WHERE DREAMS ARE MUDPIES

A little girl sits behind her home
Lost among honeysuckle
Gardenias
And a rose.

It’s early eve,
this haven she awaits,
to sit in quiet

~waves of scents, surreal~

~nightmares now dreams, no one can hurt her, no more does she feel~

The mud from a corn field
Sloshed between toes
She folds little rocks, pebbles
Into her masterpiece ~
Of which only she knows.

A child’s heaven,
to escape the dark inside
No one to turn to
They’ve all said she had lied.

Yet inside that trailer,
The one they call home ~
Her childhood was nightmares,
No one to turn to, she’s always alone,

~save for pebbles in mudpies,

gardenias,

a rose.

Lisa O’Hara

 

The little girl is one who is so very close to my heart, for she and I are one.  Even at 54 years of age, I recall the mudpies, the scent of honeysuckle that my taste buds inhaled, and gingerly, I would pick each one and the nectar would sweeten my life.  Today, I am working with those children, who,  too, are making mudpies as they forge through the fates that beseige their innocence.  My recollection of myself is so clear, as I see the neglect they suffer and the staff with whom I work so brilliantly, dedicatedly strive to bring a smile to a face that has valleys engrained at such tender ages of salty tears lines their cheeks.  No one can know this child but one who has been that child and I dedicate, as the school year comes to an end, a blessing of honeysuckles to soothe their nerves, mudpies to occupy their creative minds and the fresh green grass blades that tickle their toes.  May their childhood be restored, behind their trailer, if you will, and let them be quiet inside and hear their God guiding them, as did I. 

 

Bless these children, with each heartbeat, as not only is their God looking after them, but we MUST, as a society, not turn our heads, but turn our hearts and wisdom we’ve earned and guide them, to the best of our ability.