When I was only three, and just a little tyke,

I got a piggy bank, and in the bright sunlight

I took it out upon the walk and Happily I played,

and then I dropped it where it broke, the self-same day.

Cradling my broken toy

I cried and

cried and

cried,

for the pretty broken gift;

for the little child, inside.

 

When I was only seven, my Mother had a calling,

She had to leave me home, which I found then appalling.

One tree in the front yard, a sapling growing there,

my arms thrown ’round in raging grief,

became mute anchor where

I cried and

cried and

cried,

for the small girls broken heart,

the little child inside.

 

When I was nearly ten, but not so very grown;

Father disapproved of the cleaning job I’d done.

So, I, in hurt amazement, declared I hated him.

Upon my legs, he then bestowed a reprimand

for disrespecting him.  He did it with his hand.

My legs stung sore all day,

and I cried and

cried and

cried,

for my father’s disapproval,

for the little child, inside.

 

When I was just sixteen, desiring to date,

I tried to fix myself so guys would never hate

the girl who read too much, but couldn’t speak her mind;

but all I found were boys who thought I was “that” kind.

I couldn’t fight the tears,

I cried, and

cried, and

cried,

when I found that I was still

just a little child inside.

 

When I was 27 and I’d had a chance to learn

that love can’t cure those souls who fix on hate and pain.

my smallest one, life, purpose gave when I was blue;

else life seemed not worth effort of staying through.

I held her close and rocked her

while I cried and

cried and

cried

The tears fell ever faster

with the newest child, beside.

 

When I was thirty-three, in love with life again

I met a man who seemed my kind, became good friends

and then, it seemed another life would grace my home,

but it was not to be, for loss was quick to come

while he was gone,

and I cried and

cried and

cried

for the one who wouldn’t be

my little child inside.

 

When I was thirty-eight, there was another one

Who promised that he loved me true; but it was pun

on me. The rube was fibbing with not one, but two.

Too late was found the lie, with child coming through.

I feared the promise, he would break,

pull out his stake;

and I cried, and

cried and

cried,

for trusting in false promise,

for the latest child, inside.

 

At forty-five I tried again, a promise, broken,

 to amend; to fix my desperate heart within.

To turn my gaze to better aims; choose Christ- like love

and virtue, seems a holier course, a finer trove

of treasure stored in easy reach of every hand.

Promised vows were breached again

And I cried and

cried and

cried

for every child-like bride

with nothing left inside.

 

At fifty-four, life had in store adventure bold,

another lifestyle to explore. Give up the old,

strike out anew, try mountain living once again.

Leaving shredded heart behind with lecherous man;

we took a gander once again with simpler things.

Left secret struggles in the past,

which came unhinged,

and I cried and

cried and

cried,

for what was left of pride,

of youngest child, beside.

 

 At sixty-one, take heart, for this is not the end.

New covenant made, His promises he will attend.

Fear nothing now. To every broken heart attest

Christ’s love is able, never doubt, to give you rest.

Peace that surpasses all understanding is found.

His love, by shattered life, not bound,

and I cried, and

cried, and

cried,

for compassion sound;

for the little child, inside.

 

I wish to give credit to my Creative Writing teacher, Ian Stansel, for his invaluable insights and encouragement. As he stated, no poem is finished on the first draft, I looked again at this one, and understood that it needed more stanzas. It was sadly beautiful before, but it was not finished, for my life went on from that point.  My life still continues, and I acknowledge the continuousness of the movements within it.

If you happen to come across another poem like this, that speaks of loss and sorrow at different ages, and ends at thirty-three, that’s probably my original. It may have been circulated by one of my living daughters, who also found it intensely touching.

© E.Maria Story and EMariaEnterprises, LLC  2012.

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