pauline's profile

These withered hands that built the Earth Are cupped to offer all their worth To we Young Buds who come from birth; Into a world of strife and sin Of trees that rattle in the wind To shake the old leaves down So to cast them on the ground While young buds sleep safe and sound In cradles of blissful ignorance; Blanketed by sheer innocence Into leaves we young buds grow However, little do we know, As those old leaves are drying brown We just neglect to hear the sound Of their voices Rustling in...

The Sun rises on a Sunday morning and so begins a day of mischief and tomfoolery as my mother awakens my sister and me for church. Her strong Kenyan accent wafts into my bedroom door through the keyhole. “Wake up,” she demands. I’m usually awake for about a half hour before she comes to the door but I don’t get out of bed until I hear her voice, it’s the only way I can be sure the world is safe. We’re in the car and on the way to church and my mother turns down the radio which is tuned to FM...

I wake up still dreaming of the day our hearts will be acquianted through our hands and by the end of the day, the fantasy is stretched and torn at the seams I think about your eyes, how they remind me of the sky on a cloudless day and on that day I stand outside looking up at the heavens, grasping for the oppurtunity to gaze directly into the sun It seems impossible but everytime my eyes get near; I shut them. - and i dream of you again

I slam my front door in a livid rage just to escape my mother and sister’s incessant arguing. Blinking back tears I observe the indigo heavens through eyes the color of black coffee, the kind often served to forlorn patrons as an antidote for a tough night in the meekest of diners. A pallid moon glares back at me as a worker does, taking the night shift begrudgingly. Its tired glow gives the night a cerulean blush. I take a deep swig of the icy, December night air and exhale. My breath slices...