Name: Lamar Crawford
Occupation: Junior @ Mansfield University
Major: English/Black Studies

The Lonely Child

I walked into a dark room with no light.
There was a little boy in the corner;
he was balled up in fetal position,
his face
hidden by his knees.

Beneath him lay a pool of tears.
I walked over to him and lifted his chin;
his eyes
leveled mine,
and I saw myself.

Independence

I was a boy of six or seven
taking a walk through the park with my mother
she smothered my little palm in her
superior hand
I let go of her overpowering grip

Mucous started to build up in my throat
so I released it onto
the growing greenness of nature
a lady walked by with a look of disguise
on her face

My mother
noticing this
had turned and slapped my face
I looked at her in awe
the earth stood still in silence

Then as she turned back around
to walk forward
I bent my head down
and spit
again

The Oak Tree

They called him Oak
yes, that was his name
named after the same tree
from which he was hanged
his expression was void of any pain
a grin shaped his lips and
his cheeks were raised
he was the doll of a ventriloquist
the only thing hanging down was his neck

His double knotted shoelaces were looped
upward
the collar on his shirt was raised
upward
and outlining the back of his hairline
the hands on his watch were pointed
upright
12:00 PM
his kinky hairs were wires pointing
upward
as if signaling to a satellite
even the leaves on the tree were growing
upright
attempting to reach new heights

But why was the Oak's neck sagged
downward
and his face showed no sign of fright
what a strange chestnut he was hanging from
the Oak tree

Oak was even
       up
when he was
       down
They called him Oak
yes, that was his name
named after the same tree
from which he was hanged
his expression was void of any pain

The Widow of 1945

she sits on her porch
alone with her dog
waving to everyone that passes by

she says hello to everyone
alone on her porch
while they look at her with curious eyes

her husband died a POW
she talks about him all the time

he was an American spy
tortured by German soldiers

she reads the letter of her husband's death
I smell pain and loneliness leak from her breath

Nevertheless
she sits on her porch
alone with her dog

waving to everyone that passes by
without a single tear in her eye

Mother

When the roses grow beautifully,
then it is in my mother's eyes that it grows.
Her smile is that of an angel,
pure and white.
Her face is that of a goddess,
elegant and precious.
Her voice, the sound of humming birds in love,
each sound soothing the soul.
And her life,
her children!