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If I could get over this I’d jump as high as a mountain, up and over
If I could write it out of me, write a few lines and whisk away the pain
I’d smear ink, I’d chicken scratch years of scorn and mocked name calling
And I’d get over it.
If I could stand up and walk away
If I could just walk away I’d do so in a heart beat
But right now my heart beats to one slow tune
The sound of your voice telling me how much my pain burdens you.

Milwaukee, age 12
inside Morton's Pride
November 25th, 2006

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Copyright 2006 @ Sundrip Journals. All rights reserved.

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Tiny Bowl Cramped Fish

Is there a space big enough to contain my every worry or fear? Is there a container large enough to hold dreams with endless possibilities? Will there be a waterproof bowl that will count my tears as they fill, be careful to not let them overflow. Will there ever be a container, a house, a home to hold all of this together and still let me breathe a sigh of relief?

Austin

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A person in need of healing stands on the face of a broken clock knowing it is past time to heal, waiting is no longer an option.Copyright 2006 @ Sundrip Journals All rights reserved

The pocket watch is an old tarnished thing I've had for years but I keep it around because even time hasn't erased the symbolism. I no longer put in fresh batteries so it is frozen at exactly 10:30PM and 42 seconds. Although the arms have stopped moving and the watch mechanics have seized in place my pace towards healing has neither slowed nor come to a halt.

Version Two

My Time To Heal by F. Magdalene Austin

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Image copyright © Sundrip Journals

Flowers and Cans: This is the original version the other two have stone effects on them. Click the images to make them larger. They look much better larger. With the compact view here they look darker but the dark you're seeing is actually the stone markings.
Image copyright © Sundrip Journals

Stone with frame.
Image copyright © Sundrip Journals

Art by: F. Magdalene

All images are © to Sundrip Journals. All rights to the images on this site and on all Sundrip Journals belong exclusively to the artist. No use of the images or poetry, commercial or non-commercial is permitted without written consent from the author and artist. The purchase of art does not transfer the right of reproduction to the purchaser.

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Image copyright © Sundrip Journals

After 5 days straight of Midwestern rain we finally got our rainbow.

Rainbow Child

Title: Rainbow Child
Media: Graphic art, chalk over charcoal
Primary colors:
Periwinkle blue, powder pink, soft yellow
Accents:
floral greens, brown skin tone
Cost:

No longer available for purchase.

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Encircled by rocks and drunk men that have no teeth
Surrounded by cans and litter and people of the street.
Embedded in stone as thick as the heart of a man who once knew where the rainbow would end
Stands the tallest, most radiant, most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
A sunflower, reaching to the sunset, high above the smog of the city.
Few children can play without stumbling across
The drugs that keep their parents poor
Or the biting dogs that fight in pins and give their life only to risk it again just to lose.
It is frightening when the sun goes down and the music is turned up high.
High the same as emotions pumped with despair and flattened hopes
Of ever moving away from here.
Making ends meet with the power of green forces choices we'd never have settled with before.
Or taking chances that leave us naked and bare of the only thing that cant be taken away,
Only pillaged for a momentary gain
The dignity to show ourselves in the light of coming days.
All we know is there must be some reason that we keep pushing forward.
Maybe the only stone that holds us strong is the street beneath us
Where natures green breaks through with its own longing to be.
In the midst of gun battles, turf wars, street walkers and blood filled tears
Stands a sunflower reaching high above the smog of a weary hearted city.
Refusing to throw away what life it has left.
Refusing to hide under concrete and urban warfare.
It will grow.
It will stand.
Because it wills.

My grandmother remembers when the men where little boys
And the little girls with pickles and peppermint played hopscotch on the walk.
And Daddy came by to catch the end of the late night blues on an old hand radio.
It was safe then, to sit on the porch if it was too hot inside.
She has grown old and her days draw to a close.
Grandmamma tells me to remember the lessons she taught me on that porch.
Remember the sunflower she says.
The same flower that was planted some 30 years back and has come forward every year
To serve as a symbol that anything can grow against all odds
Against all reason
If we just believe.
What greater proof that the impossible can be
Than an urban Sunflower, standing tall in the morning sun, above the smog of the city.
There is one final Sunday dinner spread with an aroma masking the desperate times.
Fried chicken in rot iron skillets, hot water cornbread and greens,
Sweet potato pie and oyster dressing.
The aroma offers one small moment before a legacy is lost.
The sun will settle and the night will move in
Grandmamma will pass but we will never forget
The lessons of the sunflower in stone as
This certainty of her last breath sweeps across a grieving urban home.

Austin

This is poem is not based on my own experience but it is someone else's true story. The details in this poem are points shared with me by old friends and new ones. None of this belongs to me but I put it all together after being inspired by a sunflower growing a hopeless street. I was driving by a really bad neighborhood and saw a sunflower standing in the middle of all that chaos. I had to write about it.

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All rights reserved

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