The Weight of A Rock

These are the words to the 24" X 28" poster collage that I made out of magazine cuttings that visually display my poem  "The Weight of A Rock". I personally feel the visual poem has more impact than the plain printed one, however, not as easy to read in smaller size. Each letter was selected for best effect. I did not use letters just because they fit. There are secrets to the poster I will include on another blog. This is my most important piece of work because I revealed my 'self'.

The child with pigtails in her hair,
Dimples on both cheeks,
She ran, she jumped, she laughed,
With playful childhood glee.

She filled her days with baby dolls,
Made circles on the ground,
Played marbles and jumped hopscotch squares,
She was a little clown.

Too young right now for worries,
Her innocence was flaunting,
Til one day the child was given,
A rock to carry, not of her wanting.

"This rock, it is so ugly.
In my pocket it shall hide.
But it really is quite heavy."
In silence the child cried.

It seemed to be an enchanted rock,
For blank pages her life it drew,
Still every day she carried it,
And the little child grew.

She wrote poems that were unfinished,
Her 'self' they might betray,
Beautiful drawings and painted pictures,
She carefully tucked away.

She could not see their beauty,
"For they were only done by me."
Alone the rock she carried,
And hoped no one could see.

Then one day looking at the rock,
She saw that it was cracked,
It was never magic, yet it held,
The life that she had lacked.

Invisible years had passed her by,
Now she had fear it was too late,
This rock she had to bury,
She could no longer bear the weight.

Standing by the water's edge,
She threw with all her might,
For a moment others saw her rock,
Til it sank out of sight.

Alone she stood there crying,
It was not the rock that she bereaved,
But the death of a little child,
That no one else had grieved.

The rock had left a mighty dent,
An empty void she had to face,
As an adult, those childhood years,
That she could not replace.


[Written in forgiveness in 1990. I saw my father a few months later and he looked surprised that when departing, I kissed his cheek. It was less out of love and more out of honor. Nevertheless, I'm glad I did so. Not long after that day I received a telephone call that he had been in an accident. Because of that kiss, I had closure. I'd forgiven him, but I can never forget. I say that not because I think about the 'rock' and dwell on it [which I can't anyway -thats on another blog] but because of the residue it left behind.]