Little boy with your cheeks so pink
And your eyes so blue
Tell me what's new with you?
Little one with your rocket high dreams
Laughter bubbling in streams
Oh I'll miss you, I'll miss you I will

Please
Stay little forever
I don't know what I would do
I would do without the little you
Oh, please
I'll remember forever
How your hand fits right in mine
How you smile every time
Oh little you

Tiny child, by your parents torn apart,
I wish I could hold you in my arms; not my heart.
Unloved, unprotected, not held by loving hands;
Your demise is cheered on and upheld in this land.

Unloved, unwanted, torn and abused:
Cast aside for selfish pleasure, broken; confused.
They pursued their own lust and chased after their pleasure,
Not facing their sins but removing their treasure.

 You can also read this on my blog, http://lauraeandrews.blogspot.com

The Survivor

I am the survivor of an abortion. No, my mother did not try to abort me. So why do I say this? Here is why:

This was a paper I had to write for a literature class a while back based on the the following quote from Charles Krauthammer....

Hush little baby don’t say a word.

Momma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.

More than the sum of our thoughts
is our parallel December,
moving like a swordfish
under such inclement weather
We are but lonely beings when the wind comes,
to give us feathers

Less than the sum of a soul
is our parallel December,
cradled like an acorn
in such a deep and dark forever
We are but children sleeping when the wind comes,
to say, remember

More than the sum of our coins
is our parallel December,
crouching like a lioness
a tawny, starving mother

Someday, mother, I'll go North

I'll get me a pair

Of snowshoes

And skis

And that's the last

You'll see of me

I'll tell you what I'll do

When I get there

('Course I'll get there)

Do you think I'll run

Under that chilly

Midnight Sun?

Or maybe I'll just

Dig a tunnel

To Timbuktu

Or build an icy igloo

Maybe I'll find me

An Eskimo baby

Or a sled dog team

Perhaps I'll explore

And discover

A Northwest Pole

And be a Santa Claus

In archaic stones, imposing structure,
A simple soul lived under
The mantle of artists great,
Close to Mother's Heart.

Out the door this simple heart
With stringed instrument did depart
From the convent walls,
On her way to choir loft.

At the transept, on bended knee*
A child waited prayerfully.
Innocent and unseeing,
Her red dress like a warning sign.

Small feet guided upon the steps,
Closer to the Divine Princeps.**
Above the shrinking pews below
The simple soul set her.