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	<title>The Pedestrian Poet &#187; age</title>
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	<description>Everyday a new poem, story, or photo telling the story of humanity</description>
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		<title>Winter&#8217;s Embrace</title>
		<link>http://www.multer.com/people/monica/2010/winters-embrace/</link>
		<comments>http://www.multer.com/people/monica/2010/winters-embrace/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 16 Dec 2010 23:51:28 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>monica</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[age]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[cold]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[death]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[loss]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[protector]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[sleep]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[winter]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[youth]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.multer.com/people/monica/?p=2713</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I am tired now let me sleep The little girl says in a voice scarred By winters claws in her throat Not yet, not quite yet Our feet drag in the snow Her little hand held loosely in my own If I can not feel my own hand How am I supposed to keep track [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p style="text-align: center;"><em>I am tired now let me sleep</em><br />
The little girl says in a voice scarred<br />
By winters claws in her throat<br />
<em> Not yet, not quite yet</em><br />
Our feet drag in the snow<br />
Her little hand held loosely in my own<br />
If I can not feel my own hand<br />
How am I supposed to keep track of hers<br />
I feel her hands slipping frequently<br />
From within my grasp<br />
To hang limp by her sides<br />
They drag her down<br />
She is so little<br />
So fragile I have to take care of her<br />
But even as I think this<br />
I feel my eyelids dragging too<br />
We are dying<br />
And I know this<br />
I wonder if she knows too</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">We keep moving<br />
One foot in front of the other<br />
Trudging through this desolations<br />
To a destination unknown<br />
I have no answers for her<br />
Just empty reassurance<br />
That soon the answer will come<br />
Who knows maybe a flaming chariot<br />
Will come from the sky<br />
In a flourish of warmth<br />
That will thaw our tired bones<br />
Or not.<br />
Nevertheless we keep moving</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She falls to her knees beside me<br />
I barely notice in my own fogginess<br />
<em> I am going to take a nap<br />
</em> She says in a voice now more than a whisper<br />
That echoes in my ears like a scream<br />
<em> No</em>.<br />
I say forcing my way through the snow<br />
To reach down and rouse her<br />
She has curled up in the snow<br />
Like a kitten next to a warm fire<br />
There seems no difference<br />
She looks so peaceful as she closes her eyes<br />
I shake her, yell at her<br />
Tell her she can’t die<br />
I have to protect her<br />
Keep her safe and alive<br />
But she is gone now<br />
Curl up in Winter’s embrace<br />
Leaving me in this winter wasteland<br />
Alone.<br />
So devastatingly alone</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I kneel in the snow<br />
Unable to move<br />
Not willing to die<br />
But not strong enough to live<br />
Where does that leave me<br />
I pet her soft hair<br />
And say goodbye<br />
I have to continue on<br />
Alone if must be<br />
So I left her behind<br />
She belonged to the winter<br />
Not mine any more<br />
I screamed in silence<br />
Because there was no one left to hear<br />
This desolation this utter fear<br />
It was the first time I had felt anything<br />
Since this terrible winter of silence began<br />
And it was the last feeling I ever had<br />
As Winter pulled me in<br />
And left me hollow and cold inside<br />
I died with her<br />
Long ago in the snow<br />
Yet here I am still moving<br />
But who am I now?</p>
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		<item>
		<title>High Chair</title>
		<link>http://www.multer.com/people/monica/2009/high-chair-2/</link>
		<comments>http://www.multer.com/people/monica/2009/high-chair-2/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 04 Nov 2009 15:04:15 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>monica</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[age]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[chair]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[store]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.multer.com/people/monica/?p=917</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Empty store A TV. On mute It feels so empty In a corner A high chair sits Covered in dust Long forgotten I wonder Was it ever used Did a child So loved Once sit in it Now gone Blue with colorful Cotton candy designs Where is the baby Did tragedy strike To steal it [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p style="text-align: center;">Empty store<br />
A TV. On mute<br />
It feels so empty<br />
In a corner<br />
A high chair sits<br />
Covered in dust<br />
Long forgotten<br />
I wonder<br />
Was it ever used<br />
Did a child<br />
So loved<br />
Once sit in it<br />
Now gone<br />
Blue with colorful<br />
Cotton candy designs<br />
Where is the baby<br />
Did tragedy strike<br />
To steal it away<br />
From it’s loving parents<br />
Plucked like a flower<br />
Cut down before its prime<br />
Feathers floating<br />
Softly to the ground<br />
Did an angel take it away<br />
Or perhaps<br />
The child just<br />
Grew up<br />
The chair<br />
Just unneeded and unnecessary<br />
As a child<br />
Grows to big<br />
For it’s former joy<br />
Growing apart<br />
From all it<br />
Ever knew and loved<br />
The child was taken<br />
Away from it’s chair<br />
Because it no longer needed<br />
A baby’s chair<br />
So now<br />
So empty<br />
A blue high chair sits<br />
With cotton candy designs<br />
In a corner<br />
Forgotten<br />
Gathering dust</p>
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