Anna Nowosielski
Home School (Hatboro)

Where poetry hides

"A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a love
sickness." - Robert Frost

Somewhere in my great-grandmothers unopenable locket, laced with roses.
In the leather bound journal, that I'd rather not open.
Deep in the heart of the lone Buddha.
In the skilled hands of my lost friend, being the one of us brave enough to place her
world on paper.
Under the peeling wallpaper in my bedroom, and I still hope there will be secrets hidden
beneath it.
In my strange musical selection.
In the secret September glen.
In the leaky watering can that we never returned.
In the old plastic house I used thrive in.
In delicate bubbles blown by my sister.
Along the electrical cords where the squirrels run.
In my mother's faded ballet shoes.
In the creases of the rain soaked yoga mat, that we never bothered to bring in.
In my attic, inhabited by a mirror.
Beneath the broken heart tree.
In Juilet's golden curls, as she wishes for another name.
Tangled in my laundry basket.
Squeezed between my ever-growing pile of books.
In the warm arms of the mall Santa.
In the sarcastic smirk of my brother.
In a over stuffed jewelry box.
In regretful sighs.
In unsent letters.
In tightly woven intertwined fingers.
In the whispers of a closely guarded secret.
Between the perfect folds of an old breezy dress.
In the tears of a boy with scarred wrists.
In the promises of a girl with her fingers crossed.
Lying beside the pale child, whose mother struggles to realizes she won't be a parent
In the gravestone that reads, 'I tried my best'.
In a abandoned pair of sneakers by the highway.
In the feeling of spreading warmth you get from that first swallow of soup.
Wrinkled in the yellowing pages of 'The Prince's Tale'
In innocence.
Glowing in the warmth of blazing fire, when smiling is truly inevitable.
Shining in the rain, that gives me excuse to stay in and read.
Dancing across the fingers of the broken-hearted musician, as he pours his pain onto
the keys.
Dangling in the tattered dream catcher, forever protecting the sleeping from night
In the old church basement that is always pleased to breathe again when we walk in,
and never fails to sleepily murmur, "Welcome home." As I gently open the door.