There is a poem

There is a poem whispering in the wind
Waiting to be heard, but if only.
If only we’d listen;
Listen to the poem written;
Waiting to be written by the bruises in the skin of the little bare-footed
Runny-nosed
Tear-stained face girl

There is a poem speaking
Screaming out
To you and I and we and us
Speaking in a voice unfamiliar to us
So we don’t hear caz we believe not in unfamiliarity
So the poem speaks and speaks and speaks
Yet never heard

There is a poem on the fingers of the little boy
Who steals to satisfy his hunger
For food
But love also
And acceptance and
Security

There is a poem on the lips of the speechless
On the eyelids of the sightless
There’s a poem traveling through the ba-ba-baas of the babies
And the ha-ha-haas of those dubbed crazy.

There is a poem lurking on the faces of the old man
Or woman
Who resides on the side- of the road; of life-
On the side of what you and I call normalcy

But there is a poem
Somewhere
Crying for the end of normalcy that neglects
Normalcy that cares
Not

There’s a poem stuttering on the tongue of the woman
Beaten, battered, bruised
In the name of love


There is a poem
Somewhere
Everywhere
There is poem
For you and I and we and us
And if not for
It’s in
Caz there’s a poem
In you and I and we and us
Waiting to be written;
Waiting to be heard.