A Child's Prayer

I want a home

by Harmonie Roy

She has she

and he has he

But I have none,

none, but me.

I want a home

for my own.

And a family,

just for me.

But, alas,

I've been pushed and torn.

I've gone from home to home,

But, I guess I don't belong.

I call to my Maker,

I call to His name.

But, He doesn't answer,

So, I don't belong.

I grope one last time,

reaching for a hand.

If no one comes, then

I'll fall to no end.

Maybe a hand will shoot out

from the dark gray fog,

A hand might link onto my hand

And guide me to a distant land.

He is There

by Xiomara Roy

She has she

and he has he

if nothing else

you have me

Stuck in a house

with so many faces

so much commotion

and few quiet places

Pushed, poked

torn apart

quiet longing

for something more

Prayers sent, pleading to heaven

but there seems an iron curtain

Heavy, imposing, a mental block

leaving you lonely and lost

Patience, Patience

Peace, my child

wait on His timing

and Father will answer

You grope almost blindly

searching for help

reach just a little more

grasp the iron rod

I know life is hard

and it sucks to feel lonely

but trust me when I say

He always is watching

He loves you, you're precious

worth more than you know

You've got a fire, His light,

Burning deep in your soul

Trust Him, don't waver

Remember your purpose

I love you, He loves you

You're precious and worth it

You Have a Home

by Mom

She has she

and he has he

You have a home.

Just look and see.

Remember the love

and the light and the joy.

Stop looking beyond

all God has given you.

The books you read

have distorted your view.

They weave lives

not lived in reality.

What God offers

is worth more than gold.

But the world is enticing

and we may lose our way.

Jesus is mindful.

He wants to help.

But when you turn away,

there's not much He can do.

Trust in the plan.

The plan of salvation.

He wants to bring you home

but it requires your effort.

Be faithful, diligent, 

honest, and kind.

Jesus is your partner

so stay focused on Him.

The blessings of God

are eternal and glorious.

They are worth the struggle,

but they may be hard to see.

They aren't shiny, or earthly.

They require time and patience.

He will be with you

As you choose to follow Him.

Please don't let Satan

pull you into dark places.

You have a light to shine

if you'll only believe in yourself.

I love you 

so very much.

I'm sorry I struggle

to show it so you can feel it.

Be determined

as you continue to try

to follow your heart,

not the devils deceptions.

We are here for you.

Stop looking for others.

We want to be with you.

Join us on our journey.

Series

Just a note to make sure you read the next few in the correct order. Emily wrote a series of poems about RoseMarie's accident, which took place May 30, 2020. The first poem in the series is titled "Before - Fatigue" so go there first and then read them in order. I guess I could have put them all in the same post...

After - PTSD

Three old doors make a pyramid
in the firepit.

Odds and ends, loose papers,

dead branches that fell

after a big rainstorm,

it piles up - taller than me.

Mesmerizingly beautiful

flames lick the sky,

twisting and dancing,

reaching higher as if hoping

the air will taste fresher

up there. It might; after all,

the fire is so big that

we can't get much closer 

than fifteen feet before the heat

becomes too much.

So from a distance, we gaze

silently, in awe.

But a cold fist closes

over my heart when suddenly

I wonder: where is she?

I glance around, frantic,

remembering that this 

is the first time since...

I see again what I never saw:

slow-motion falling, like those videos

of trees that fall in the forest.

I hear again what I never heard:

that raw-throat screaming
with too much pain for tears.

My mind is filled with images

like an elevator

crammed full of people

jostling, shoving, uncomfortable,

until I see her

at least thirty feet away,

her back to the blaze,

unwilling to look --

too afraid.

I go to her and lift her up.

Featherweight, she clings

to me with her arms and legs

as if I am a floating log,

and she is drowning.

She trembles like a leaf, this child

who used to be so fearless,

so curious. She never used to 

hold on when she was held.

Hands are for pointing,

for reaching and grabbing,

but now she clings, and 

buries her face in my neck.

After - The Little Things

I almost cried
when I saw her lying there.
Sleeping peacefully,
long lashes resting
on her baby soft cheeks.
She was sucking her thumb,
just like she used to before.

I almost cried

when I passed her in the living room,

sitting on the couch,

looking at a book.

Her little bandaged fingers

turned the pages so easily,

so carelessly. As if

she'd forgotten that 

she wouldn't before.

I almost cried

when she took her spoon

away from me at dinnertime,

insisting, "I do it."

She scooped her food

and fed herself,

her fingers curling

- bandages and all - 

around the spoon,

like it was the most natural thing

in the world.

After - Changing Bandages #2

We're home, and they still
won't let me see her hands.
Our neighbor doesn't
have to help with bandages
now, and somehow it's not
the process it used to be.

                                                        Ow!
                                                        Holy Crap!

She's learning new words
and she talks matter-of-factly
as my brother tells stories,
distracting her from the gauze,
the sterile, ointment-soaked
strips of cotton that my mom
wraps around each tender finger.

                                                        I falled in the fire-pit and
                                                        burnt my hands.

Eventually they let me
help, using gummy scissors
to cut the cloth into
manageable strips. They smell
pungently of hospitals and
rubbing alcohol, chemicals
that don't belong in our house,
or anywhere near someone
as young as two years old.

                                                        She giv'd me em n'ems
                                                        cuz I brave!

After - Elbows

She doesn't want to use
her marshmallow hands, but
turning doorknobs is tricky
with only two points of contact.
Her elbows are a giant pair of chopsticks
reaching up over her head
to grab the doorknob.

Reading is tricky, too
because her elbows
don't have fingers
for turning pages.
She has to use
one big, fat chopstick
to lift - somehow - 
one page at a time.

They might as well
not be there, her hands.
She tucks them up
by her shoulders,
using her dimpled elbows
instead for everything.
She points with her elbows,
flushes the toilet with her elbows,
climbs into her chair with her elbows.
her hands are burned
and bandaged, so maybe
she's just pretending
they aren't there?

After - Changing the Bandages #1

Our next-door neighbor
came to help my mom
change the bandages while
Dad and the five oldest
siblings were away.

                                                    I don't want her
                                                    come over.

She writhes like an eel
on our neighbor's lap,
squirming and crying.
They tell her she's brave,
and she parrots it, with
tears streaming from her eyes,
cascading down her cheeks.

                                                    I brave, Mommy.
                                                    I so brave.

Every morning before
the other children are up,
and every evening after
the other children are in bed,
our neighbor comes to
do the dreadful deed.
Even a giant bag of 
M&M's doesn't regain
a two-year-old's favor.

                                                    She sit over there.
                                                    She not come over here!

After - More Waiting

It's a short drive to the hospital,
but still too long
for my mom's anxious nerves.
Baby sits in her car seat,
a wet towel on her hands.
Too much all at once is overload
sending her into shock - a mercy?
Not crying, just whimpering,
shaking like a leaf, and 
staring sightlessly straight ahead.

At covenant they gave her morphine,
wrapped her hands, and waited
two hours for an ambulance.
A family friend from church
was working in the ER that night
so he stopped in to give the baby a blessing.
More waiting, until mom, impatient,
decided to just drive
to the hospital with a burn unit
they wanted to send her to,
forty minutes away.
With narcotics on board, you'd think
nothing had happened.
She chattered like a squirrel
all the way to Hurley
where they did a debridement
to cut off all the dead, burned flesh,
then re-wrapped those little hands.

She picked up three
new stuffed animals that day:
a small, blue-green
beanie-baby bear, a sheep
(but the label said rabbit?)
with soft plush fur that didn't matter
because she couldn't feel it
through the bandages,
and a little brown horse
that sat like a dog and smiled.
They also gave her a little
patchwork quilt. She called it
her "Magic Carpet Ride"
and sang about it all the way home.

(Side note - the horse wasn't received until a later date when she went back for another debridement.)

The Event - Imagination

In my mind's eye I see her,
hands full, a marshmallow in each
to test their squishy softness
before stuffing them into her chubby cheeks.

Everything's sticky:
her hands, her face,
the front of her jacket,
even her hair
because it fell like a curtain
across her face until
she brushed it impatiently aside.

She marches
around the corrugated fire ring,
licking her fingers and mostly
just making a mess.
When she steps in a hole
in that uneven ground, her hands
come up to try and catch herself

as
she
f
        a
                l
                        l
                                s

Her hands sink
into the remnants of the campfire:
soft ashy white and
black glowing coals.

Someone is screaming.

Mom scoops her up pulls off her jacket and runs to the house through the doors and into the kitchen
turns on the cold water that's not cold enough because her hands her hands her hands are screaming.

Before - I Don't Like Waiting

Twelve hours.

I sit motionless, freed
from the pack, but not from my thoughts.
What was undefined is now known,
and I'm trying to digest.
I stare out the window without seeing
the tourist trap town
that had captivated us
when we passed it going
the other way. Now it is nothing
more than a blurry bit
of landscape passing by.

Eight hours.

We're listening to Dry Bar
on YouTube, trying to pass the time...
or trying to forget? I don't want
to remember, don't want to know,
don't want to think about
the horrific news, but it's like watching
a car accident and my thoughts
can't look away.
I draw lurid mental images
of something I didn't see, can't imagine.
Selfish, to laugh
when someone is suffering
so I try to picture it, but
I just don't know
what a child's hands look like
after they've been buried
in smoldering coals.

Two hours.

Have I slept?
I don't remember much of anything,
and the diesel engine's dull roar
is like a sound machine,
the constant noise numbing
the edges of my consciousness.
The uneven road rocks me
back and forth, the chatter
of my family is a lullaby,
coaxing me further and deeper into
sleep.

Before - Fatigue

The rain falls incessantly
on the hood of my raincoat
like a child tapping on a window:
persistent, loud, demanding attention.
It thunders through the trees,
hitting every leaf, every branch
on its way to the ground
where it becomes
mud - sucking on my boots
with every heavy step.

My companions are out of sight,
some ahead, some behind.
I am alone on the trail.
Just me and the rain, and
my backpack. Its straps dig roughly,
the pain has built gradually over
five days of the same weight
pressing into my shoulders, hips, and lower back.

That weight reminiscent
of the one on my mind,
a nagging, undefined disaster
that smolders, smokeless, out of sight.
An unscratchable itch, a heavy,
vague foreboding sense of something
gone badly awry - but what?

My thoughts are broken
by an exultant cry.
I lift my eyes with effort
and see the others waiting for me
at the tunnel's gaping mouth.
It extends through the darkness
to the light at the end. I'm almost there,
so I try to quicken my steps,
but my excitement is dampened
by the weight of the falling rain.
My plodding gait will not be hurried,
but I am coming. I'm coming.
At last.

by Emily Roy

(She wrote a series of poems in her poetry class at SVSU winter semester of 2022, about an event - Rosie's accident when she fell in the firepit and burnt her hands. She tells the story in a series of 9 poems and it's truly amazing. She captures details and emotions and truth. As horrible as the event was, I love the way she put these together and she is truly gifted, like her Grammy.)

Give Your All

"Give your all,"
Is the Savior's call.
The prophets say it too,
So let's give our all, me and you.

"Give your all,"
Is the Savior's call.
So just give your all,
Either big or small.

by Harmonie
(written after family scripture reading and general conference, Elder Uchtdorf, April 2022)

Bird bath

Flutter, Flutter
Splash, Splash, Splash
All these birds at the bird bath
Fight, Fight, Fight
Tweet, Tweet, Crow
Then they all fly away
But they'll be back tomorrow

by Harmonie

(she was just in the poem writing mood today)

Trees

Trees, Trees, those wonderful trees!
Shade me from the sun.
I'll sit on a bough in my favorite one
And I'll read 'til the day is done.

Trees, Trees, those wonderful trees!
With leaves red, gold, and brown.
They hold on in summer and spring,
But in Autumn, they all fall down.

by Harmonie

(written for school, The Good and the Beautiful, Level 5, Lesson 23)

Homophones

Homophones, homophones
All these words
They sound the same
Like some birds.

by Harmonie Roy

(written as part of school, The Good and the Beautiful, Level 5, Lesson20)

What's in a Name?

Industrious Spear King
The words strung together
Make a nonsense phrase,
But what do they mean?

Industrious means hard-working
But I don't live up to that.
I can work when it's necessary
Though I'd rather have fun...

But the two aren't mutually exclusive
And I know I am really not lazy.
I'm only imperfect and
I can always strive to improve.

A spear is a weapon.
I suppose I am that;
But nobody wields me,
I fight for myself.

But even then, perhaps
My spear is a better "pruning-hook".
I can do so much good
If I nurture and shape, tend and inspire.

Then there is king.
I am most proud of this name,
But it wasn't given to me;
I inherited it - what is my claim?

Not every man with a title
Is well-remembered.
My blood is common, but I can choose
To be noble in spirit and heart.

My parents chose my names, but
I don't think they knew the meanings.
The second is a family name, but the first
Was just a syllabic sequence.

What does a name say
About a person?
I am tied to my names,
But not to their meanings.

Every word, every language
Has pre-prescribed meanings,
But a person cannot be contained
By these words.

Head, arm, and heart, but
People are more
Than the sum of their parts
What is a soul? - - words can't say

On the surface my name
Means industrious,
Means spear,
Means king.

But these cannot define me.
Underneath it all, I am...
Whoever I choose to be.

By Emily Roy

(Written for a poetry class at SVSU winter 2022, this is the 3.0 version of the poem)