I gave my Poetry-writing students this assignment this week and a couple of them asked if I could post their poems.
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The Letter C
Easy to mold like dough in the
hands of the chef.
Sometimes soft and silent.
C is usually a harsh letter,
cutting the tongue, sneakily
carving away one’s hopes with words
like cancer and casualties,
picking at dreams as if they were carcasses
on which the vultures and
leaving the survivors to contemplate
the quality of life of the deceased.
They find themselves empty
like a cast that has no cracked bones to support;
just a body with broken soul to contain.
C is the chief of containing bad news,
the master of chaos;
coming and going as it pleases,
living not to calm the feared
but to warn the careful,
to whisper to those who care
enough to listen.