Sun in my Pocket

Always be grateful for the little things because you never know someone else's experiences.

I felt the sand come in my one good eye.

I rubbed and rubbed with my free hand, no avail.

Instead, I had pierced skin that was once dry.

Whilst the bundle in my right arm started to wail.

 

She was hungry. I told her I have nothing to give.

And looked at the chaos before us, the screaming and gore.

This promise of ‘peace’ I could not forgive.

She keeps on wailing. Taking care of her is such a chore.

 

Suddenly, I heard a deafening roar, a bursting clap.

Rubble and heaps of stone are raining down on us.

Clutching her tighter, I run, turn right then left. Wait, there, a gap!

I muster all my strength to kick the cracked window. We’re, in a bus.

 

Its’ seats are shoddy but they’re warm against the bitter wind.

I lay her down beneath the windows, and pick at the seats’ fluff.

I swath her stubby red toes and hands with the stuffing I could find.

And swaddle her in her blankets. Bundled up, she looks like a cream puff.

 

My stomach at this moment gnarls. Neither she nor I have eaten in so long.

You’ll be safe here, I whisper to her, I will be back.

Her eyes warm as if she understands my pains. For her, I will be strong.

I crawl out of the window into a day that’s nearing pitch black.

 

I need to be careful, but I’ll make do.

The butchers’, markets, and homes; everyone’s gone.

Nothing and no one is here save for a randomly worn out woman’s shoe.

I stuff it into a bag I found near the market. She might need it and allow myself one yawn.

I am exhausted from searching. My body is blistered and sore.

I still need to find food. Wait, why didn't I think about it before- the alleys.

I claw through the trash, digging deeper into the dumpsters in search of something more.

That’s when I see it �" beneath the torn bags. An ore of burning gold from the valleys

 

Its skin taut. It’s not too soft nor too hard.

And I remember climbing trees and falling because I slipped on a branch trying to reach for the skies.

I inhale its ripeness, sweet yet sour, the taste of life, a life before we were scarred.

I am nostalgic for helping my father work the fields, earning his praise and hearty chuckle as a prize.

 

I remember my mother’s voice warning me about the pips.

I look at it, this ore of burning gold, at the palm of my hands.

It is comforting to know that even in this war and turmoil, there are blips.

It’s bright like dawn as it breaks over the lands.

 

The fire in the sky.

I have it in my pocket!

I feel lighter, and renewed hope sings into me.

I have the sun in my pocket! 

Reviews

[Lizardo]

It's really good, the last stanza could stand for a poem itself!
Although its long, it carries an honest message throught it.
Nice poem you have here, good work!