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Lost

Popcorn.
the smell wafts amid cotton candy
and balloons floating
tethered by ribbon to 
the wrist of a five-year-old
girl who's other hand,
though sticky, is clutched
by her mother
navigating through crowds
summer sun warming an
open-concrete area
someone drops a piece of kettle corn
immediately it its trampled
by the never-ending flood of feet

a little girl, who's hands are not sticky
are not held by an overcautious mother
with wide eyes searches
the crowd, trying to process
to absorb all the people
she walks forward, unfocused
but for the sights and sounds
all that surround her.
A break in the crowd.
she turns around.
She is alone.
The crowd is still there
the thousands flow past
unconcerned
But the people she looks for
her people, where she belongs
have vanished.
She trusted they would be
just one step behind her
but on of the faces in the sea
of people comforted her
she looked left and right
for the meeting place
now occupied by a bounce house.
anxiety fills her tiny chest
this wasn't like when she
wandered off by the reptiles
just a moments glance to
find her people again
but here--
people just towered over her
hands shaking
she swallows tears and walks forward
following instructions to the letter
to tug on the shirt of the information booth
pronouncing she was in fact
lost.

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Max

Four blank walls
clutch corners
around a young boy
sitting on a clock.

A shard of glass
spins shimmering
in the air above him,
sending light-waves
skipping across
his face,

and each time
he reaches for it,
his hands bleed
on the whirling edges.

A door opens
behind him, blaring
blinding sun into
the room.

The grass-tides
roll in the
blanketing breeze,
and even the
daisies smiled,
and the trees…

The boy returns
to his seat and
waits for another hour.

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Children's poem

 

Never Frighten A Frog

 

Never frighten a frog,

Frighten a frog, frighten a frog

If you’re trying to get up close to one

Move carefully and slowly.

Frogs are very, very wary

And find children awfully scary.

 

To get to see a frog close up

As it’s lying in the sun,

Creep up on it stealthily

And never ever run.

 

You won’t see ears on a frog,

But they can hear all right.

Every snapping twig to them

Sounds like dynamite.

 

There used to be a lot of frogs,

But now there are just a few.

Waiting on their lily pads

To jump away from you!

 

Chris Brockman

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Atop this withered hill

that used to be grass and green,

waits the fox

for the prince

to come around

again.