...please readd? ok, this poem is based on the ending of the most incredible, captivating book I have ever read. It is a true story, and it had me in tears. The book is called "Children on the oregon trail"
It is about a family of about five youngish children, who are to make the oregon trail with the rest of their people. But their parents both die, and so the oldest child, John, 13, takes his siblings.. the youngest being a baby, Indepentia, accross the oregon trail himself. Except they go not in the direction of everyone else to find the new west, but their own way, to go and find this house where a couple live and they can be their parents.
He takes them there, and it is the THE most painful journey you could ever read about. They are all practically dying in the heat, and the endless months of walking, and their animals die. John has the toughest job, being the oldest sibling, hr grows so desperate to keep them alive that he acts like a parent himself, and gets really stern and hits them and things.
But they make it in the end, and they beg and plead the couple to be their parents. So they agree, but Indepentia is near death, and so the woman brings her back to life somehow, she holds a mirror over her mouth to see her breath, and she lives.
she's called INdepentia because she was baptised on idependence rock
In real life the children's new parents got killed by native americans, but that wasn't in the book.
Anyway, here is my poem
Indepentia
The small, dark circle of her benumbed, absent breath,
A mosaic of flaky blood, blackened in the dust.
Veering in her infant thoughts, upon the pale road of death,
Smooth, pebble eyelids, perfectly still beneath her bust.
She had peeled back the rough, brown rug,
That ground her flesh into a grain of fear.
Safe in near death, in eternities brief hug,
Down her sore, broken cheeks... flows a blossoming tear.
The woman draped her across her knee,
A saviours hand that held her dark head.
Life would not work, from it she might flee,
Swinging in a bag, from the ox, she bled.
And now she lies as would a battered doll,
With an old, square mirror that hovers over her mouth.
Waiting, waiting. For the revival of a soul,
From the wretched, endless journey into the awaited south.
And then, and then! The woman had a daughter,
For forth from Indepentia's lips came a raw, rasping wail.
The imprint of a birds foot, either side of her eyes, brimmed water,
An inflamed, kindled screech that echoed through the dale.
It is about a family of about five youngish children, who are to make the oregon trail with the rest of their people. But their parents both die, and so the oldest child, John, 13, takes his siblings.. the youngest being a baby, Indepentia, accross the oregon trail himself. Except they go not in the direction of everyone else to find the new west, but their own way, to go and find this house where a couple live and they can be their parents.
He takes them there, and it is the THE most painful journey you could ever read about. They are all practically dying in the heat, and the endless months of walking, and their animals die. John has the toughest job, being the oldest sibling, hr grows so desperate to keep them alive that he acts like a parent himself, and gets really stern and hits them and things.
But they make it in the end, and they beg and plead the couple to be their parents. So they agree, but Indepentia is near death, and so the woman brings her back to life somehow, she holds a mirror over her mouth to see her breath, and she lives.
she's called INdepentia because she was baptised on idependence rock
In real life the children's new parents got killed by native americans, but that wasn't in the book.
Anyway, here is my poem
Indepentia
The small, dark circle of her benumbed, absent breath,
A mosaic of flaky blood, blackened in the dust.
Veering in her infant thoughts, upon the pale road of death,
Smooth, pebble eyelids, perfectly still beneath her bust.
She had peeled back the rough, brown rug,
That ground her flesh into a grain of fear.
Safe in near death, in eternities brief hug,
Down her sore, broken cheeks... flows a blossoming tear.
The woman draped her across her knee,
A saviours hand that held her dark head.
Life would not work, from it she might flee,
Swinging in a bag, from the ox, she bled.
And now she lies as would a battered doll,
With an old, square mirror that hovers over her mouth.
Waiting, waiting. For the revival of a soul,
From the wretched, endless journey into the awaited south.
And then, and then! The woman had a daughter,
For forth from Indepentia's lips came a raw, rasping wail.
The imprint of a birds foot, either side of her eyes, brimmed water,
An inflamed, kindled screech that echoed through the dale.