I love to tell stories. If you knew me personally, you'd know that, and you'd get why education is such a delightful field, because I am afforded the opportunity to exchange stories with little children. Incidentally, children are the best and most animated, natural storytellers.
In 2018, I wrote the following narrative poem on Instagram, a story within a poem and a story within that story, about a girl who had lost her marbles, selling herself short and trading her most precious possession for temporary satisfaction.
Some people draw lines in the sand,
We got on our hands and knees and drew crude circles by hand.
Inside the circle's the gladiator's arena,
Outside the ring, we were all spectators
Waiting anxiously as our champions stooped, expertly flicking thumb fingers
And shooting round missiles of glass and clay inside the ring,
Holding our breath, waiting, as the best among them not only hitting,
But cracking their opponent's taw,
Obliterating everything,
Pumping fists in the air for every win.
Dusty knees and knuckle's caught up in the poor man's chess,
And I'll confess,
Though a girl, I once harbored the dream of being the best among them.
I once saved every penny,
And filled a bottle of beautiful marbles, my prized possession.
Practiced daily, privately, for competition.
And then, in a moment of hunger,
Foolishly traded with my neighbor,
Marbles for the opportunity
To shimmy up his pomerac tree.
Eat, he said, but do not carry.
I sat in the branches and ate my fill, like a caterpillar, thinking I had bested him.
Until the next day, I spied him on his knees around the ring, pitching.
Empty handed, a spectator, I stood behind him,
Martying my own knuckles for so stupidly losing my marbles, gambling.
Still hungry,
While my neighbor knelt, cracking taw after taw, winning.
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Thank you!