You cooed as I held you. You didn’t know
how twisted hearts would bemoan your presence,
rueing that your baby smile, sweet, did glow,
that we hovered and breathed in your fragrance.
You played as you grew, toddling past strangers,
open, curious to see their faces
not seeing that some scowled at the dangers
of brown-skinned children, other-skinned races.
This nonsense rose in twisted minds, cruel.
And discourse raised their voices to explain
what came not from reason, but from fuel
poured over them to perpetuate pain.
Absorbing hate, ignited with belief,
they disregarded your beauty, my grief.
This was written for the 100 word Challenge for Grown Ups – Week #38. This week we were told to write a sonnet that had to have fourteen lines with a limit somewhere around 100 words, and some allowances because of the form. I didn’t feel comfortable with it and should have chosen another of the forms, but I do think that I challenged myself. Please feel free to be honest if you don’t think this reads well.
As for the subject, I wrote this about the strangeness I noticed when my daughter was a baby. I was always shocked when someone scowled at her.