The Beggar by Rebecca S. - First Place for Poetry!
Rebbeca's Winning Poem:
A little child once sheltered from the harsh world
has grown old and forgotten.
Her name has become disgraced
while she struggles to remain alive to the world.
Only the tender hearted
even dare look at her face.
A face that is so deathly pale
with pockmarked wrinkled skin.
Her eyes have fallen back
into the sleepless, dark, gaunt holes in her head.
They stare blankly but still pleading
with tiny hints of brown hope
in a deep pool of black despair.
She wobbles and falls
to the ground in an attempt to create space
between her and the angry shop keepers.
Her spindly legs can no longer support
her little body weight.
She crawls along the pavement with her weak hands
the shop keepers don’t want her there.
“It takes away my business” each one claims.
All forgetting the old beggar that cries for help
crumbled beneath their feet.
A light rain or sprinkle falls from the sky.
Pretty girls dance to and fro in the rain
running for their father’s umbrella to shelter them from the wet.
The beggar scrambles over dampened pavement
desperate to get to any overhang.
Each movement is harder than the last
she barely has the strength there is to inch herself forward.
Rain sogges up her dirty clothes and hair
a mix of mud and filth drip slowly across her back.
The humiliation is great
But is does not hinder her from her mission.
Weeks later our beggar is seen again
pale and sickly, even weaker than before.
She can no longer raise her cup to beg
for a few coins.
Her cup now sits neglected on the ground.
Her weak quiet voice is lost in the street
“Help me” she pleads “for I can not help myself any longer.”
With no one to hear her last pleads for help
The beggar is left in the cold street
for one last time.
The morning of the next day used to bring a lasting hope
to those who needed it the most.
But a small cold reminder is left in those who helped
my small beggar.
The city workers finally realize the truth
when they made their rounds that day.
My beggar is gone.
No longer to plead at the street
or sing for money in her early days.
Many new scrawny hands reach up at the workers
asking for her clothing and hat.
The workers throw down what they can
For there was not much to give.
My beggar now is in a shallow grave
unmarked unknown because not one person
could truly remember her name.
A small delicate white flower is now laid down on the soil.
A small little girl walks quietly back home.
If possible my beggar would smile beautifully in her end less sleep.
Her breath of life has come and gone
And not a soul cares but mine.