Junk



She stood quietly on the edge,
Watching the waves below.
She was sure no one would miss her,
They wouldn’t even know.

Alone in a sea of people,
Blissfully unaware.
She was all but invisible,
No one knew she was there.

There were never any answers,
Just confusion and strife.
Like a piece of cosmic garbage,
Living a useless life.

She wondered if the fall would hurt,
Would she suffer at all?
And what if somehow she survived,
Left crippled by the fall?

Perhaps people would notice then,
Though they’d try not to stare.
She wouldn’t be invisible,
At least they’d see the chair.

Then from behind her came a voice,
“Don’t do this!” it implored.
A little girl stood all aglow,
An angel from the Lord.

“Mommy, I can’t let you do it.
You’re worth more than you know.
If your life ends, mine can’t begin;
I’ll lose my chance to grow!”

The apparition startled her;
A child she never bore?
She didn’t know how this could be,
But wanted to know more.

The child became a teenager,
And addressed her again.
“I’ll need your patient wisdom when
My rebel years begin.”

She watched the vision change once more,
To a young woman now.
She said: “Who will plan my wedding,
The day I make that vow?”

Again the apparition changed,
And took her by the hand.
An older woman promised her,
That she’d soon understand.

Then all around the two of them
Stood people, young and old.
“Each of these is your descendant.”
What a sight to behold.

When the apparitions faded,
Only the child remained.
“Mommy, life is a precious thing!
 We need you!” She explained?

“You shouldn’t feel invisible,
You have a destiny.
Even if it goes unnoticed,
By those who cannot see!”

“There’s a reason for every life.
From the king to the drunk.
And every soul is important,
For God does not make junk.”

With that, the vision disappeared,
And finally she knew;
Every person has a purpose;
There is a plan for you.

About this poem

A poem about despair ... and about hope, about giving up, and finding purpose.

Font size:
Collection  PDF     
 

Written on February 07, 1997

Submitted by MarkS on August 13, 2021

Modified by MarkS on August 13, 2021

1:44 min read
16

Quick analysis:

Scheme XABA CDCD XEXE XFXF GDCD XHAH XAIA BJKJ BGGI JLML XNBN XOPO XQMQ CKXK ERPR XSXS
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 1,861
Words 348
Stanzas 16
Stanza Lengths 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4

Mark Spencer

My name is Mark Spencer and, off and on, I have been writing poetry since 1977. I was born in Bend, Oregon on February 7th 1959, six short days after the day the music died, along with three of its icons: Buddy Holly, J.P. Richardson (The Big Bopper), and Richie Valens. The Eisenhower administration was on its way out, and America was teetering on the brink of another war. A new administration was about to emerge under the leadership of a young Senator from Massachusetts named John F. Kennedy. He would see his country through some of its most volatile times, until his untimely death in 1963. I was raised in a small suburb of Los Angeles called Lennox. Lennox rested between Hawthorn and Inglewood and was in the flight path of the Los Angeles International Airport. My brothers and I would play a game with the approaching aircraft. We would attempt to guess which airline the planes belonged to, before they were close enough to read. The winner, of course, was the one with the most correct guesses that day. I grew up with three brothers: Bryan was closest to me in age, and I was the eldest of the four brothers. Darien came next and my youngest brother Ross completed the quartet. We were close in age, no more than two years and four months apart, but we were even closer as brothers. We were our own best friends, frequently playing together at the park or in the yard. But time passed quickly, and bygone days slipped into the archives of memory, leaving a hole in my heart. The four of us grew up, and traveled different paths, leaving the adventures of our youth behind. Yet, to this day, I find myself wishing for one more game of over-the-line. My parents were, by no means rich. Union politics kept my father out of work for a time, and my mother was forced, by circumstance, to take a job with Polaroid. Somehow we always had food on the table, a roof over our heads, and presents under the Christmas tree. My father was able to build a strong working relationship with a large contracting company and things got much better. That is, until my parents divorced in 1972. I blamed myself for my parent’s misfortune, as many children do, and I retreated inside myself. The following few years were chaotic, I rebelled against the world; so much so that my parents had to ship me off to live with my grandmother. She was the greatest influence on my life at the time, and that experience pulled me back from the edge. The path she helped to put me on opened me up to the world of creativity. I owe her more than I could ever repay. So…I write…not for me, or about me, but for her, and the topics she thought were important. So here we are today, 45 years later, and I’m still writing, still addressing those topics, still weaving a little morality into each poem. more…

All Mark Spencer poems | Mark Spencer Books

1 fan

Discuss the poem Junk with the community...

0 Comments

    Translation

    Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

    Select another language:

    • - Select -
    • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
    • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
    • Español (Spanish)
    • Esperanto (Esperanto)
    • 日本語 (Japanese)
    • Português (Portuguese)
    • Deutsch (German)
    • العربية (Arabic)
    • Français (French)
    • Русский (Russian)
    • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
    • 한국어 (Korean)
    • עברית (Hebrew)
    • Gaeilge (Irish)
    • Українська (Ukrainian)
    • اردو (Urdu)
    • Magyar (Hungarian)
    • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
    • Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Italiano (Italian)
    • தமிழ் (Tamil)
    • Türkçe (Turkish)
    • తెలుగు (Telugu)
    • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
    • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
    • Čeština (Czech)
    • Polski (Polish)
    • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Românește (Romanian)
    • Nederlands (Dutch)
    • Ελληνικά (Greek)
    • Latinum (Latin)
    • Svenska (Swedish)
    • Dansk (Danish)
    • Suomi (Finnish)
    • فارسی (Persian)
    • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
    • հայերեն (Armenian)
    • Norsk (Norwegian)
    • English (English)

    Citation

    Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:

    Style:MLAChicagoAPA

    "Junk" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Mar. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/106936/junk>.

    Become a member!

    Join our community of poets and poetry lovers to share your work and offer feedback and encouragement to writers all over the world!

    March 2024

    Poetry Contest

    Join our monthly contest for an opportunity to win cash prizes and attain global acclaim for your talent.
    2
    days
    12
    hours
    48
    minutes

    Special Program

    Earn Rewards!

    Unlock exciting rewards such as a free mug and free contest pass by commenting on fellow members' poems today!

    Browse Poetry.com

    Quiz

    Are you a poetry master?

    »
    "She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies."
    A William Wordsworth
    B Lord Byron
    C Percy Bysshe Shelley
    D John Keats