If only we could all be
like the children
we once were
before we were pushed
into a harsh reality
by selfish adults.
Our laughter and openness
smothered by discipline,
covering our mouths.
We gathered our moments
in grateful hearts — bits of starlight,
deep woods quiet, wild violets
and jonquils in Spring. We held them
close, like a talisman for the future.
We held on until we didn’t have to.
Head Above Water
There is a world below the surface,
under smiles and affirmative nods, voyages
launched in darkness, in solitude.
Gather your clan, your circle of strays but
hold tight to your heart. The unforgiving
hide in every home’s corner.
Stick to your path mapped in scattered spores.
Trudgen through blue, to the truth in the center
of virgin growth, to the end you never saw coming.
It is what it is
Years flow together waiting
for a thing to begin, an Avocado seed
waiting on the window sill in a glass
of water, gestating.
The parallels of our existence
didn’t go unnoticed.
Waiting was our life, waiting
for our hormones to get things done,
for a bit of matter to make itself known.
Deep within us nothing moved
while the world
around us continued to turn.
Other plants grew and greened,
other children cried and crawled,
but we stayed still.
One day, I let you go. Another day,
I let myself go.
There are ways to hide yourself away
or choose to change perspective.
Bio: Charlotte Hamrick’s poetry, prose, and photography has been published in numerous online and print journals, recently including Emerge Journal, Flash Frontier, Love in the Time of Covid Chronicle, and New World Writing. She’s had nominations for the Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction 2021, and was a Finalist for the 15th Glass Woman Prize and for Micro Madness 2020. She is Creative Nonfiction Editor for The Citron Review and reads flash fiction for Fractured Lit. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and a menagerie of rescued pets where she sometimes does things other than read and write.