Tommy Jones

Tommy Jones
Knew by six
Hope was hollow,
A kick’s blow,
A fist’s flash,
His tiny self
Deemed to be
Worthless trash.

Body blows,
Broken bones
Just prelude to
The spirit killer.
“Just words”
Fillet-knife sharp
Laying waste
His tiny heart

Tommy’s mind
Forever-etched
A Melody discordant
The “Un” a chorus
Unloved,
Unwanted 
Unworthy,
Unborn.

He prayed
To the faceless
God head.
No change.
He prayed more
But all the same.
He got bigger
He got tough
Found quiet
Rage not enough.

Tommy learned
Life’s lessons well.
His avocation
Tormentor.
Another’s life
His token.
No use has he
For prayer
Aimless talk
For Tommy Jones
A deadman walks.


“Know you what it is to be a child? It is to be something very different from the man of to-day. It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief; it is to be so little that the elves can reach to whisper in your ear; it is to turn pumpkins into coaches, and mice into horses, lowness into loftiness, and nothing into everything, for each child has its fairy godmother in its own soul.” ~ Francis Thompson

To know love and nurture is every child’s right, only so armored can the Tommy’s find -- A “Fairy godmother in his own soul”