Elizabeth Thomas is a widely published poet, performer, advocate of the arts and teacher. The author of two previous poetry collections, she has read her work throughout the United States and has been a member of three Connecticut National Poetry Slam teams. In 1998 she was a member of the U.S. team that traveled to Sweden. Much of her energy and time is devoted to designing and teaching writing programs for schools and organizations in many parts of the country. These programs promote literacy and the power of the written and spoken word. As an outstanding advocate of youth in the arts, Elizabeth Thomas is a coach and organizer with Brave New Voices: International Youth Poetry Slam and Festival. She is also the founder of UpWords Poetry, a company dedicated to promoting programs for young writers and educators, based on the belief that poetry is meant to be heard out loud and in person. She hosts a website at www.upwordspoetry.com. Click here to view Elizabeth Thomas's upcoming events. Click here to read ancillary material in the Seminar Room. |
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BOOK STATISTICS ISBN 978-0-9798451-6-1
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LIES MY MOTHER TOLD ME |
ABUNDANCE |
I WANT TO SAY First his, then mine, then sometimes |
REVELATION His T-shirt says, “I am God” and I think - My lucky day! I’ll run up, shake his hand, ask for an autograph. I might never have this chance again. But, as God sits there waiting to step into the Vice Principal’s office, I look closely at his faded T-shirt two sizes too big, sneakers older than he is, thin legs swinging barely long enough to reach the floor, dirty hands massaging a dirty forehead and think This is not God. This is a little boy who maybe swore in the lavatory or tussled on the playground. A child who probably forgot to eat breakfast, did not expect a good-bye kiss. When he gets home from school today he’ll let himself in with the key that hangs around his neck. He might help himself to Twinkies and a glass of Coke, a micro-waved pizza in front of the TV. As he struggles to raise his head the circles under his eyes slope toward his chin, pick up the lines around his mouth and carry it down as well. It’s not easy taking care of the world. Using the back of his hand he trails snot and tears across his face, into his hair, which heads out in all directions as if just lifted from a pillow. He looks neglected like homework after a long weekend. This boy ain’t been loved in a long time. I want to walk over, kneel on both knees, use my sleeve to clean his cheeks, tie his sneakers. He looks up and in his eyes I see my own son. Unable to look away, I want to say something, make some excuse, beg for forgiveness. But, this is God. What could I possibly say he does not already know? |