The Talon: '10: Pam Davila

A Poem - Pam Davila

Poetry is not my thing.

I know it’s a common phrase to say,

But honestly I’d much rather sing

Than read a poem about horse and hay.

It’s not only that I can’t read a poem

But honestly, I can’t write it too.

I’ll try my pen at home,

My page says blank as I : “ACHOO!”

Excuse me; I think I may just be

Allergic to the wonderful rhythms of

Poetry.

Now when I try to write (oh and I do try).

My poems come out as easy rhymes.

I lose true sight

….wait, what rhymes with rhyme?

Now this nonsense has gone on too long.

I bow to applause

As I finish my song

And now I’m done stating my cause.

Growing Up - Pam Davila

I stand staring at the path ahead. Fear creeps into my heart, I question if it’s possible. Can I do it? What if I fail? I may seem confident in front of everyone else but inside, secretly, there’s a voice that worries. Worries that I can’t adjust, that I’ll fail out and all that money would be wasted. And if I do manage to get through, what if there’s nothing on the other side? I’m stuck with a piece of paper stating I’m qualified but there’s nothing for me to do. Those aren’t the only hurtles, but there’s a lifetime of them. Will I jump over everyone or will I crash, with my knee scrapped and my blood flowing out onto the asphalt? Failure is not an option, but it’s not totally unavoidable. I have generations of hard work and suffering riding on my shoulders, I carry the responsibility so that it doesn’t go to waste. But what if it does by chance? Go to waste, I mean. Will the history of my family be for nothing? Does one descendent determine the success of all before? But maybe all the senseless worrying is a waste of time, because if I’m constantly worrying then when will I have time to be successful? I should go by that old saying; just roll with the punches. Because honestly, I’m not psychic (although apparently I do have a psychic Great Aunt ) but I do have the skills with hard word to be successful at what I choose to do. So I just have to shrug my shoulders and say: “It’s all part of growing up.”

The Window - Pam Davila

His sister, Mother, and Father walked away down the sidewalk, he watched silently from the other side of the glass window. It’s not that his family purposefully left him behind, but he chose it to be that way. The young boy hated the spontaneous car trips across America, and his form of rebellion was to not see the sights his father was taking him to. It wasn't that he didn't like the car ride, because he did like cars, or he didn't like to visit the major tourist spots of America. It's that he didn't like going on a trip involuntarily . His Faher would just decide without the consent of him, or his Mother, or his sister. So many times while his family went out to enjoy all that America could offer, he sulked in the car. It’s true that sometimes, he would lift himself from his grumpiness and exit the car with the rest of the family, but today was just one of those days. It was unbearably windy outside, and the little boy was worried he might get knocked over among other things. So he chose to stay in the car, he was safe from everything outside, even if his family wasn’t. He continued to look out the window as the three rounded a corner in the sidewalk. He couldn’t see them anymore. Behind his glass window he waited for them to join him again on the other side, and maybe tomorrow he would instead choose to venture out, and join his family on the outside.