Friday, November 1, 2013

Abandoned In the Attic, by Yolanda Adele

As I lie in the dark corner of the cold attic,
the spider,
and deliberately approaches my being.
Sticky, beautiful gossamer- like webs anchor my broken body down.
Thankful, I’m for the lace collar of my tattered yellow dress,
that covers and protects, my mouth and ears,
from the ominous black spider’s curiosity.
There is no comfort in the haunting sounds,
of the child’s laughter,
that once beckoned me to run in frolic. 
Her shrills of delight,
echoes like a faded lullaby,
suspended from the rafters now.
This precious little girl often wrapped her arms around me,
whispering her secrets and pain
knowing I’d never judge or blame.
My jaw frozen wide in silent scream,
I wish this were but a dream.
Alas, since she abandoned me, only darkness fills the air.
I should have known that little girls,
all too soon,
grow up,
and put their dollies down.
Someday a new child may find, and mend my broken parts,
setting in motion the magical, imagination,
that breaths life into dolls,
bringing them to life again,
and again.   
Until then I lie,
and abandoned,
in the attic.


  1. From Charlotte:

    Yolanda-that was a wonderful poem-you really had me going.

  2. From Peggy:

    Oh, Wow, Yolanda, Your poem is fantastic..... gripping and suspenseful, mysterious and moving, and full of deep pathos about the tragedies, not only of abandonment, but of life itself. While life moves on as it has to do, old things giving way to the new, you remind us of the silent heartbreak of the doll that once was our joy, but now is only of use to the small spiders, who give it a different value.
    Too often we discard the past carelessly and become so taken up with the present and the future, that we leave our past hopes and dreams behind. Then one day, a poet with exquisite sensitivity calls them up again.and summons us to rise up from our abandonment and re-experience our lost pasts anew.
    Thank you for being that poet, dear Yolanda. You write beautifully, perceptively and full of extraordinary sensitivity.
    Peggy Knorr

  3. What a poet you are, Yolanda. I love it!