Poems by Jodi M. Kucera

There's a shelf where many bottles sit,
Each with names in perfectly written print.

My fingers danced among the bottles as I walked the length of the shelf,
When I stumbled upon my name and a man who introduced himself.

A caretaker, carefully tending to each bottle with profound emotion in his eyes,
Told me he was the collector of all the tears that have ever been cried.

He took my bottle from the shelf and clutched it to his chest.
He said, "I collected these in moments that were your worst and your best."

He opened the lid and began to pull them out one by one
And held them gently in the cradle of his palm.

He began to explain what each tear represents
And the memories they held as he took a moment to reflect.

He said, "These tears started my collection at the beginning of your life,"
And with tenderness in his voice he said, "Though I knew many more would be cried.

"These tears were joyous and filled with celebration at accomplishments you made,
While these ones were filled with uncertainty while you quietly hoped and prayed.

"These tears were laden in wordless groans in the struggles that took you to your knees,
But even in those moments, I heard your heart's every plea.

"These tears, well these ones are many, and I held you close as I collected them carefully,
These tears are heavy with grief when loved ones closed their eyes and awoke in eternity.

"You see, though many have been cried, I have collected them all,
For each of them matter to me, no matter how big or how small.

"So I keep them safely on my shelf as I know there are more to collect,
Until the day there is no sorrow and no more tears to be wept."

He was the geeky kid, carrying all of his books,
That became a scientist who found the cure for the disease that overtook.

She was the quiet one, who was afraid no one would listen to what she had to say,
Who is now the author that writes her words for thousands to read on a page.

He was the naughty boy, whose antics were a cry for help,
That became a cop because he knows how it felt.

She was the nervous, anxious girl, who took on everyone's problems,
That wanted to help others and became a psychologist with a doctorate.

He was the kid that was always in a fight,
Who became a lawyer that wants wrong turned right.

He was the jock that was under pressure to win the game,
Who became a pastor that tells people they are more than what others say.

She was the quirky girl trying to break free from the mold,
That became the fashion designer who is known for being bold.

She was the mean girl with only ugly words to say,
Who is now an advocate for other victims in pain.

But he was the kid that faded into the background,
The one who felt alone even when there was a crowd.

The one who felt like he was gasping for air.
Even though he was drowning; people were unaware.

He was the one whose inner demon had a voice that was too loud,
That told him there was no other way out.

He's the kid I often think about,
The one whose silence should have been a reverberating volume of sound.

He is the one that we'll never know what he could have become,
Because he was the kid who found the gun.

The wind is beneath me, and I've taken flight,
As I gently fall from the sky.

Side to side I begin to sway, all around me only gray.
Thick like heavy snow, blanketing the ground below.

Each of us free at last,
From the suffering at their hands.

Each one of our stories would leave you aghast,
But they need to be told as to not repeat the past.

That morning was cold and one I'll never forget.
It was the day the ash began to fall, and we would learn their intent.

Our family torn asunder, as the train rolled in like thunder.
Where they were taking us, I did not know, and time just seemed to slow.

When the doors swung open, the sun was bright; it was hard to take in the sight.
The fire was stoked and flames filled the sky, the fear within began to rise.

The air was that of fetid breath, the wretched smell of death.

We were counted and stripped;
the humiliation something I cannot depict.

They took the crown upon my head,
while tears welled up that I dare not shed.

Tattooed and forced to live a life of servitude.

The apogee a march of death,
To a chamber to steal my breath.

To be known by a number and no longer a name,
All because hate fanned the flame.