My name is C. Allisson Beal, and I am 17 years old. I like to view the world through many eyes, as well as my own. I have grown up in Sunny Southern California, and although there have been some struggles, I have had a decent life with a caring family to support me. I have been published by the national library of poetry and am working on a book of my own. Sharing my poetry with others is a great delight which I hope will bring light into the lives of everyone who reads or hears it.

The Unknown Story

All he wanted was to give her a gift
A beautiful gift that came from his heart
Although she would not even remember
Ten minutes after her face lit up.

He had picked it with care, the paper too
And gone back on the bus to his room
To wrap it, and decorate it and hope
That it would make her remember

Past Christmases when their children
Were young and they saw each other
Every day, not in 1 month intervals
But he knew she could remember then

Just not now. He didn't care, love
Means commitment until death, and
He was committed, even when she looked
Up blankly to ask who he was. He would

Sit there, just stroke her face, and the
Recognition would come, it took longer
Now, but it still came. Sitting in the room
His feeble fingers would not work right,

Would not wrap that special gift that meant
The world to him, and hopefully to her.
So he went back, paid the quarter for the
Bus that he could not afford really again.

The woman behind the counter said "6.50
Please" he asked with pleading in his eyes
"could ya give me the small box price?"
She said no, not understanding that he had

Worked his whole life, and sweated for a family
He no longer saw, and worked for a better
Tomorrow, but the pension was not enough
Anymore, she didn't understand it could

Happen to her, because it was too far off.
All she saw was an old man trying to get
Away without paying enough, not a grizzled
Old man who only wanted his wife to smile.

Copyright © 2000 by C. Allisson Beal

Growing up

To pretend
To pretend
Just once again­
That the dragons fly
And the swords fight
And the damsels freed,
Freed by her knight-
Freed to be alive.

To pretend
To pretend
In the midst of war
A hero saves his corps,
And made General
Or President
Or something glorious

To pretend
To pretend
The finale never ends
The game depends
On one single player
The championship is won.

The clock ticks
The meeting is near
Late again I fear.

To pretend…
To Pretend…
A child once again…
I wish I could be.

Copyright © 2000 by C. Allisson Beal

The Gift

Searing simplicity stroke me as strange,
Golden gifts gave me pleasure again,
But was bearing those presents a true source of joy,
Or was offering necessities to poor girls and boys?

I find as I live that love lasts on,
That presents received reap little rejoicing.
I rise to the need that names itself here,
My follies are far, I feel no more fear.

Stretching out hands hampers not one's plight,
And not can one find forgiveness in one's own might.
But if we don't help when we see a need,
What have we accomplished, but our own greed.

Copyright © 2000 by C. Allisson Beal

Faded Photograph

I'm fading­
An old photograph
Sitting in the sun
No where
No way
To run.
A moment frozen in endless time
A whiff of breeze
Blown by.
A foggy night
With no significance
A faded photograph
With no resistance.
The smile I used to bring is gone
The house is full of tears.
Tired fingers that have
Worn my edges
Lay lightly now
On white pillowy ledges.

Then they come
Throwing me in a box
Below the knick- knacks
Who have lost all meaning.
My price is but a dime
Yet no one wants me
I sit out in the rain
Wishing to forget the pain
Now buried as she,
My silent picture,
My faded photograph
Is forever lost.

Copyright © 2000 by C. Allisson Beal