The Missing Children



I wrote this poem at least 30 years ago, but I remembered it today:

The Missing Children


Their faces stare up

at me from the side

of cereal boxes,

from blue stamped


Have you seen

this child?

And now the age-enhanced

replica of

their faces

five years later,

with longer bones,

a futile hope,

for we know that they are

part of the forest ground,

where their hair and nails grow

long alone.

Or they have gone

through the Pied Piper’s door

in some mountain,

living in bondage,

forgetting themselves.




<a href=””>Missing</a&gt;




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