Poem

Lost Blossoms
By Pam Steele

Teaching in Appalachia can be
Joyful devastation.
From the hills and hollers they appear at my door
Unaware of the challenges they face.
The reality of what lies before them
Could overwhelm me…if I let it.
I’ve traveled the journey on which they’re beginning
And I trust God to lead, guide, direct me , to do His will…
For them.
Commitment to helping the childen find their voices
Go into the world ready to face evil.
It finds them.

Look…see…dream…set goals…give yourself
Appalachian courage to be uplifted,celebrated, admired.
Our children are a garden of varied blossoms
Sweetness, grittiness, laughter , tears.
Saying listen to me !
Acknowledge I exist, help me survive.


The Appalachian garden has changed in my lifetime
Predators have invaded the beauty of lush childhood landscape
Answering to any name…weed, cocaine, heroin, alcohol…
Destroyers of the garden, and I can’t find the
Chemicals to eradicate their damage.
One by one ,my beloved kids
Are losing their path, their rows are winding crookedly
The garden is lost in a sea of dealers
With no regard for the blossoms; only money.

I’ve spent too many days at funeral homes
Aching with families, crying with their classmates
Grieving with other teachers they’ve had.
“What can we do to stop the bleeding…
The loss of our young rising Appalachian stars?”
Doggedly,
I talk with them, write letters of strategies for survival….
Send them, sealed with hope, to treatment centers in
Columbus, Cincinnati, Cleveland…
“You can conquer, you can live your life’s dreams,
You need not become a statistic…a soul lost
From the foothills…from your promise.

Maybe it’s the teacher in me that embraces their bouquet
As my teachers unfailingly did for me.
But Appalachian kids are fighting a war
Without weapons ; unarmed innocents.

And do I continue to wage the battle…
Without John, the bipolar suicide,
And Susan, the writer-in-waiting overdose
And Bronson, the wanna-be pro athlete? I miss their aromas,
Their changing vivid hues, their possibilities.
The garden has lost its precious blooms
They aren’t coming back to comfort me
They aren’t moving forward with their dreams.
Anger for their lost futures overwhelms me
I scream silently.
Love them still,
As I mourn the loss
Of our blossoms of Appalachia.