"17": One Parent's Powerful Poem About the Florida High School Shooting by Mary Pat King
It was a normal day in the bleachers as our girls played softball. Normal, until I heard, “Oh no. It’s 17 now.”
We continued “normal” while my mind raced: 17 parents sitting in bleachers, pews, tables; 17 parents holding newborns, guiding steps, coloring dreams; 17 parents saying “byes” at preschool, middle school, high school. Seventeen parents whose “normal” was devastated, whose hearts shattered to dust on Valentine’s Ash Wednesday.
My mind raced to poetry. Poetry paints humanity, and humanity must be the collective focus from our respective bleachers. I know we all agree – this isn’t normal. We can’t let this be normal. We must be one team focused on our kids’ safety.
"17"
It was
17 mornings like any other
17 snoozes and then another
17 breakfasts on the go
17 “byes” promising “hello”
17 bodies in sleepy motion
17 minds embracing commotion
But then
17 bullets destroyed sweet dreams
17 bullets fueled our screams
17 bullets detonated young lives
17 bullets stabbed hearts like knives
17 bullets swelled our tears
17 bullets rippled our fears
So now
17 families are stunned tonight
17 moms can't hold them tight
17 “byes” will sting the air
17 homes with an empty chair
17 bullets battled the God we trust
17 hearts returned to dust
Oh my Lord, what has this gunman done?
He took our daughters and our sons
Seventeen of our children will never see tomorrow
There is a hole in our hearts and so much sorrow
On this day that is supposed to be filled with love and joy
Along came an armed and dangerous 19-year-old boy
Who are you to decide their lives weren’t worth living?
Now live with the guilt, there will be no forgiving
There were heroes that selflessly tried to save the young
Those heroes will never be left unsung
Brothers and sisters are now with our Lord above
They will never again hear how much they were loved
We pray to you Lord every morning, noon and night
That not another family or friend has to feel this plight
Hold your children and give them kisses everyday
It’s God’s mystery why these angels were taken away
Written by Linda Gamiere
Please don't shoot me mister, I'm just a fat little kid.
I shouldn't have to die today for something you did.
Mom says "take the trash out", Dad, "feed the dog".
Please don't shoot me mister, I got to dissect Miss Lilly's frog.
Please don't shoot me mister, I think Billy likes me best.
Me and Momma goin after school today, buy a little dress.
Could be I'm the prettiest, could be a little white lie.
Please don't shoot me mister, I don't want to die.
Hush little baby don't you cry, again we sing this broken lullaby.
Hush little baby don't say a word, all your pretty pleases go unheard.
Please don't shoot me mister, look what I can do.
I can die on these school steps and they'll just talk about you.
Thoughts, prays and talk, talk, talk, seem to be a sham.
Please don't shoot me mister, I'm their sacrificial lamb.
Please don't shoot me mister, I haven't hit my peak.
Although she tried, protect us all, Mrs. McCarly's aim was weak.
Her gun, your gun, doesn't matter which is bigger.
Please don't shoot me mister, without that gun, you can't pull that trigger.
Hush little baby don't you cry, again we sing this broken lullaby.
Hush little baby don't say a word, all your pretty pleases go unheard.
Please don't shoot me mister, there's something they should see.
This could be their son or daughter, dying right here next to me.
Bullets, bullets every where, flying round their head.
Please don't shoot me mister, were the last they ever said.
Please don't shoot me mister, I'm just a fat little kid
I shouldn't have to die today for something you did.
But go ahead and change the channel, this happens all the time.
Please don't shoot me mister, nothing done, the greater crime.
Hush little baby don't you cry, again we sing this broken lullaby.
Hush little baby don't say a word, all your pretty pleases go unheard.
QCD
05/26/2018