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Amy Woods Watrous' Poems



This work by Phillip's Daughter and my granddaughter Amy Woods Watrous was written in 1997 when she was a 15 year-old school girl.  Bo

If you would like to write to Amy, click here!



Amy Woods


Writing: the oldest form of communication

Letters to friends far away, whose memories linger in the hidden

caves of your mind.

Notes passed from hand to hand, each wary of the teacher’s

watchful eye.


Writing: the oldest form of communication.


The semester report put off until the last minute, now feverishly

slaved over to pull a passing grade.

The wonderful ideas of a brilliant young mind hastily written down,

then discarded after another's thoughtless scorn.


Writing: the bringing forth of hidden emotions.


Describing the wild and colorful dreams we secretly conduct in

our minds.

The vicious, hateful words we scribble in controlling fits of rage

and pain.

The romantical, heartfelt words of love we eagerly place in

envelopes, but never find the courage to send.


Writing: flowing from within, through pen and paper.


Flooding our minds, spilling through our pens and pooling onto our


Thoughts, like rivers, running together until they find themselves in

a sea of stories, each one flowing until......... 

it finds its own place. 


March 20, 1997 




Amy Woods


Listen closely.

For I have a secret to tell;

of treasures more valuable than gold.

Listen closely, are you ready?

I know where a poem hides.


A poem hides in the scrawled handwriting of letters from a forgotten friend.


A poem hides in the curious eyes of a child awakening to the pleasures of life;

or in the first taste of a new found treasure, ice cream!


A poem hides in the frosty winter wind which nips at the young buck braving his first winter alone:

In the echo of a thundering storm that chases the wild stallions as they stampede through the empty still canyons.


A poem hides in the heavy drops of rain that run as rivers on a pane of glass frosted by the warm breath of a mystified child.


It hides in the feathery clouds that float down from the star studded heavens like wispy breaths from the Lord Protector God.


Poems hide among the treasured memories of a dying old man.

Still clinging to those valuable treasures as he passes into a new life;

In those heard in the cries of a dying child who folds in upon herself trying to escape from the presently looming danger of death.


Listen closely, you have a mission to speak wisely;

Go forth, tell others.

Those ready to listen, tell them where a poem hides. 

April 6, 1997


Focus the Light

by Amy Woods


The echoing of footsteps down a dimly lit corridor;

Dank and smelling of stale sweat and past anxieties.


Four young men, nervously clutching their instruments as though they were lifesavers;

Their only means of survival as they each struggle in a churning sea of excitement.


Wearing  identical mohair suits, their grotesquely long hair combed back in the same fashion, they head towards the light which radiates from the end of the tunnel;

towards their destiny.


The air is heavy, and filled with a noticeable charge of expectancy;

They giggle nervously, trying to ease the pains of embarrassment and rejection;

or the joys of acceptance and success.


Why should this country-producer of their dreams, heroes, and the music they loved need them, four anxious young men to whom success had come lately?


Their footsteps, echoing in unison, reverberate off the molded and peeling wall;

and they can hear the crowds: A large beast looming before them, holding in its image-obsessed and judgmental mind their collective fate.


And as this thought bores an insistent hole into their brains;

and fear spreads like an all-consuming plague over their bodies, they walk on.


And even as that fear wraps its icy hands around their throats, tightening its grip and causing them to believe that words will never again escape their lips;

When it pulls at their hearts and eats at their souls;

Diminishes what little confidence they managed to retain;

They walk on. 

As they near the end of the corridor; the end to their journey;

they hesitate and try to collect their thoughts that swarm madly like a nest of angry hornets, and feel the sting as they bring each one under control;

Regaining a sense of calm.


Taking deep breathes; surprised to find they still can;

they push forward into the radiant light; into their destiny.


Yes this was not- could not- be his destiny.


Staring ahead, he saw not the joyous, screaming crowd;

the stage set for their long-awaited appearance.

What he saw was a glaring light, and surgical mask;

heard the screaming of medical equipment, monitors, doctors.


It was all quite tiring, and he wanted nothing more than to return to a time long before;

To his destiny.


And as he slipped back into a world no longer lived; a time too far gone to be reached;

the rest of the world mourned.


For they had just heard, broadcasted over thousands of news stations, in a thousand different countries, in  hundreds of different languages.


Their heroic figure; the leader of their generation; had been stolen away.


John Lennon had been murdered.