More Heart:
Literary Library
Puddle
The puddle is too big for my feet,
my feet too big for my boots.
The rain beats down,
Shrinking the puddle of once known
truths and expectation.
Raining. Raining.
Done, is the future,
uncertain, the path.
And it is your
ideals that puzzle.
The puddle grows
and shrinks,
And in our minds we may
never know
the truth.
Poem by Rebecca Mason
Grandmother’s Ashes
I hold her between my cupped palms
together we share our dreams, our regrets.
The wind lifts her as I open my palm.
swirling, it gently caresses her,
returning her back to me.
Grandmother is on my face, my clothes,
she sticks to my lashes.
I flatten my palm and blow
the dust of my Grandmother with my warm breath,
sending her soaring to rest on the mossy knoll
above the lake, her lake.
Her body is spread but her spirit follows us
down the narrow path to the beach.
We carry yellow mums between our fingers,
yellow her favorite color,
yellow the color of happiness.
The three of us stand on the beach;
my Grandmother, my Father, and I.
We look out over the lake for a long time.
Lastly we place a goodbye kiss
on the yellows flowers, surrendering them to the breeze,
and walk slowly back to the car.
Her spirit does not follow,
Grandmother stays to watch over the lake, her lake.
Poem by Rebecca Mason
Bangkok
The noise from the streets of Bangkok
Pours through my open widow
Voices calling
Babies shrieking
Children laughing
Music playing
Engines rumbling
Street food sizzling
Fireworks blasting
The many voices of the city
Chaotic yet comforting,
Melding into one great lullaby
From city streets the sounds creep
Chaotic, harsh, and noisy
Thunderous booms from fireworks
And zooms from cars and bikes
Horns and honkers going off
While children laugh or cry
Through my window
I hear these things
I once had thought annoying
But now this constant buzz
Is fairly comforting
Poem by Anna Haefele
For Love of the Game
She stands on the mound
The place that some christen the loneliest place on earth.
It is the place where time stands still.
The crowd cheers
Coaches shout instructions to their players
Yet she hears nothing.
The smell of leather from her glove
Penetrates her nostrils.
The sun’s rays beam down from above
As sweat runs down her face.
The world begins to slip away,
And in its place,
A new reality appears.
It consists of merely the catcher,
The batter,
Herself,
The ball,
And nothing more.
The only sounds are the gentle whispers of the wind,
And whirring of the ball
As it travels down the invisible line between the pitcher’s mound
and home plate.
Whoosh.
Smack.
Strike three.
Poem by Laura M. Kriete-Bain