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