Words of Wonder

By: Raegan LeGrand


Raegan LeGrand was born in Mesa, Arizona and currently lives in Haslet, Texas. Besides poetry and writing, she draws and plays the violin. One day she hopes to be a graphic novelist. She started writing poetry in elementary school, and occasionally writes poems for pleasure. Here is our collection of her finest poems.

Orgin (a 'Where I'm From' Poem)

I am from pasta, from teeball and twizzlers

I am from the filled and colorful, the open and bright, with the scent of caramel.

I am from the aspens, marigolds, and poison berries on the bushes by the fence,

The oaks, bluebonnets, and harsh humid air.

I am from wooden clogs and quirky humor,

From Cynthia, Artemis, and the Millets.

I am from the chatty artists and musicians.

From the 'don't do drugs' and 'you can't date 'til you're married'

I am from the Mormons, and I'll never go astray.

I'm from Mesa and the Netherlands, blueberry pie and every form of potato.

From the date-swappers, and the time my puppy was hit by a truck,

And most importantly, the temple builder.

I am from my mother's portfolio, as her model and doll,

And my father's desk in both pencil and printer ink.

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The Hobo (a Narrative Poem)

Old Man McGregor

Was an old beggar

Who owned a sack and half of a cane.

He ate nothing but chips

That he stole from QuickTrip

And his water came straight from the drain.

Along came Joe Cration

The owner of the Gas Station

And he screamed, "Old man, you're a pain!"

He kicked him out,

And with a big pout,

The hobo boarded the train.

Who knows where he is,

Without his chips,

Perhaps he finally went insane.

And every time I look up,

I think of his cup,

And how that old man treasured the rain.

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Hold (an Ode)

From small and stubby

To the strong and calloused they are now

These are my hands which I use to hold

The hands that create and destroy

From falling on the sidewalk to break my fall

With the price of bloody cuts

To gripping the cold swing on a fall day

And leaving red imprints on my palms

The freckle on my right ring finger

The thumbs that pop out of place

The nails cut so I can my violin

On and on and on

These are the hands that cling to my blankets

The hands that bathe in paint to sign my name

The fingers that hit my brother to fight back

The fingers that sent risky text message

They are an instrument that glide across the keys of my piano

They are the tools that grasp on to my pen

And order it to create a masterpiece

These are my hands

The hands that dropped the hot plate

Of Macaroni

The ones that touched the stove on accident

Leaving countless battle scars

These are the fists I make to relieve my anger

The hands I fold in prayer

To hug my friend

Or pet my dog

To scratch my nose

And tie my shoes

They will hold my children when they are upset

They will connect with my future husband

These are the hands that will wave goodbye

These are the fingers that will kiss goodnight

They sweat

They breathe

They mold

They share

And they hold on tight to the things I love most.

And as long as I have these hands

When I grow old

They may be the last thing I can move

The last real feeling in me

But I want you to know

I am grateful for these hands

These hands that hold these memories

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Signs (a Sonnet)

Tell me when you mean what you say

When you say nothing once then everything another

You seem to change every day

Are you the one or just a fellow brother?

We get lost in one another's eyes

And speak words through subtle touch

We can't do much because we are shy

Too risky, too fragile, too beautiful and such

I want you to know my arms are open

That I'm waiting for you to wake once more

Bring back your smiles, your eyes full of ocean

So we can speak real sentences, and open a new door

Answer me before our love expires

Leave me broken or start a fire

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My favorite of these poems was my ode because of my use of figurative language and poetic tools. I used a lot of similes and repetition to help convey my emotions toward the subjects I used in my poems. My intended effect on the reader was to make them think. To give them sort of a nostalgic feel, and appreciate the small things in life. To do this, I focused on writing about things that were overlooked - the life of a hobo, my past, my hands, water, and missed opportunities. I used lots of repetition and things tat the reader will be able to relate to. I enjoyed the writing process of this, and letting my creativity expand by looking at words that rhyme, and thinking about unique situations that either I have experienced, or watched others experience. It was nice to be able to let myself see what I was capable of in writing these poems. I was able to remember some things I did as a child, some things I thought about for hours while bored, and things I struggled with right now. I like being able to express how I feel on these subjects through poetry.