Words of Wonder
By: Raegan LeGrand
Orgin (a 'Where I'm From' Poem)
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.
The Hobo (a Narrative Poem)
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.
Hold (an Ode)
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
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
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
Signs (a Sonnet)
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