A Remnant of my Parents by Emma Heim I heard my dad doesn't remember my birth So stressed from working hard Working for a wife bringing life to the earth Born from hands that were scarred I always felt my mom was tired Her heart too large; our house too small Saving all the kids we acquired Raised by a heart that loved them all I watched my dad lead the sheep Helping them find everlasting hope Slaving for people in too deep Instructed on sin as a slippery slope I smelled my mom’s warm meals fresh bread and warm crockpots Cooking for eight people's needs Taught that a little can be lot I grew up wanting to be my mom She always knew what to do Loving, collected, and calm Forever wanting to be that too They were born of parents too From worn hands and battered hearts We always were the lucky few Generations of wisdom to impart
Where I’m From – Sam Jordan The cobble-brick square, the limestone street, The uneven concrete pavement, crackling beneath my feet. The tearful rain and frost-clad meadows, The house sparrows’, song uplifts and echoes. Stamford is undeniably beautiful when fall begins, But nothing comes close to this pulchrous town in the spring. The persistent fog ‘n’ damp morning dew, At the foot of the hill, makes for quite a remarkable view. Specks of rain dampen the moist ‘n’ soggy grass, As I gaze out of the window at this miserable forecast. Alas, it is not all gloom in my pretty little town, For I love the rain, it’ll never make me frown. Church bells ring, calling at every hour, Mosaic stone-glass windows climb up the spiral church tower. A quiet smile on my face, and a shiver down my spine, My heart so full, that this little town is mine. The wet ‘n’ lonesome man, Sitting silently on the graveyard bench, The marketmen sell their fruits, Dry, under their widespread tents. A primordial ooze, I