The Communicator

 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 ooz...

 By Heath Johnston The ideal beau look of a city Beauty from the Outset visitor Landmarks within each kilometer Yet to the insider, grim and gritty Who cares of skyscrapers tall The new years Lightning ball Who cares of the city of Dallas When the citizens are filled inwardly malice My friends and brothers, lovingly close Left in coffins from the streetly ghost Gangs, violence, drugs and alcohol Vices from few, affecting the all Not to mention the horrendous human sort of traffick I do not intend to be mindlessly graphic These are the results and the designs of my city Do not lose the facts within the publicity I’m thankful for the opportunities that came But I cannot help feeling nothing but shame For the city to whence I once called home The brutality masked by panels of chrome Where I came from, hardly means anything now My friends here are more than the city could allow From where I was, to where I go, to me they are both the same I am not the old person from whence I once came...

Rerooting  Belle Ayala  I am from blooming banana trees  Step stone paths,  The scent of bumble bees.  I am from Oye Como Va  Red on rice,  The sound of ethnicity.  I am from The Palace marquee  Stardom child eyes,  The joy of make-believe.  I am from secondhand tap shoes  Tallest in my class,  A fact that would always be.  I am from sweet sixteen  Child raising baby,  Then 21. Then 23.  I am from duplex homes,  Thick brick walls,  A conglomerate of families.  I am from cigarette daydreams  Coat soaked smoke,  The kind that never leaves.  I am from highway drives  Half-blood brother,  A blur of mismatched memories.  I am from undying grief  Matrimony muddled,  A hurt only known to she.  I am from the wreckage,  The rubble  Of a cut down family tree.  I am from the forgotten leaves  Sticks and stones shattering bones,  A...