A Place Where I Belong
Weary clouds are mixed by scattered bits of rain,
as I plod through mindless static, mindless silence.
A fog hangs over my head as I am told
that our world views us through a clouded lens
and cold, unfriendly eyes.
But I stand to peek through the curtains,
and see a trail of light blazing a path,
clearer than a rushing mountain stream,
onward to a new, faraway home.
The glow of freedom dances on the edge of the horizon,
free from whispers that say you are lost and forgotten.
free from words that insist I must break myself in sacrifice,
Just to find myself a spot to sit by the fireplace.
This new home is written in the hope of discovery, not broken promises,
A warm hearth for happily lost travelers, wandering adventurers,
Roamers and explorers,
Wayfarers and those who have journeyed
Far longer than a roaming mustang herd has travailed the grassy fields.
For all I have lost, there is more to gain,
As I smile in the face of a biting wind,
And laugh in the midst of a roaring tempest.
For even the nights are better with a faint spark of brightness,
Lighting the way to the place where I belong.
As gold apples fall,
A squirrel gathers acorns.
Harvest time has come.
The Old Motorcycle
In the corner of the room
is Grandpa’s old motorcycle.
Although he no longer rides it,
he used it to take me to my first day of school.
Zooming down roads,
Swerving around street corners,
I was nervous about the new classes, new students, new teachers
but my worries blew away
as Grandpa and I laughed
and plowed through fallen leaves on the street.
the kids at my school were laughing at me.
I cried because they said my speaking was clumsy
and “all wrong,”
and I didn’t even know what that means.
After school, I ran crying to Grandpa.
As he drove us home, he said
I was the bravest kid he had ever met.
The old motorcycle is still
in the corner of the room now,
but even though it’s rusty,
and covered in scratches,
I remember the time my grandpa became a hero
riding on his shining steed.
© Jaide Lin