Category: prose poetry

Magic

Magic. Not the abracadabra kind. Not the make wishes come true kind. Not the black caldron of spells kind. But the kind you find within yourself. The kind you find when you accomplish the impossible. The little spark inside your heart when you find a dream.

She used to chase that magic on the field, in the circle. Spinning and striking, swinging and swiping. Then she chased it in the arena, collecting and clearing, cadencing and celebrating.

But now, that magic is found not in her awards, as her dreams wait their turn. But in little fingers, little toes. Big smiles and baby curls. In fixing boo boos with one kiss. In words like “mama” and “more,” “hug” and “hooray.” In arms reaching up. In first tastes of something new. In new feats figured out.

In their precious heart beats.

Some say her magic has been lost. But she says it’s only just begun.

Shiloh Rose

A peace, a calmness, a quietness,

At depths I won’t try to explain.

Tranquility, like I’ve never known,

That overwhelms worry and pain.

More than I could ever ask for,

Or could have even dreamt.

Abundance, an overflowing cup,

Every unknown need and desire met.

A present, first wrapped in uncertainty,

That truth and love quickly replaced.

His gift, His blessing, His promise,

His light shining in a brand new face.

A name to represent all of this,

The emotions, the change, the growth,

To remember, yet look forward to,

All the beauty of Shiloh Rose.

The Shepherd, The Lamb

The sheep are bleating, crying
For help, longing for a place,
Where they can feel safe, where they
Know they are loved and belong.

They’ve wandered in darkness,
Misguided by the world,
Trying to fight off the predators,
But they can’t win the battle alone.

The Shepherd comes down,
To protect and to guide them,
Fighting off their enemies,
And shouldering their burdens.

He cares for every need,
Carrying the weak and wounded,
Leading them to quiet pastures,
Guarding their hearts from hurt.

He’s attentive, checking each one,
Showing them love and kindness,
Making sure no bone is broken,
Making sure no fear remains.

He knows what has to be done,
To bring the scattered sheep home,
He loves them enough to save their lives,
Even if it means giving up His own.

The Shepherd became the Lamb,
The Perfect One for sacrifice,
Silently, He suffered. Nails and thorns,
And sin, piercing, and weighing Him down.

But death on the cross could not hold Him,
The Lamb rose from the grave,
Defeating the darkness and the enemy,
Paying our debt, setting us free.

The Lamb now sits on the throne,
Shepherding the sheep, binging them in,
Until the day He comes back,
And wipes every tear from our eyes.

Relief

She collected her bag and water bottle from the bench and climbed up the steps onto the field. She paused, taking everything in one last time. The way the grass was the perfect shade of green. The snow-white chalk that drew the batters’ boxes and the pitching circle. The red clay dirt that had stained hundreds of pairs of her socks throughout the years. The bullpen.
Her eyes settled on the crates of balls, and she remembered the weight of the ball in her hand. The burn of the seam over her fingers as she spun each pitch with precision. The slide of her back foot as she dragged it behind her. The snap of the ball in the catcher’s mitt as the batter swung and missed.
She tore herself away and walked down the narrow one-way street that took her to the mall. Ducking her head, one tear slid down her cheek as she jogged towards the setting sun, working to avoid eye contact with anyone she met. The purple and navy shades of dusk settled in around her as she found her car. Her keys slipped through her fingers and clattered to the concrete. Bending over, she collected her keys, and herself, before opening her door and sitting down. She made eye contact with herself in the review mirror. Her blue eyes were clouded with unshed tears and sadness, and a small ache had settled in around her heart. The pain didn’t surprise her as she thought about the decision she had just made, everything she had just walked away from, or the life she had just left behind.
What shocked her, was the small sense of relief.

Cracked

The lightning spat, the thunder growled. Dogs scurried every which way, searching for shelter under anything they could find. Most of the horses cowered into the darkest corners of their stalls, seeking safety, but not him. He was unswerving, storm tested, braver than all. He was his own security. His russet head hung over the stall door, his golden eyes quiet, considerate. The rain dripped down from the cracked gutter, soaking his floppy ears and face. But he didn’t seem to mind. I had to wonder why. Could he hear my thoughts? Was he done, was this the end? Would he ever be the same again? Was that what kept him still? I realized my own face was just as drenched-but not from rain. From the burning, salty tears staining my cheeks, sneaking freely from cracked tear ducts.