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My Origins
By: Stewart Beaumont
I am from the Wii, from Lego and Cingular.
I am from the expansive rooms, filled with
clutter and the mess of yesterday, the game board cards awry.
I am from the t.v. at night, with the
family gathered ‘round.
I am from the garden, the fig tree in the
back.
The melons ripe and ready.
I am from outgoers and stand outs, from
Gretchen and John and Henry.
I am from the dog and turtle, snake and
chinchilla.
The lost and found, hurt and healed.
I am from the atheist, born and passing
into nothing.
I am from the orange juice on Christmas,
and the gifts of family.
I am from America and Sweden, cream spinach
and fish nuggets.
Coffee in the morning, tea at night.
From the clutch of death in the cool water,
the needles and wires of the hospital, and the joy of friends.
I am from the pictures on the wall, my
personal time line, the stories of life, the keepers of forgotten
memories.
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Our Home
By: Stewart Beaumont
I was at my friends house when the storm hit.
Even at this distance the house shook quite a
bit.
After it was over, over the phone, my mother said
she was there all alone.
I rushed back to her so we could go home.
But our home wasn’t there
I stayed at my friends house, and felt sad
inside,
for the home I stayed in, I didn’t want to
reside.
Every day I looked out the window to that
familiar place.
But our home wasn’t there
They started rebuilding it, brick by brick,
but the fact that it had been gone still didn’t
stick.
The building that had been our shelter, our
refuge, our place to lie,
had vanished in just one blink of Katrina’s eye.
They have rebuilt it now,
but it looks so different.
And our home isn’t there
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