Words of Redemption

From time to time, I plan to post some of the poetry, short stories and journal entries I’ve written over the years and that I feel are worth sharing. This is the first such entry.

Today, I want to share a poem I wrote in my journal one morning about two weeks ago. It’s been though a few revisions and still feels incomplete, but I feel like sharing it anyway. The story behind this poem is true, and I was inspired to write this poem after sharing that story with my parents over Christmas.

I will admit that I am posting this poem with some trepidation. The thought of publicly sharing the things I’ve written over the years feels much like being on display at the zoo (according to what I’ve heard from the monkeys). And though I relish speaking in front of crowds and being the center of attention, this feels more like one of those “going to school and realizing you are naked” kind of dreams we all have from time to time.

But nothing ventured… I would love to hear any feedback you might have, even suggestions on how to improve this piece. At the very least, I hope you like it.

Without the Bumpers

It’s his first time without them
and you can tell that he’s uncertain,
tentative, maybe even a little scared.

“My mom and sister like to leave them in,”
he says to me
as he stares at where the bumpers should be.
“I’ll probably throw gutter balls all day.”

I hear the resignation in his young voice
and read the thoughts painted on his face:
Better not get my hopes up,
you know what happens then.

“I’ll bet you won’t,” I say
hoping that optimism would pour out from my words
and that after getting his feet soaked in it,
he might begin to believe in himself.
“Let’s just see what happens.”

His shoulders lift slightly
and his eyes brighten,
but not completely.
“Okay.”
He wants to believe
“I trust you.”

So he walks slowly
and intently
to the lane ahead,
the orange ball clasped before him
like an offering to the ten white druids
standing still and in formation fifty feet away.

He pauses.
He takes a breath.
And he rolls.

The ball is straight.
The roll is true.
The white pins scatter.

He lingers for an almost imperceptible moment,
and then he turns.
He smiles at me
victorious,
the absence of bumpers long forgotten.

- B

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