Forcing the Hand.

"The danger and the power; the friend and the foe."

What is it that
compels you;
magnetic,
helpless,
like a moth
drawn to the flame.

Even so,
I am the same.

Threads have woven
bleeding hearts,
and as they pull apart
they're broken.

Worlds apart,
two spheres that spin,
gravity won't let them
touch,
nor let them drop
as fallen stars.

Stuck.

Magnets
repelling,
and yet made of the same
power,
tired, attraction
tries them (over and over)
with the same reaction.
The spark,
electric hitting water;
though attractive,
it has no power.

The moon draws tides,
I draw you.
I am True North.

Your compass broke.

A desert island
without harbour,
you're circling in lonely waves.
You like the thrill of the water;
I like the home that holds the flame.

So leave me to my own
to live; to love.
In another life, I was the one.
Eternal flames cannot die;
so this one,
I will hide

to save you;
to save me.

December 24, 2009

Poet Girl.

I start to get hungry to see a new picture of you.
I've memorized every one I've got.
The list of poetic one-liners I've typed in my head
are growing into a quote book,
quips and, honestly, slightly quirky little thoughts
I think Death Cab for Cutie might like,
if they still made new music.

I trip on my own toes,
and my own heart that thumps against my chest.
I'm nervous to be estranged from my old familiar;
it makes my mouth dry and my fingers go cold.
I can't turn off the acoustic guitar
that strums in the background of my life these days.
Some unknown guy sings my life in my head,
one of those voices that kind of shuffles
and meanders 'cos he's a hippie and comfortable
in his own flannel shirt and sense of artistic self.

My life is sketch pencils and too many pillows on my bed,
the girl who wears five colours at a time,
and startles herself with the dreams she wakes from,
remembering them every morning.
They either find his lips on hers or a crazy fight on the phone.
Either way, they're shocking when the real world is very
singular: a loner's life stitching quilts from past experiences
that tuck me in every single night.

I have too many scarves hanging on the back of my door,
one around my milk white neck, and still a dozen more in the store
waiting for me to fall in love with them.
I've got a dozen thoughts about plane tickets,
and writing my first book, and the pile of Scriptures I've been
contemplating lining my life up, row by row,
laying a form to stretch the canvas of me over.
I like the easy-going sense of Being I have,
lying in my bed, or staring up at Christmas lights,
or sticking my fingers in the snow just to
know that I'm alive.

I used to only picture walking sidewalks with an arm
linked with mine, but now I carry piles of books and
it's all right. My nose goes numb, the snow glow the only
colour this girl ever gets; cold rushing against my face.
I have pictures of a little boy and girl in my head,
scruffy sneakers, and some sort of summer tryst,
where it's Bridge to Terebithia--
magic that can leave one crying.
They say anything good never lasts.
That's not so. The best kind of Good keeps on playing
in every step you take, tough love that said it would fight you
if you beat yourself up one more time.
And that's when you know,
you can never lose the best friend you ever had,
even if you are the fastest runner in the fifth grade.

I've got this sense of satisfaction,
one that puts an upbeat in my theme song;
I'm doin' all right, with question marks dangling over my head
and no sense of perfect direction.
You know I get lost on my own street; I forget what I'm saying;
I laugh in the middle of a serious conversation.
But I'm learning myself.
I sit cross-legged with a dictionary open,
my cuppa tea forgotten, my ring spinnin' on my skinny finger,
memorizing the definition of Me.


December 20, 2009

A Slip of Paper.

I think I'll write your name on a slip of paper
torn from the corner of my favourite book.
I'll scribble it with a black ink pen,
a little twirl underlining those few letters
all in a row,
those few little letters that spell out
the name I like the best.
I'll trace over it a couple of times,
each rounded edge thickening,
as though every time I highlight it
will make it last for me.
On impulse, I'll crumple it,
feeling kind of silly,
like a school-age girl still crushing
or a lovesick boy's initials still killing trees.
Then I'll open it back up and add your last name;
an average name,
a perfect name.
I'll cover your first name with my thumb
and picture mine is written there
and kind of smile,
then shake my head,
my finger running over the ridged edge.
Before I'll think, I'll quickly kiss it,
as if my thoughts could kiss you
from a daydream far away,
folding the little piece in two,
then four,
and tucking it in my jeans pocket.


October 10, 2009

A Long Day.

I'm very tired, you see.
My head feels heavy on my shoulders.
I think I need another one
to rest it on.
I find myself staring at nothing
and thinking.
My thoughts want to run away
with me to you.
They tug on your sleeve,
tiny but eager,
and whisper,
"Have you been thinking of me too?"

I'm very tired, you see.
I run to my car in the rain to escape
and find I have nowhere to travel
that I want to go.
Just a long, long drive
and a chill in my bones,
and a coffee held between my knees.
(You never wanted me
drinking it like I do.)
But it's warm.
It's a comfort.
So it reminds me of you.


October 16, 2009

Revisited.

If I could but know you, this life over;
I met you once when time
was kind.
Or maybe it was simply young.

I remember you like a perfect face
where brush met God
in a stroke of Divine,
mimicked
with canvas and paint.

You hang on my wall.
You don't need a frame.
I have you edged in
precious thought,
and
feelings far too strong to bear.

I like you there.

You move through time,
escaping age,
where wrinkled hands
and twinkling eyes will find you
laughing,
and us alive.
(We have no grave.)

To brush up against it once more,
like a flower,
its fragrance (accidentally)
released by the touch,

yours is that power
to conjure the picture.
(This is its child.)

Like seeing a baby,
his eyes a past lover's;
to hold what is now
second-best to what was,
cradled as Different
yet loved as his mother;
a secret
that no two souls
usually share.

If I could but know you, this life over,
I'd meet you somewhere it
will last.
Or maybe simply where is best.

And let it go from there.



October 14, 2009

Redemption.

I have traveled many miles,
I have lost myself at sea.
I have found You off to starboard,
I have found You look for me.

I have set my sails too early
in the gale of fright’ning wind.
You have held me in the fury,
You have pulled me safely in.

I have stared right through the mirror,
Dared to hope I just suffice.
I've collapsed in self-confliction,
You’ve aroused me back to life.

I have messed me up in trials,
I have dressed in sad affairs.
With one glance, You robed me rightly,
called me Lovely Made Aware.

I have trouble always standing,
knees give out and hearts give way.
You have been so very careful,
You hold steady when I sway.

I have set my soul to ashes,
I have drowned them in the sea.
You have kissed my tearful lashes,
You have set my spirit free.


November 2 & 4, 2009

Silence.

My life has gone quiet.
It's a still, small thing,
with a few days in my pocket
as the lights go out
and the outside shuffles
with undetermined things.
It's tucked with little comforts;
my favourite pillow;
a bite of ice cream;
a low-lit fireplace and a moment's peace.

Smiles tilt from one corner of my mouth
to the other,
one happiness in the midst of it,
a new song clipping off the ends of fear
that says it's all silence.
It's calm, a life gone quiet;
it's a phone by my head
that doesn't ring,
fewer letters,
fewer smiles,
fewer complications and softer
easing in and out of the day.
It's a work of endurance,
to be all alone and very still,
like a bird perched on its branch
or a cricket in the corner
who hasn't quite found the time
is right to chirp:
for one, it's not quite morning.
The other, not quite night.
I am somewhere in the centre.

I am somewhere in the vast,
and the miniscule,
and the edging around the fast-drawn
breath that tells me I have so long
to go.
I have made it a few days.
How can I do years?
But the slow-drawn breath eases,
taking my shoulders
and sitting me down,
sitting me down in a comfy chair,
with tousled hair,
a long movie I zone out as I wade
through the thick air
of nothing but household sounds;
my fingers typing;
my cracking voice half-whispering
as I write.
It's like sleeping off the longest day.
It's like holding my breath under water.
It's a curious thing;
bittersweet. Something like a test
and reward and a muddled in-between.
A muffled in-between that cannot speak
as the hours come 'round to match
the silence I am keeping.


November 22, 2009

Inconclusive.

In the sight of some conclusion,
in its finality; its fulfillment; its perfection,
I have sought my own connection
to the End; the culmination.

As the heart beats, it burns;
it pulls; it aches; it presses,
presses thought and motive
and our spirit's captivation;
winds our thoughts around
timeless truths, and expressions,
and forces our confessions.

With all explicit definition,
the body longs for its completion;
with greatest mystery,
the mind is baffled in its confliction;
with strange duplicity,
the heart can tear itself from remission;
with perfect chemistry,
the spirit blends its pure confection.

Yes, I come to this conclusion:
I have faith in the inconclusive.
I am thankful, and think well of
every in-between; of what-might-have-been;
of desires piquing thought-life
and curiosities.
I delight in my unknown,
in where I'll go,
in what I'll know.
I trace my life toward something blurred,
and real; desired and enchanting.

I have no answers;
I have no reasons, no rhymes,
except the turn of realization
that my whole existance
is spun upon pure poetry.
There is no tragedy, but there are tears,
and there are very hurtful questions.
There is pure joy, and there are bursts
of healing that soak in with all the answers.

For there are answers, love;
there are. There isn't time yet to reveal them,
their insight, their passion, their overwhelming inflection.
Life would roll itself in raptures and horrors
if we knew now what we'll know then.
There is a joy in the Not-Knowing.
There is a safety in the Near-Sighted.
There is passion in the Vision
that there is vision; revelation.

For there is forward motion in yearning.
It keeps us from the stagnant;
from the passive; from the tepid.
God rips our hearts and bleeds them
until they finally crave.
There is health in anticipation.
There is death, there is sorrow,
there is excitement and frustration;
there is peace that there's a Today
in the movement toward tomorrow.

When Winter comes, it buries the old
and breaks the brittle branches
until it melts away as if decay
is a means of earth's satisfaction.
It is cold and it is grey;
the view is impossible, and strange.
It is silent; very quiet,
like a breath caught under water.
Lonesome and dark-shadowed,
it's a courageous in-between.

Autumn slips beneath the snow
of the Earth's grand repitition.
Seasons don't turn of their own volition.
They are coaxed, and led,
and danced through their pains,
and change, and labors.
God's hand tips the Earth and our hearts,
in their fragments, are sent moment
by moment,
seeking out Perfection.
Does Winter like itself?
It does not choose its own submission.

But inasmuch as we choose
where we go, what we do,
there's a natural order to in,
and out, and coming, and leaving;
to loving, and dying,
and aching, and abstraction,
as the direction is charted
like a sail against the wind.
Pressing us toward the want
of wave and sea to give us up,
we push, and push harder,
for Home is something believed,
though unseen from the water.

And so, we move forward
in due low tides
and illogical reasons,
contented and submitted
to rest, waiting with our visions.
It is a precious thing to want,
to ask, to question, and desire.
It is too much to bear;
it is painful; it is sweet.
There is beauty in the passion
in tired months gone bitter;
to love someone, gone dormant;
to let the roots grow for the better.
Deep in cold recession,
there is blessing in this matter,
for yes, there must be Winter.

But I believe in Spring.


November 28, 2009

Chapter One.

I used to write page after page on my old blogs about my life and the things I'm learning, the challenges I wanted to give, and the truths I was picking up. I quit. Then I quit thinking on whatever it was that drove me to write before I quit. And then I had nothing to say.

I'm not going to pretend that was a totally positive choice (even though a guarded heart/words are always a good idea to some extent). I haven't had anything fresh and new to share for a very long time. I haven't spoken from my heart, and I forget why. But I want to get back to where my heart was; constantly thinking on God and the way His hand reaches down into the little places of my life and shifts it around and creates me.

So I'm back. I want to write again. And I want to have things of substance to write on; things that maybe you'll care to read, whoever you are, and if not, things that I will care to re-read to remind myself of who I am in Him and what He has to pour out of me. I could miss it so easily. I could let it slip through my fingers. . . and lose whatever it is I am to be. I know I'm more than my words, but my words were always my tool to carve out my soul and discover where I am; to beat the Truth into my own brain and then let it imbue my spirit like watercolours running over the deep, thirsty surface of the canvas.

I've been busy being free; untying my heart from what was and re-tying it to other things. And I won't look back and say it hasn't been worth it; oh, I regret, and I have lived out my life in storybook lines only to find it is no childhood fantasy. But I move on. And my book is now more grown up, and it has a lot more weight to it, but it's my story; and it's one I don't want to hold the pen to any more. Let Him write it. I'm a poor poet compared to Him.

And that's really the first point I want to make: "I'm a poor poet compared to Him." That is a fine comparison. I truly am a poor poet compared to Him. But I could so easily compare my life to other lives, like a child who stares back and forth between his or her little situation and the situation of another child. "But what about HIM?" I could whine, and pout, and put my fists on my hips, or I could sit dejected, my head hanging low with little droplets of tears plopping on my lap, "I am not as good compared to..." or asking, "Why didn't I ever get a break like ____?" and on and on I could compare my situation to another.

In John 21, Yeshua asks Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me?"
"Yes, Lord," he said, "you know that I love you."
Jesus said, "Feed my lambs."

Three times, this goes on. Yeshua was pressing him, Peter was being tested and it even hurt him to be tested that hard. But he had betrayed Yeshua. He was the one who had sworn to be there to the death, and had been one to run and lie that he never knew his dearest friend & his Messiah.

Finally, Yeshua said, "Follow me!" Peter replied by looking around and seeing John, another disciple, "Lord, what about him?" Yeshua answered, "If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you? You follow me."

Integrity calls me to be whole; sound; adherent to the morals and Truths I stand by; undivided and complete. Integrity must be me standing, strongly standing within my own place in God, not shape shifting to follow what occurs around me. A fish swims by watching the rest of the school, its movements synchronized and flawless, but to put it on its own, what will guide it? I must resist the Comparisons and call my own heart to Integrity.

I must call my own heart to its reply when He commands (not suggests), "You must follow me." There can only be One heart I compare with my own and I must be willing to say, "I am a poor poet compared to Him." I am a poor poet. But my pen is not in my hand any more. Therefore, let my life be compared to the greatest of history; the most glorious of songs. For such lives and creation were never formed by the ones who held them, but by the One they compared themselves to: the Beautiful One Who held the pen.

My life is a blank page. Let it begin.


-Lawra Elizabeth
August 23, 2009

Civil War.

I could fight these battles.
I could fight and fight,
with my fist against the wall
and my knuckles raw and broken;
I could cry myself to sleep
until I wake to find my answers,
pushing and pushing
until this civil war is over:
I could fight this with no other
walking close against my shoulder;
rain would pour and I would trudge
along the muddy way of war--
my heart could take each step with aching
and aim toward something,
or just sit and wait for the enemy to find me.
I could run away, my lungs on fire,
my side pierced with air that pains me
and sustains me.
I could hobble away toward the back of the line
and let another win it for me,
with my head buried in the sand and all the water
taking over;
I might recover.

I could fight, give in, and fight again
and brave some sort of Alone
as my demons parade and tuck themselves
beneath my skin, and I could loathe them
with a passion and analyze my mode of action
to defeat them: I could beat them
with my will and want to thrive but
I would live still beating daily,
my heart racing, my mind braking
and restarting in the patterns I resist--
that I accept-- that I resist--
that I accept-- that I. . . .

Circles:
I could take them,
or my vacillating choices:
I'd deal,
my pillows over my head,
and sleep, and hide
and even make attempts at Right
and kick myself for every Wrong--
yes, I could fight some sort of fights
here on my own--
but I would lose them.

Or I could walk with Someone,
fight with Someone: take the blows
and spar and start to gain some ground,
leaning on an Arm that walks this
wounded flesh so far from former battle
grounds that I will fight my wars
out in the open, more than hoping for
the courage not to wall up
or to bunker down.
"A lover, not a fighter,"
and yet fighting life-long wars,
the guns aimed; ready; fire!
as my bleary eyes blink open
every morning.
I could rush the walls, precariously,
and foolishly abandon any thought
to throw myself into the clash
that I've not chosen;
or, I could take the sword in hand,
my hands that tremble with its weight
and feel incapable of wielding it
and shield myself, afraid of the outcome;
afraid I'm not strong enough;
afraid I'm still sitting on the sidelines,
only dreaming that it's over,
and let another take it up with me,
no longer claiming my Civil War.

My war?
When did I take this persona,
claming sole responsibility?
I've been bracing myself against myself
for so long that I despise myself--
yet I can't run myself through,
and no one will do it for me:
Pressing on is my prerogative,
my ally; my burden. . .
to finish Best and finish well
is the better part of my dreams.

I could fight these battles,
or I could lean them on Another,
my crippled limbs shaking,
and draw my Strength from some release
of breath, and burden, and habitual instability;
letting go of fast reactions,
my claim to this, my want of this struggle
for fear of losing my identity in something New:
somehow finding comfort in knowing who I am
in the dark I took yet knew as Enemy.
If I'm not the Dark, or the Struggle With It--
all the things I've ever been--
then who am I?
The shadows curl up under me
and curiously dissipate beneath
my timid feet.
With this Help,
the Darkness runs from me, for
I am Light.
And it is strange.

My old is new and new is aged in ancient Power
that defines my battle grounds
and scores the lines that set me toward an End:
my hope, that one thing that hangs gleaming brighter
than the rest,
for which I cannot fight alone:
to obtain it, or to touch it; to feel my fingers slip around it
and grasp what I've been longing for in sunset
and horizon;
the face within the mirror--
I must surrender in the moment:
the glass shatters; the veil is torn,
my sleep jostled, thoughts turned over;
the agony of being reborn

where angels brush against the soul of man,
charged to lift him above the stones,
to keep his feet from stumbling;
to walk him out and guard him well.
In that broken, bloody place, I'll rise
and draw my Breath to walk out there,
but not alone:
I'll fight and rest, and share the weight
when tears frustrate and silence reigns and I sit
on my couch still tempted,
lying on my bed unmet by Promises my faith believes
when I still feel the dark betray me;
my body wrecked and mind still trying to loop,
replaying lies and fears--
sweet Love comes by with some sweet song
she whispers in my ear.

She contrasts everything I've been
and I feel pierced. . . aggravated. . .
and awakened
by this gift of One Who rouses me to fight
again--
to pull my shirt down over my head,
get out of bed,
and tell the day, "I'M HERE!"
I'll share my battle hand-in-hand,
and when I'm tired, be carried in--
to throw it down, to war again--
And in that wrest and rested state,
fall to my knees,
give in, and
win.


March 28, 2009

Flight.

Love is a slow, slow, slow,
slow dance,
wrapped around you
and down you and up
and intense,
like a ribbon wound tightly
and a sparrow set free,
left to wing,
soft, and sing,
as he sits on the fence.
And he dreams of some
heart-racing pace
in the skies.
(For just once, he would die.)
Sweet and reckless
and shy.
The risks are so high.
He would try.
(So would I.)

And the ribbons would fly,
ever high, like a kite
hitting clouds without strings,
only held by a ring
on my finger.
(Let's linger.)
It's better held still,
close your eyes,
and the dance will unwind
like a streamer,
the slow, slow, slow
quickly speeding to flight,
spinning, sent on momentum
of feelings confined,
and the time swiftly climbs
toward the cloud-bursting heights,
'til the sparrows find sky
and the ribbons untie
without where, when, or why;
Love will fly.
(So will I.)


May 14, 2009

Her Song

What is your name?
Who are you talking to?
I'm in this frame of mind
pondering you.

You're riddles and rhymes.
Are you slightly amused?
Well, laugh all you want, my love.
I'm still confused.

'Cos you sit the longest while
in corners of my mind
strumming your fingers through
all my thoughts,
playing in time.
(How you do what you do.)

Can you walk by?
We've painted all the signs.
I'd like to brush your arm,
tell you you're mine.

You soon unfold;
I am a secret smile.
Lips sealed, but certainly,
I am enthralled.

You're everything I've got.
Everything I'm not.
How long is forever, my love?
Is it a lot?
I hope it's enough.

I've tried your name,
but only a time or two.
Oh, I'm in this frame of mind
pondering you.

May 14; June 3, 2009

Shiver.

Glance, and Heaven
tip-toes in, disarming
and warming and tenderly
then,
Stop. Your world stands still
and mine revolves around our. . .
I'm not allowed to say the word.
(But soon I will.)
I will.

And standing, spaced,
the cold rain aches
against my skin.
I think of when you
hold me close,
and ache again.
Every precious word
still bites my tongue
in silent waiting
(yet, a smile):
read through my windows
for a while,
the feelings in their movement
without explanation.

The thought of souls so close
and quivering,
it stirs the warmth of sweet sensation--
God has stitched two hearts,
and better,
stitched them into one.
(You're mine.)
The warm, deep-settling in
this chill,
you walk toward me
(in thoughts; dreams; waking).
You're there,
right there;
l*** in the making
sparks in the cold and
makes me shiver.

-L.E.
May 4, 2009

Tremble

Within touch,
there's a space
between yes, and don't;
a pause,
and that holds for quite a while.

Her eyes seem deeper,
thoughts glance at her hand.
It seems smaller,
and sweeter,
and. . . like it needs held.

And he swallows hard,
the line is tripped
between,
they both know it
and know that it's
what they both think.

There a certain heart flutters
(its petals swirl
down,
down,
down, fragile; undone).
Her hair seems finer,
her laugh brightened some.


She knows that he sees.
He has a deep glance,
and nice eyes
that hold volumes
she'd like to read.

Within space,
there's a trembling
movement they've felt;
like threads in the breeze,
the silk in a web.

The silken fingers
link them with ease,
back and forth, back and forth,
as his thoughts
brush her cheek.


February 14, 2009

Bloom.

Wouldn't you like to know;
I would like to,
like to know and let it stay.
I would be so fragile
and you would be so strong;
and then my arms would hold you
when you cannot last too long.
My tendrils wrapping 'round you,
I'll grow with you,
your stem about to break,
I'll bend
and wind up you until my weakness
is your strength.

(Please grow with me.)



February 13, 2009

Did He?

Did he tell you of tonality
and tangled chords and cords
of strings and symphonies
he bore like these new songs
you try to keep from singing?

Did he?

Did he hold your hand and
let his small heart fast unwind
its boyish words and write
his love, like poetry, upon your own?

Did you see his grace and form,
his hands fine tools for finer crafts,
the lilt, his choices, delicate,
or did you fast and firm react?

Did you tailor him to fit, or
did he fit a tailor you can't
control; a million joys you
could have had, unsaid instead?

Did you?

Did you file each word
and tuck his letters in a pile,
a while spaced between your thoughts
and further conversation?

Did he spill his fears of faithless-
ness and fraught with questions asked,
or did you stake the doubts to death;
consoled, dissolved, and conquered it?

Did he turn a glance, an eye, and back,
and did you follow it; follow it back to his heart
that aches, or did you judge and lose it?

Did he? Did you?

Did he try to paint the walls
the colour of a beauty, marked
with life of art and feelings far
from what you like to cover?

Or did he get to settle in with
you, his twists and turns entwined,
and sign his name like yours, the same,
but with his own embellishment?


January 28, 2009

Sick in Bed, final draft

Comfortable,
in fluff and in pillows,
my comforter,
my Comforter,
and a blanket on my window.

Brown-tone light
lazes, hazelnut dreams,
thick cream blankets
make me sigh and I
sleep.

Waking and sleeping
go liquid, and mix,
downed in hot drink
like milk and cinnamon.

You're the blind on my window,
keeping inside in,
and you guard me with kisses
and cups of tea,
never shy of infection,
your soft lips please,
with your cool cheek on mine,
a consistency.

Murmur of voices
pull me out of the dreamed,
push me back ‘til the edges
are crinkled and steamed

and I wake,
yet I sleep,
all sugar and spice;
my bed holds the flavour
of grave and of life,

and I wake to your fingers
lacing through mine:
I’m the chill in my bones;
you’re the warmth in the wine.

I dream like I'm fading
and coming to life:
as my young body aches
like I'm aged, and I sleep,
it's all movement and sitting,
like old man and wife,
and I sleep as if nothing else
matters to me.

Sleepless, I'll sleep
in my half-wakened state
you’ll be there,
you’ll be there,
with a touch at my Wake.

And I’ll wake,
as the mourners pray;
dead never dreamed—
your tender hand holding
the healing I need.

Tucked under covers,
I taste of the Sweet:
A case of you, soothing
my waking and sleep.


January 27, 2009

Sick In Bed, draft 1

I'm quite comfortable,
with sleep and the feeling
of fluff and of pillows,
and the cool side of the sheets.
And I hang a blanket over
the window,
brown-toned light makes
me drift and sigh and. . .
illness makes dreams

and dreams reality
until waking and sleeping
are liquid and warming,
downed like a mixed drink
that swallows like warm milk
and cinnamon.

You're the blind on my window,
keeping inside in,
and you guard me with kisses
and cups of tea,
never shying away
from infliction of infection,
with your cool cheek on mine
and your sweet consistency.

I dream like I'm fading
and coming to life:
it's all movement and sitting,
like an old man and wife,
as my young body aches
like I'm aged, and I sleep,
and I sleep like there's nothing else
that matters to me.

I dream of walking down a road,
but never getting anywhere.
But the 'never anywhere' feels
like a comfort. And I dream
of you talking, and my home that
isn't my home, but the yellow walls
seem usual.

Taking my shoes off when I go outside
seems practical;
driving my car around the same bend
seven times seems
logical.
Repeating the same syllable over to
get it right feels rational.
Dreams are delusional.
So I dream.

And I've fallen in love with a blanket,
and it responds with tenderness,
wrapping my coldness in pelted, fuzzy
warm; like you stay in my arms
when I dream.
I get well to the murmur of voices,
and smiles I can't see,
and the one line of poetry tripping over,
and over,
"Because I could not stop for death--
he kindly stopped for me. . ."

I hear four notes played in succession,
on repeat with coda and then
I somehow mix the poem with the music
'til it wakes me, still driving me mad.
But I'll sing myself silly,
and sleepless, I'll sleep in my half-wakened state
and you'll be there,
like a hug or a touch at my Wake.

And I'll wake, like the mourners have prayed for,
as so many dead never have dreamed:
for my bed holds a sweet resurrection,
and your soft hand the healing I need.

"The Shadow Proves The Sunshine"

"Sometimes it takes a storm to really know the light:
the scent of rain, the weight of the clouds pulling down the sky.
Sometimes it takes a storm to know how you feel. . . .
. . .The way a cloud divides sometimes; the clearing and the blue.
I love you." -Fernando Ortega

***

"If only everything was black and white," we've heard it said.

And then the storm rolls in.

Dark. Sooty grey clouds, coating the inside of the sky and riddling the pavement with black spots. Rain-soaked and dismal, the view becomes rather grey.

Grey.

There is no colour so forlorn to me as grey. It drivels and complains and hangs its head; it snuffs out candles in smoldering plumes; it blankets colour leaving it lifeless and dull. I'd much rather darkness come and take me into Blackness completely.

And since Light is far gone and does not promise its return, we start asking for the Darkness-- better go all the way than stay in the middle. Let it thunder! Let it pour! Let it rattle my bones, and soak me through, and succumb to something of movement and invigorating power rather than something with no force, no vibration, no infusion of anything. And the storm comes.

Everything hovers. The air pulses; leaves quiver; every particle seems to tremble. It's awakening! It's enlivening! It's. . . over. And all that falls for days, and days, and days, and days is rain.

Black.

Night is black, and follows the evening storm. It's rumpled and wrinkled, drenched in water, shrivelled like a prune. It's old; it's new. It's clean and cold and. . . dark. And there it is. Black and rain and night; black and rain and night.

And it stays. It stays and waits, and when it sees us tire of day after day of windshield wipers, and wet shopping bags, and frizzy hair, and soggy shoes-- it stays. Dark and rain and night. Even in "day", it's dark and rain and night. No black, but dark.

And grey.

That grey.

That grey. . . turns an odd shade of gold. It hints. Remember light?

Day.

Mmm, day. Day, when we could see clouds as individual puffs, and frosty blue between them, so crisp it looked like it would snap! like a clean sheet hanging out on the line, drying in sunny warm air. Hot sunshine would heat our heads and make us yawn and smile and sleep in hammocks, or stretch out on the prickly grass, or lie down under the trees. Trees that didn't droop with water droplets and annoyingly drip & smudge our glasses, or crack and smash their branches into windows and parked cars. Trees that sway, with that amazingly musical rushing sound, like water in the distance-- but water that is too far away to bring the rain.

Indigo blue and golden sunsets that would blaze over wheat fields, and streams of sunlight that would glisten off the waters and the ice-encrusted trees: Light that pricked its stars in night skies and trickled through my hair like liquid gold when I napped under the open window. How easily we forget and take for granted. How simple and so sweet; so present it is. Light flashes with its own magnificence and yet, most often, sifts and drifts and stays, so understated.

Light.

It splits a cloud and suddenly, we feel like we've been given air. Dismal grey, coal black; every raincloud meets its doom in our minds as soon as one little ray breaks through. Shadows fell too long. Light came back.

I've missed you.

Hope sparks. We shake off the gloom, and tombs are seen as tombs. Life means something; darkness is exposed. What was taken for granted is reposed and returns unexpected. It is proved by the shadow, and shadows are proved by the light. One can finally see-- why didn't we see it before?

I love you.

That's what it was, but it was covered in grey. Light needs its shadows. Love needs its distance. Healing needs its pain.

Hello.

It's a brand new day.


L.E.

Butterfly : A Song

I wrote this a year and a half ago, but it has been going through my head the last few weeks. Butterflies may seem a highly cliche metaphor, but I can't help relating to it nonetheless.


BUTTERFLY

The cocoon is
tightening now,
There’s no room
in it now.

You’re afraid
you don’t know how
to let it go.

Butterfly, butterfly
butterfly, butterfly

You don’t remember
what it’s like:
the world outside,
the world outside.
It was such
a hard climb
you forgot
about the sky.
You did, didn’t you?

Butterfly, butterfly
better fly, butterfly

No more of the grass is greener.
Watch the sky, you will see her

flutter by,

butterfly
let her by: butterfly.

Never meant to be pinned.
More than a beauty,

wings were meant for this

Butterfly…


October 31, 2007

Strange Sensations

Reading old journal entries is an eerie experience for me at times. It gives the allusion of omniscience. I know what follows.

Happy entries are dear to read, yet make me cry when I know the sorrow that follows. The sorrowful pages make me smile to know what joys will soon come. I see where I'm about to get crushed; where I think I'm already strong; and where I will be surprised by joy. Ironically, the feelings I encounter when re-reading such usually run opposite to those on the page.

And no matter how old I get, I still see a little girl in every line.

I think that's why I stopped journalling a year ago. I found it embarrassing and absurd to go back and see what I thought wasn't real and what was real I didn't see. (I have some sort of complex, to see that I am wrong: even though no other eyes will probably ever read them, I myself blush to see my own naivety or crude mistaking of situations.)

Yet, if I read past my first inclinations, such entries help me see growth and know I am changing: even changing in ways I did not see until reading of this girl yet unchanged. Life is about such moments: it is what we are made of.

And God knows this is what it is to be human. He smiles over my ignorance as I do: He cries when He knows what I will have to face. He knows.

It's just so odd for me to sit from His view and read my life from outside-in: to watch my life in retrospect.

It's strange to relive one's life on a page. But I suppose that is what writers do.

Settling.

Settle down inside myself,
I sit and you,
sit too.

Rest my head,
my weary, weary. . .
but not so weary with you.

And I will keep you
right there.
Just there,

(neat little boxes
strewn on the floor;
untidy feelings
left at the door)

'til comfort leans
toward me once more
and proves that it

is you.

Fell Swoop

You tripped the line that got my heart,
you found the spot and took me down,
for only you could say the words again
and get me now.
You and all your catching ways,
you weave around my heart and say,
and say that you will come, my love,
and be my love someday.
You make every line awake,
for every soul must take a piece of another
down with it.
You took me down again today.

One fell swoop, one felling strike,
the timber creaked and fell tonight,
the forest shook under the might
as it was burned in firelight.

You take me in; you capture me,
the sidewalk takes me aimlessly,
and Wond’ring pours my coffee cup,
steeps my soul and fills it up
and I wonder at this fact that catches me.

One surprise, one word you said
and things came waking from the dead.
The thoughts that fall out of my head
are caught inside my heart instead.

Don’t take me down too easily;
your eyes can still speak wordlessly.
I do not trust a single thing; do not trust
the days I leave and do not trust the days
I keep.
I do not know which way is right,
to want the tree or firelight.

Aches are burning, feelings turning,
back inside our habitat.
Too easily I’d fall for that
and wisdom says to leave it here
and do not wake a love that seers,
but hearts are cold without a flame
and flames are made to live again
in embers that have stayed the same
though mine were cold
and nearly dead.

If I turn and choose to stay
I know that I won’t move away.
So much for that old yesterday;
it just became my new today.

Breaking glass, it can’t be put
back into one piece again,
and circling will bind my song
and another’s heart and then…

there’s still only one face I see
waiting in the aisle for me,
under the ancient canopy,
no other there to wed with me.

The air is cold and Autumn’s come,
and being tired runs me down,
these are thoughts deep in my mind
dropped back into the space of time.
My finger tremble with the key
glist’ning brass & gold and saying
“Throw me away or hold to me,”
the choice is mine and mine to be.
You drive in deep, suffer my sleep,
break out the tomb I’d left as was,
cried my widow’s tears because
I died
and left my love inside.

All my flowers turn and fade.
Yes, I live and yes I’m brave,
but all my life’s a solemn grave
to live so wise and live so safe.

Willows flurry, flurries snow,
I’m lost inside this space & rain,
my hands are cold though never once
did we ever hold them; touch.
But seasons run me through and say,
wait for me just as I wait
and ask again some other day
what we can never ask today.


October 3, 2008

Holiday

I've discovered a love for roads travelled;
they're enough for me to say,
(since they bring such dear friends homeward,)
I love a holiday.

The yellow lines down on the asphalt
seem dull with hours passed,
but they are lines trailed, long and ribboned,
that lead to home at last.

The cold may set in our bones, and
though they do not long for such,
if it brings you to this doorway,
then, indeed, it matters much.


November 8, 2007

Boys & Girls

There’s no space inside these places;
the cupboard’s small,
and I’m too tall to duck inside
and somehow hide.

The little boys are making faces;
I watch them smirk
and start to lurk to find me there
where it’s unfair.

I’m rather mad they make me squeal;
their fingers poke
and make a joke as though my scream
will crown them king.

I cannot say just how I feel;
I claim the swing
and softly sing as they walk by
all looking sly.

Sometimes there’s one who’s sometimes shy;
he slightly smiles
and girlish trials feel like they’re just
a girlish must.

The other boys are throwing grass;
he joins right in
the feuding men, for they all see
the girl in me.

They run for food and I am left;
the prickly grass
has made a mess up in my hair
and settled there.

I get back on the empty swing;
I might have fussed,
but I half blushed for just a while
to see him smile.


October 15, 2008

180°

If life turns circles, I will grind
the wheel until it’s turned full-round;
If walking opposite will find
me back from losing you to found,
then I will work until I’m shown
the moon in day; the Spring gone brown;
the antonyms synonymous
where down is up and up is down.

I’ll work to where I left you off
and leave the ache inside my chest,
if putting feeling in a box
and saving it is truly best,
then I will do it best I can
and leave you to the valiant rest
if you will fight and tell me that
you will try and clean this mess.

If cruel is but a way to feel
the subtle brush of something kind,
if crushing pain is just to seal
the healing beauty in its lines,
then I will bear it with some strength
and tuck it deep inside my mind
until the seasons weep and break
and make some sight out of the blind.


October 21, 2008

You Must Think of Me

When you go down the sidewalks,
grey-ish and cracked,
and the filmy store windows
don't reflect back anyone but yourself;
wind whips your hair,
I'm not there,
and it's felt:
you must think of me.

When you're pouring your coffee,
strong; piping hot,
and you find that there's more than
one cup in the pot as you set out two cups;
it's a mistake,
and you shake
off the crumbs;
you must think of me.

When you're saving your seating
there at the play,
and you count out an extra seat
quite by mistake, and you've taken two programmes;
script lines are felt,
no one else
understands:
you must think of me.

When you're sitting there musing
yourself 'round the globe
and the aging of time has you
living alone, just to frequent this park bench;
foreign or home?
you don't know
which is which:
you must think of me.

When you're juggling grocery bags,
car keys, and lists
and you flick on the light to see
what you have missed on the caller ID;
there the light blinks
and you think. . .
your heart beats:
you must think of me.

When you're facing a closing door,
watching for light
to come on in the windows and
pull up the blinds, for a sign to come in;
When you need to dream,
when you seem
at an end:
you must think of me.