the page is set; the ink is wet.

I don't forget.

2012-01-26T10:29:00.004-05:00

There's an empty box up on the shelf,
at least that's what I tell myself--
the kind with dust and curled up edge
and paper peeling off its top.

In truth, it holds a couple things
that I have stored from memories--
the articles that don't exist
but did, and now left set aloft.

I walk on and it haunts me less.
But I don't forget.
I don't forget.

April 5

2011-04-05T14:46:00.001-04:00

In eleven months
we could have joy soon and find
the keys to our locks.

April 4.

2011-04-04T14:41:00.001-04:00

This is my wish today:
you, forever.

And if they take that away,
it will get better

for I will follow you
(I'll find you,
chase you,
until my fingers
slip between yours
from behind you)

wherever.

April 3

2011-04-03T13:49:00.002-04:00

Sunny.

It's like summer

when I have no feeling of spring.

Awake; resolved;

the promise.

Months will pass

and soon we will be

past today.

How slow.

How fast.

Warmth's fingers melt

into my face.

Come soon.

April 2

2011-04-03T13:39:00.003-04:00

Can I sit with you

and know I just sit with you?

Just that stirs passion.

April 1

2011-04-01T23:43:00.003-04:00

I don't always choose words.
Over me, they hang
suspended, bouncing
on light, light string.

I catch them like spiders
on threaded webs,
carrying them, wisp and air,
floating past the dust mites
of my over-crowded mind.

I discard some,
annoyed,
and shudder
at their spidery-ness.
I shy from their unloveliness
and skittering shape and size.

Some words are uncomely;
eight-legged and untimely.
(Not all words are poetry.)

But some are fireflies.

April 1, 2011

Frederick on St. Patrick's Day

2011-03-23T19:29:00.002-04:00

I keep watching humanity.

I know.

It's usually seen as awful, and messy,

and absolutely confusing.

I usually walk around town with an eye that sees degeneration,

lewdness, and an inherent sense of vulgarity.

And you would think today,

St. Patrick's Day, with its excuses for insatiable beer-lust

and enticing invitations for bawdy, common intoxication would

stir up the indignant prude within me.

Granted, as I walked toward downtown, the awful green shirts

with their fake bow ties and shiny plastic green beads became more

and more unbearable,

and the very volume of harsh, blatant voices

or gutsy laughs and guffaws at comments like,

"You need to tell us where you left the car, in case you can't remember after this!"

definitely grated against the calm, collected soul inside myself.

But before I reached the materialistic, base groupings of humanity

gathered for their personal pleasures and shameless inebration,

there was a sense I had.

I can't seem to voice it without sounding mystic,

but even as I walked through the people,

my moral core flexing against the jeering thrusts of carnality,

I could feel the intense fragility of their lives.

The historic district has a quiet about it,

something I relate to, like my old soul can feel the history,

the genteel propriety, and sighs in a comfortable relief.

I'm not fooled to think that everyone in such lovely houses

as are lovely as the artifices themselves.

But I tend to imagine it's so, and even as I passed an open door,

loud laughter pumping out of those old wooden casements,

I heard that people were alive.

They were probably drunk, or getting there,

and for that, I was sorry. Not because I thought the alcohol was

a poison to them, but because they found it their reason for joy.

The loud voices of the people on the street kept yelling into me,

pulsing into me,

"I'm trying to prove myself! I'm trying to prove I'm fun! I'm trying!

I'm trying to be someone! I'm trying to forget! I'm trying!"

I'm sitting at the park, watching lovely trees softly lean against the air,

hearing children squealing and dogs barking,

watching people run, and bike, and play football uproariously on the grass.

These people are alive.

I know it's not profound, but. . . it is. Because I don't think they really know it.

Because, even as much as they breathe, and move their limbs,

and flirt, and fall against each other, and scrape their knees,

and drink until their bodies vomit, and yell at each other, and march along

in their sweat suits, and Leprechaun hats, and business suits;

for as much as they beat their bodies in exercise,

or drink themselves out of their sorrows,

or walk their babies in pretty little strollers, and trot along with their

toddlers in their little sneakers and tiaras;

for as much as they live, they do not. And for as much as they do,

they don't realize it.

I feel the pulse of living inside of me: a God-given fibre that generates

a tremor that hums beneath the surface of this humanity.

There's a Life-breath, breathing, breathing, breathing. . .

It shakes up the stolid, unmoving, hardened clay of frozen minds

and tips the warmth of Knowing, and purpose, and desire into

the soul until it seeps into the cracks and corners of thought,

and flesh, and want, and heart.

I'm an outsider looking in.

They keep looking at me. I can feel it. I smile, or don't give eye contact,

but they look. The children especially. They look up at me as if they know something,

or are drawn to something, as if they are closer to knowing what I know than anyone.

I hold secrets they don't know. I know the Mystery.

A group of young boys walked by, maybe ten of them,

and the one-- a tall, chubby, oversized boy-- took the time to slow down as he passed

and very politely say, "It's a nice day, isn't it?"

I smiled and said it is.

One ten-year-old boy out of millions,

but there was that spark.

He knew something of kindness, and goodness, and what it is to exchange

life for life, from person to person.

The air is getting colder; the willow is brightening greener

and the bell tower is chiming the half hour.

I'm cold, but I'm unable to move, poised on the top of this sensation.

I am a Seer. Not in the strangeness of psychic mediums,

but I'm the reality of Knowing-- with the Spirit of God inside that whispers,

coaxes, and opens my eager eyes that I may see.

I peer into Life and it peers back at me. It's as if the Earth,

as if the Life-breath inside creation and humanity, winks and smiles at me

as if to say, "You recognize me, don't you?"

It's as if God smiles to see me seeing Him inside what He has made.

I see Him.

I see Him, and I know Him, and I crave Him more and more

with every taste of life that I get into my being.

I see Him in these people-- I see where He is not,

the absence and the emptiness,

the utter worthlessness of their plight outside of His strength.

The boy in the green shirt came back.

He stopped to talk and ask me what I'm doing.

I told him, "I'm writing."

He asked, "What are you writing about?"

I replied, "I"m writing about the day. What it is to be here,

to walk downtown, to see the park; what I'm thinking

and feeling."

His face pulled strangely as if he'd never heard of such a thing.

I asked him, smiling, "Do you ever write?"

He shook his head quickly, "No."

He asked me how old I am, if I was in college or high school.

I replied, "I'm out of school, actually."

He looked a little unsure.

I asked him how old he is. He replied, "I'm thirteen."

I was surprised. Here I thought he was ten.

I suppose we both surprised each other.

He quickly moved away and I was smiling,

only to hear four loud-mouthed boys ask him as they biked by,

"So, what did she say?"

He mumbled something quickly and they started laughing,

yelling back at him, "Thanks, man!" as they pedaled away.

He'd been set up by older, 'cooler' guys.

He had been used to try to be cool by vulgar little brats

who wanted to know more about the lady sitting on the park bench

typing away.

I'm sure they felt stupid for getting information about a woman

twice their age, but nonetheless,

I was struck.

Even the one lovely moment I had ended up tainted,

the politeness a cover for some dumb, childish, man-boy intentions.

So this is humanity, even its children.

This is what we raise.

And they keep on going and going

without knowing.

Yet I feel the Life-breath breathing.

They just need to come to Life.

March 17, 2011

Friday Night Dining.

2011-02-25T21:43:00.003-05:00

Please walk out of the restaurant

one by one

and let him clean the tables early.

Please button up your coat

and take your bag,

pay your check

and take the steps

and let him run out of things to do.

(I miss him while he works for you.)

February 25, 2011

Small Talk.

2011-02-25T20:52:00.004-05:00

The talk is so small.

Now I understand why it's called that.

So. Very. Small.

Can no one say anything worth saying?

Can no one open up

and pull out tangible things,

real things,

things that stir up something

more than drunk nights

and favourite spas?

People wine and dine

and talk like they're brushing past

a rack of clothes in a department store.

They feel the fabric,

checking how much they would have to pay

to get what they want--

is it cheap?

Will I like it once I take it home?

She giggles

and drinks her coffee,

one size smaller than his.

She's trying.

Attempting at petite;

inviting.

She leans,

brushing her hair out of her face,

touching her face,

wanting this more than he does.

He sits back,

telling stories he doesn't care about,

talking with his hands,

scratching his face,

gripping his own leg

with his uncomfortable hand.

He doesn't care.

Their words speak small talk,

their brains calculate.

They'll get up to leave.

It's a Friday night.

They're middle-aged.

She'll keep giggling.

He'll keep artificially grinning.

They'll go to her place,

and then

they'll fall in love

with someone

nine people

from now.

February 25, 2011

Resurrection.

2011-02-23T19:48:00.003-05:00

The stars come out of their graves for You.

(I do too.)

Their white hot fire and my heart suffuse.

(It's all for You.)

Hot coals fire

where the diamonds blush,

treasures come up from

even in the rough.

A bloom in the ash

and a tombstone cracks;

a grave yawns wide for the men on their backs.

All that death could once control

falls away from my vibrating soul.

Dead at best, You knew she slept.

With nothing left, You called her back.

Awake,

awake,

awake into the Light.

When Heaven battles,

when old bones rise,

when Mercy walks among us

with fire in His eyes--

as the Earth has groaned

so the Earth will sigh,

as its old graves tremble

and its dry wells cry--

He'll walk between graves with the walking dead

with Lazarus hearts that got up when He said. . .

Awake,

awake,

awake into the Light.

His feet will walk on Earth again
as I hear her say,
"I remember Him.
It's been so long
since You've been gone.
I remember way back when;
I remember Him."

Oh, grave where is your sting?

Oh, death where is your victory?

Awake,

awake,

awake into the Light.

February 2011

Indomitable.

2011-02-08T18:08:00.005-05:00

Give me the strength to resist the day;

virtue to grapple the perilous plight

of the fallen, disasters, and scorching melee

disillusioned in wastelands and blinded in night.

Leave me Your vision, returned by the light;

Heaven to help me incline toward the stay

of Your stronghold withstanding the force of my flight

and Your grounding ensuring I won't lose my way.

Serve me the means with which I can resolve

to find myself sated by every good thing;

convinced and invaded by Fullness and All,

left ruined to hungry things You did not bring.

Build me with knowledge's sure-holding beam,

giving my heart stone to footing and wall,

set against windscape and rain's biting sting,

stalwart and fiercesome to stand for Your call.

February 8, 2011

you wrote yourself upon my life.

2011-02-01T18:23:00.001-05:00

I will sit here and try to think
of words for you.
And if I don't succeed today,
I will try again tomorrow.

February 1, 2011
. . .

I'll write of you, if I dare,
I will write in words that I can find,
if I can find,
if I can spy,
and when I do, I'll pen them quick
and kiss them well,
for they have been elusive things.

It is a lifetime's endeavour,
specific, and poignant, and ageless.
Words too large would drown you.
Words too small mightn't suffice,
but it's the littlest words that fit into these spaces
(the delicate, trembling,
secrets places)
I have for you.

So I will search them out,
on road signs,
and in library books;
on billboards,
and pages of Scripture;
on advertisements,
and in mindless files,
and in root words,
and prefixes,
and grammatical text.

I will look for your words
in lyrics,
and in postscripts,
and in old shoeboxes;
on discarded magazine piles,
on the backs of poets' receipts;
I'll trace out the stars
and connect the dots;
I'll tip my head and squint my eyes
to find you script
in paintings
and architecture
and antique tablature.

I'll listen for you
in childish prattle on the playground,
in my own head's recitations;
in quotation,
in poems,
in lexical lists I've filed in notebooks
on my dusty shelves.
I will sit inside myself, hours and hours,
I will sit and contrive;
I shall will my mind to dream up terms
and luscious phrase that can compare
to your face,
to our lifetime,
and to this breathlessness.

And if I cannot find you words, my love;
if I burn out this candle and cannot find
a second wind
and all the life inside of my exhales
until the flame is snuffed
and I,
like a tiny film of ephemeral smoke,
wisp into the air with my last breath--
if then I cannot find you language, love,
then know
I wrote you sonnets inside myself
on love, and awe, and silence.

February 1, 2011

Ugly::Beauty

2011-01-25T22:04:00.003-05:00

It was the quietest thought I have ever had,
tip-toed around the yelling ones;

the ones that spit, "Who, you?"
with spiteful tongues
tipped in doubtful poison.

The storefront windows jeered at me,
telling me they're on my mirror's side.
The dark smear they left, smirking,
"You can't help but look at yourself. . .
now, aren't you disappointed?"

There was the embarrassed blush
when someone comments,
"You sure do take a lot of pictures
of yourself,"
all the while, knowing I didn't take pictures
because I think I'm beautiful,
but because I was desperate to prove to myself
that maybe I could be.

The tags on the inside of my clothes
burned numbers into my brain,
telling me even single digits are of
the greatest numerical value,
and I winced as I'd rip them off
to get rid of their weight
only to find the scales were playing
the same game.

I got up in the early morning
to paint my face on,
layering and layering and layering;
the mask that stared back at me
coyly smiled to say,
"It's me they love."

But outside of all that screaming,
there was that voice.
It was small, and still,
and it made me pay attention,

because there were two eyes
that didn't see straight through me,
or past me,
or see nice things "in spite of. . ."

Those two eyes teared up
to hear me admit what I'd been listening to
in all those leering comments
and ideas
and opinions locked inside my head.

Those eyes spoke silently,
of kisses and good sight and prayers:
he said that I was misled,
appalled that I could think that all
those cruel things could be true.

I still couldn't believe.

And then he stood me in front of the mirror,
his eyes full, and brimming with words
he couldn't even say.
So he didn't say a thing.

He just looked at me in front of that lying
piece of glass,
past the make-up and inches
and my form and waist.
His hands on my hips,
his eyes on mine,

the lovely whisper sighed,

"My mirror can't compare to his eyes.
Maybe I shouldn't believe mine."

I blinked,
and though I didn't see anything different,
the liars went silent.
Those eyes almost cried,
and Beauty smiled.

Decembering.

2010-12-03T22:35:00.003-05:00

Hold the phone;

baby, did you see the snow?

It's cold

blowing on the breeze.

I know

someday we will see it

waking to the sound

of our Decembering.

I'll show up,

raise a cup

to the life in you.

Hide your eyes;

I can't take the light inside.

I think that I'll take you in

and never let you go.

I know, I know

this will be a time to hold.

Baby, I can love you,

I know how to love you.

Call me crazy, call me strange.

I know how to love you,

I know how to take you into arms.

I know how to love you,

love you forever.

I know it's what they say,

all those crazy lovers,

when the morning comes

and snow is brushing the ground:

they say, "Next year, baby,

we'll have a life together.

One more holiday

you will celebrate

then I'll be right beside you.

Wait, wait, wait, wait."

So I will,

'cos I know how to love you,

I know how to love you,

call me crazy, call me strange,

but I know I can.

I was made to love you,

through the mornings; through the nights,

through the cold and summer times,

I was made for moments just like these:

For Decembering.

Put the coffee on.

I know that you don't like it,

but you make it just for me,

to keep me awake through the night

so we can keep on loving,

and talking.

Pull the covers close.

We know how to keep alive.

Some say they know love is just a season,

some say it won't last.

Some say we could never know what we're talking about.

Some say Christmas means more love,

but when it's over it'll be gone.

Funny thing is, this is how we feel

all the year long,

'Cos I know how to love you,

I know how to love you.

Call me crazy, call me strange,

but I know that it's true.

I know how to love,

I know how to keep you home.

I know how to pull you in

and keep you close to my soul.

You and you alone.

December 3, 2010

You.

2010-11-10T20:14:00.001-05:00

How can I stand to keep myself

held back;

the memory retracing all we have?

We smile, because we know how,

because we learned to

even when they said we were

disaster.

How could I go so many months

without you?

You sit two feet away in the cold,

our eyes meeting,

then fleeting

from the tears we would cry

because we're smiling again.

It's the warmth of your arms

that I think of

when you're nodding as I talk,

and shrug,

and I wish to push aside the

feel of your face nestled

next to mine,

in case I lose my train of thought.

How can I go without you,

as I've remet you?

In some space of distance

and the foolish things we've said

and done,

my paper heart is painted

in your colours,

trembling for you;

wanting only you.

How is it you do to me all the things

you do to me;

the ache and bubbling of happiness

beyond control?

You're my best friend,

and someone that I long for

when I'm by myself,

when I'm not myself;

when you remind me of who I am.

How can I prove your soul

was made to mesh with mine?

The leaves blow away,

and though red, and though brown,

they prove their shades come

from trees; just trees--

so different, yet the very same.

It's your eyes that startle me

like so long ago;

it's the look that you give that makes me

look away.

I wish I could stare, but I'm afraid

they'll all come to know

the treasure that I hold as

I'm trembling for you;

wanting only you.

November 10, 2010

Poetry Reading

2010-11-04T16:14:00.005-04:00

Old men make poetry
from spiderwebs and
Korean war.
Old minds totter
on gossamer lines
as old bones settle
on the wooden chair.
He reads of childhoods
in ancient kingdoms,
his old, thick tongue
slurring foreign names.
Words growl out in
old man timbre,
creaking out
like trees grown amber
about to drop
their green youth
slowly
to the forest floor.

November 3, 2010

Little Wonders of the World.

2010-10-28T00:38:00.004-04:00

If I could piece together the wonders of the world,

you would be surprised to find

there would be more than seven

and they would be significantly

small.

If I could piece together the wonders of the world,

I would match the tender jolt

when our eyes locked from across the street

and the way my fingers traced along

the lines of muscle and vein on your arm

when you tucked me in the corner

of your elbow.

I would stitch the sound of when

my ear found the deep lines of a cello

lying in the bottom of a symphony

and the car rides when I would watch

the raindrops race on my backseat window

until I was mesmerized to sleep.

I would fold the ache of when you walked out

the door and I missed you from five feet away

with the taste of my first sip of wine

when it hit my tongue like the feeling of tears

and warmth down inside heartsick

and young, young love.

I would trace the sky catching on fire

with the free-fall feeling of my first

roller coaster ride,

my heart popping out of my chest

with an exhilaration that told me

I'd found some passion in this life.

I would tangle the ache of sitting

two feet from you, trying not to

look into each other's eyes too long

with the way my childish fingers once

desperately wanted to touch the treasures

behind museum glass.

I would mesh the jump of my heart

when a baby smiles up at me and

the happy impatience to reach the end

of my favourite book,

knowing I like the way it goes.

I would melt the taste of deep, warm

chocolate in its ever-rich comfort

with the way it feels to walk through the front door

and snuggle in with the blinds closed tight,

until me and my blanket have amalgamated

into one dreamy pile.

I would tag the feel of my pen in my hand

and my desk chair rolling under my thoughts

with the wist of sitting on a park bench,

staring mindless and mindful,

as the stars practically fell out of the sky

above us.

But of all the little wonders of the world,

I would pair the quiet breath I felt you breathe

against me after that first slow kiss

and the moment your eyes brimmed with

bright, hot tears when you turned and

said that you loved me.

October 2010

Old Souls.

2010-10-25T23:09:00.002-04:00

Sit me down on the long, low wall and

let me feel the lamplight find my eyes.

Talk to me, because I love to talk to you.

I love those little words you choose.

Slow me down on the long, cold sidewalk

and make me take a breath so I realize

who we are because of who we are.

You know I laugh because of you.

Lay me down on the damp night grass

and see if eyes or stars are the fairest sight.

Smile at me, because I love to smile at you.

Try to leave, but it's no use.

October 25, 2010

I'm lonely without you.

2010-10-19T23:17:00.002-04:00

I think you might know;

I think you might inch up to my thoughts

every day just to peek over the rim.

I'm full-up with feelings

I nurture and smile at when

I have a second to think.

You press up against me

every day; you nudge me

and I feel my heart come up

to meet you.

You're with me,

in some form; ever-present

when I talk,

and sleep,

and eat,

and wonder.

You're here; right here,

the thought I enjoy

and the thought I suppress

to hide that I'd like to laugh,

or cry,

when I imagine if I

lean my head on your chest.

I think I feel you.

I know that I know you.

I'd like to be yours

when I meet you between

where our eyes meet

and what isn't forgotten;

a promise

we broke and decided.

My hair is long.

The cold creeps in

around again and tells me

of your arms

and warmth.

You're a long way off

and a long way gone,

but my heart thinks I'm yours.

I'd have to agree.

2010

Fall Cleaning.

2010-10-01T14:21:00.002-04:00

I stir my coffee with my finger,

the windows propped

three inches open.

Hello, my life.

The sweet, sweet rush

of leaves

dust fresh air off

the clouds.

It puffs and sweeps

into my room,

the catch-all for

October's lightness.

A dustpan

never felt so good.

October 1, 2010

Pass(h)erby.

2010-09-21T17:35:00.004-04:00

Do not walk so fast

that you lose their faces.

They are the world

for which you live.

Two eyes may stare

as two others pass

and never acknowledge

the soul passing there.

You race the crosswalk,

they cross the sidewalk;

you obey lights and

resident rules.

She was yours, somewhere,

if iris found iris;

but he glanced at Heaven

and caught her spark.

(Do not walk so fast

that you lose their faces.

They are the world

for which you live.)

September 21, 2010

Sitting on a Park Bench.

2010-09-21T17:00:00.003-04:00

I feel like

I look like

the girl who's

always waiting

for someone.

(But maybe

I am.)

The metal

park bench with

its arm rest

inconveniently

welded down the center;

a barrier,

like no one could join

even if he

wished.

(Or if he did,

he would sit very,

very close.)

All or nothing:

Options with no

leniency for we

Grey Areas.

I go places like parks

or the second table back

from the door

at the coffee shop

as if some epiphany

will tilt its head toward me there

and tell me

You like your independence.

But I have never felt

quite refreshed

in the Alone.

I get self-conscious when

the man jogs by

or the woman sits across from me

with her high heels crossed

on a scuffed commercial-grade floor.

I feel like they all read me.

The girl,

waiting.

September 21, 2010

Reassurance.

2010-07-27T20:20:00.001-04:00

With this frequented matter,
do not discontent me,
with its sweet skin of comfort
and ease-making touch;
whispers modulate
from tossed words
to conversation,
ears
catching sweet breath
and flakes of
gold thoughts.

“Familiar”;
a favourite,
to hear it is hearts rest-
ing neatly,
and jumbled
in feeling belonged
to
and known too
and trusted
when some things are broken,
and twisted,
and wrong.

Come down,
like the maid hanging
curtains of heavy
brocade
on the dusty old rods
in the gloom;
sit down on a breath
to lessen these
cares
you have kept
in this
over-done tomb.

Make me a trust,
a razor-sharp promise;
a kiss to the mouth of
a mind-reeling claim,
one that will
crimp our life
or simply smooth it,
but make it:
drop the blade and believe
we’ll be safe.

Revisit cooled hopes
on the hope
that they’ll hear that
good voice,
”She’s not dead;
she is only asleep,”
and dim eyes will blink
to the sound of
Rest
tip-toeing soft
down the stairs
to make Peace.

July 27, 2010

Intent.

2010-06-11T11:44:00.003-04:00

This is Your heart,
Your perfect size
of Justice fit upon my life:
Your Verity,
the settled tie
of Your intent
reshaping mine.

Yours is the cause;
I am the way
of Spirit blown in
earthen dust;
the crust of Earth
reformed to make
world-shakers
out of each of us.

March 12, 2010

Caramel.

2010-06-11T11:40:00.003-04:00

Caramel on my fingers,
gluing to everything
I touch,
messy
and sticky
and inconvenient.

Every page I turn
gets covered
in a (problematic)
golden glaze.

I cannot ignore
the feeling and result.
I cannot ignore
how worth it,
and sweet.

(I cannot ignore
what you do to me.)

May 6, 2010

Absolute.

2010-06-11T10:43:00.005-04:00

She is some fable,
with tulle dress and empress
resolve and regaling
redressing the grieved.
Her empty promise
to kiss me with answers:
she, one sweet legend,
I craved to believe.

Passing her entrance,
or so told by patrons
of Belief and Unquestioned
deference and cool faith--
I could not find her:
I needed her answer,
but long in doubt,
knowing no way to behave.

No absolute, purpose-put
turn of existence,
no rock-solid way I was
bent to conceive,
the shock of the life-making
sear of decisions
that rework themselves
in a dangerous tease.

Life piques our questions
toward heart-bending factions
that leave fears sent
crashing down over the edge.
She is no net,
no simple reaction;
too many trace passion
as dark or pretend.

Goodbye to you, Perfect:
in blurred lines and feeling,
I learn in the burning
and chase down my death.
Life grips its beauty
with painful confliction:
the peace in the action
of bleeding and breath.

June 10, 2010

Inconclusive.

2010-05-11T14:39:00.003-04:00

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

Both Sadly

2010-05-03T21:35:00.003-04:00

This is my life without you

.

Strange,
not quite there,
something stuck in
somewhere
I can't reach.

Empty,
wind across the
bottle top.
A hollow sound;
a flame
snuffed out;

an ember
shuddering
across cold ash.
A half-closed shutter,
a broken clasp,
a blurry snapshot
without
a flash.

Something left
not quite right.
Each reaction
left just that.
Plan B,
reroute
(left or right,
I can't decide);
The old man
at the corner sign.
I'm lost
in my own life.

May 3, 2010

See You Again.

2010-03-14T15:05:00.006-04:00

I walk this shady place,
I might miss your face;
don't know if I'd know you
if I'd see you today.

Cobwebs and cornered brooms,
dust off the love-making looms.
I've built a one-heart room
just for you.

I want to see you again,
I need to see you again.
I know that it has been such a long time.
I want to see you again,
I know I'll see you again.
I know that we'll know when it's the right time. Mmm.

I've been a comfort'ble bed;
I've come alive in your head
where the blood hits the air
and goes red.

I wash my thoughts in the rain;
there's a sweet spot in my brain
where you turn every corner
and it's just the same.

I want to see you again,
I need to see you again.
I know that it has been such a long time.
I want to see you again;
God, if I see you again,
I know that we'll know when it's the right time. Mmm.

Cursed is the day we forget;
blessed is the day that we met.
There's a strong eclipse drawn
over this Juliet.

But I'll be considerate,
stay as far as I can get
away from you 'til you ask,
'Will you let,

let me see you again?
I'd love to see you again.
I haven't called you 'friend' in such a long time.
If I could see you again,
I long to see you again,
I think now is the time.'

I want to see you again,
I need to see you again.
I know that it has been such a long time.
I want to see you again,
I know I'll see you again.
I know that we'll know when it's the right time. Mmm.

March 14, 2010

Homebody.

2010-02-26T19:49:00.002-05:00

Blankets
and a pile of messy hair
on my head;
the delicious smell
of coffee
beside my bed
(covered in polka dots),
and slippers on the floor,

where I trace my toes
imagining sand,
and look in the mirror,
the tool of events
I might attend;
a new exciting meet-greet
chance
(just once)
to dance;

a little dress;
or little dates spent
here (or there);
some evening affair
and a tinkling glass.
But I think

I'd rather wake up after
strings of pearls,
after ten hours' sleep
and the day's climbed the sky,
and peek out of my
squinty eyes
and find you curled up
by my side.

February 26, 2010

(love.)

2010-02-25T17:04:00.003-05:00

Love is a word so small,
made to slip into
the littlest space (a crack in our shell;
the mask we wear well)
and burst inward-out into bloom.

February 25, 2010

Roadside.

2010-02-25T14:52:00.005-05:00

Start me over easy,
with a pale blue sky
and the sun that moves
its egg yolk eye
sliding up and down
the simmering sigh
of a Summer day gone hazy.

Let me down gently,
with a blacktop grey,
a dark radiator of
warmths that stay
long into the night
long after the day
under this trav'ler gone crazy.

Come to me safely,
cross the old white line
painted down the center
of your road and mine;
the one-way street
hangs a one-way sign
over a drive gone lazy.

February 25, 2010

What Writers Do. (?)

2010-02-24T12:42:00.005-05:00

I have rewritten this beginning a few times over.

I hate that.

I hate having thoughts that are not words and feelings that are not thoughts.

But then again, I love it.

I love messing up my mind with things inside so much bigger than myself,
and having the opportunity to write, and rewrite, and rewrite again until
all (or most) has spilled out on the screen

and erased.

And then there are those few lines that make it. I'm sure they puzzle why,
like that lone survivor of a merciless crash or the furious swirl of a cyclone writer swift-
ly gnashing all the realities around to bits. . .

except that one,

like this.

Writers are curious people.

Even their words are baffled. 'Why me?' A writer's choice of content and word
is some crazed mystery only tucked in the tiny wrinkles of the author's brain,
untouched by probe or scope of why or how.

When crossed with such a question, it ruffles the writer
until he or she gives some stream of strange, but somehow intellectual sounding, answers
that crash into the reader's mind like a semi or burst out the top of the heart
like a green shoot busting into bloom.

Or

you get the dazed shake of the head;
the lost train of thought;
the distracted and disgusted

"Don't ask."

February 24, 2010

Paper Lantern.

2010-02-23T19:28:00.003-05:00

If ever I stepped through the glass,
paper thin,
the darkly tinted mesh of
where I’m from and
what I’ve been,
I think it would tear
with ruffled seam;
me, a little flame within,
like a paper lantern,
seen;
the perforated edges
bloom’d,
with lick of tiny fire splayed,
a King’s face drawn
in shadowbox
against the wall of what
I’ve made;
the small light, tendered
and revealed,
peeking out behind His wings,
His Light in light
the one that’s seen;
His Shadow grown
by lesser things.

February 23, 2010

Arielle.

2010-02-14T00:18:00.001-05:00

Feather-light
and delicate,
her soft, soft skin
like Lamb's Ear.
My fingers feel too large;
I am afraid to touch
too much.

To brush her head of fuzz,
a little peach
of newborn pink,
I think if I would breathe
too deeply, she'd
blow away like
fairy dust.

Her sister's eyes
and puckered lips,
a two-year-old's sweet
adoration;
her baby teeth show
as she smiles
and nestles in to
cuddle up.

Soft miracles
come every day,
with little eyes afraid to open;
new light, and sound,
and sweet sensations
(like kisses)
form her baby world.

Something sacred fills
the room,
in hush-hush joys
of little people.
And though she isn't mine,
I thought I'd cry
for she is beautiful.

So fragile,
without words,
her little body moves
and settles.
Little Wonder;
Life's grown fonder,
and as she wakes,
a flower blooms.

February 13, 2010

Someday.

2010-01-26T21:52:00.000-05:00

Someday, we'll be a life's length of love.
And someday, we'll have an arm-full of little ones
made from little sparks inside our thoughts
and tiny kisses on our hearts,
mingling so well, my love.

Someday, we'll be a patchwork piece of art.
Someday, people will find me where you are,
close-knit and stitched into your side
feeling your sweet breath fall and rise,
and I will wake you in the night
just to see what you have to say
'cos I won't be able to wait for daylight.

Someday, they'll say we're two branches of one tree.
And someday, I'll say that's not good enough for me.
'Cos we're more like part of each other's self.
To say that you breathe, then I must be the breath.
Not even dying could undo what we have done,
set as a seal upon my heart,
upon your heart, my love.

January 26, 2010

Connect.

2010-01-06T23:32:00.002-05:00

I say 'I love you'
when you can't hear me
just for the fact
that it might reach.
Three-words-deep
in your mind,
they might touch you;
three little guards
at the door
of your dreams.

January 6, 2010

Forcing the Hand.

2009-12-24T21:24:00.007-05:00

"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.

2009-12-21T23:16:00.002-05:00

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.

2009-12-21T23:13:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-12-21T23:12:00.002-05:00

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.

2009-12-21T23:12:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-12-21T23:11:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-12-21T23:10:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-12-21T23:09:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-08-23T17:23:00.000-04:00

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.

2009-05-25T20:31:00.000-04:00

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.

2009-05-25T20:23:00.000-04:00

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

2009-05-15T17:39:00.004-04:00

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.

2009-05-14T21:54:00.002-04:00

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

2009-02-14T23:09:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-02-14T23:08:00.000-05:00

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?

2009-01-28T15:57:00.004-05:00

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

2009-01-28T12:02:00.000-05:00

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

2009-01-27T14:32:00.003-05:00

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"

2009-01-23T23:13:00.004-05:00

"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

2009-01-11T12:25:00.003-05:00

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

2009-01-06T03:23:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-01-05T02:00:00.003-05:00

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

2009-01-02T01:41:00.002-05:00

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

2009-01-02T01:41:00.001-05:00

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

2009-01-02T01:22:00.000-05:00

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°

2009-01-02T01:04:00.000-05:00

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

2009-01-01T23:35:00.004-05:00

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.

Thoughts On New Year's Eve

2008-12-31T17:48:00.002-05:00

I have seen you, have been you, in your wildest dreams;
your fair look, your features, your subconscious streams
of thought-life and movement and dazzling things
in love-light and moments spent setting these scenes.

Here's a wish: here's a dare. Life is full of extremes.
Here's to song that has spun itself out to its seams.
I have danced to your music and crushed all the leaves
that have dropped down the curtain on seasons, sweet deeds,

and the fist-flying fights that have held in suspense;
I have left them behind, neither pauper nor prince.
I have quieted battles, content to dispense
of the drama and spotlights and sit on the fence.

You require no promise to that or to this;
I have left years in questions without recompense.
It's a grand thing that's coming! I am caught in the midst,
yet I find soft the solace sitting here, present tense.

Heart-Wisdom

2008-12-29T00:26:00.008-05:00

"Well, it's time to be wise; wise in the ways of the heart. . . ." -Vienna Teng

Wise.

I have always wanted to be wise. I have always aspired to be astute; to have great maturity; to do what is right above what is easy, and do it with the deepest satisfaction. I know which things are wise in life; I know wise answers.

But is Wisdom really about knowing what is best, or could it be more about doing what is best? Because I know many things that are best; that which I should do to better my heart. I know many things that are satisfactory; those which fill me with good things.

However, does the heart naturally do what is wise? Absolutely not. We have all heard the verse slammed down on any situation of emotional confusion: "The heart is evil above all things!"And sometimes, our hearts condemn themselves, continually pounding: "Evil! Evil! Evil!" when our emotions are confused; when our feelings pull at the threads and peel off the layers on the surface that once conveyed "Established" and "Secure" and "Wise".

I am not disputing that the heart is evil; I am not denying the total depravity of man; but outside (or perhaps it's better said, "inside") the label of "Evil", really the human heart reveals itself as simply ridiculous; the simplest of fools. It may even grow to know Wisdom, contrasted by its own foolishness, and yet it will still slip away into its own ludicrous complications; its own eventual demises. To come out and say that the heart is just plain stupid may actually be saying something, well, wise.

"To do what is right before what is easy": to both wise and stupid heart, that is a painful thing-- ripping out parts of ourselves that abuse us; constricting things that overwhelm us; sifting out the gritty pieces that rub us raw (or waiting until they have scrubbed us smooth). To do what is right before what is easy: not just to know it; not just to say it; but to do it? This is where hearts are rent and feelings scream; where the stupidity of the heart is tempted to decide that it is better to sink into depression and self-pity, excusing itself by its penitence of self-denial; where hearts tell themselves "I'm just a victim," and find loopholes to return to the comfortable place that soothes the need rather than filling it.

But if the heart will persevere to the completion of the task, to do what is wise beyond the knowledge of its good, there is the actual Good. Knowledge of Good does little to better a person or align our hearts with God's. But the acting out and insistent pursuance of Wisdom and her ways leads our hearts out of their inherent evil and into the manifestation of Good.

To do what is Wise is not self-deprivation left in a sad emptiness of what was. To do what is Wise requires discipline that hews out the harmful that we may be filled with that which gives Fullness of Life. The Spirit of God cannot dwell in a house already full. He says to "Get Wisdom": Wisdom which helps create a clean & open place for His Presence to dwell-- but even more, helps maintain the home that he may come settle in deep; that God may settle and stay.

Get Wisdom.

I want Wisdom, in its truest form: Wisdom that does what it knows & says. I want the bravery to do the things which must be done. Did you know Wisdom takes Courage? Of course it does. I could type out Wisdom and proverbs without ever daring anyone or anything, least of all myself. But to act with Wisdom takes the greatest valour of all.

I want the Wisdom to believe that I am not depriving myself of what I desire; rather, I am desiring what is best, that in the end, I am not deprived.

I long to be heart-wise.

-L.E.

Vision vs. Imagination

2008-12-25T23:47:00.004-05:00

"Where there is no vision, the people perish...." Proverbs 29:18

There is a delicate line drawn between Vision and Imagination. It is a line easily smudged and altered; a fraction of a space between what the human heart wants to see and what true Wisdom sees.

There are times we look into a situation, times we peer into another person, and Hope is stirred when it foresees a better outcome, or perceives good inside a darkened circumstance. It's like observing someone behind one-way glass: the person caught behind the glass only sees his reflection thrown back at him and becomes discouraged that all there may be is him and that room and that mirror on the wall. But the person outside the glass knows that it is window, not a mirror, that shows the one inside is surrounded by more than himself; there is a world right there, and yet the one left inside has lack of vision, thus lack of strength, for lack of seeing the (true) big picture.

There are times when God reveals His Vision to see what others may not see; He shows Himself, and shows good, to spur us on to right actions and to encourage those still left behind their one-way glass. There is more, right there! Not less than an inch away from your face: you are part of something bigger, but you can't see past yourself.

And the people who see, and speak what they see beyond what is seen, are called the Visionaries: they perceive, and they speak what they perceive, in hopes to bring a disparaging people along, to lift their heads, and catch the vision for themselves; to be spurred on to good deeds; to "not become weary in doing good, for in the end you will reap a harvest if you do not give up".

Such vision is true and good and honourable. But what if sometimes we are seeing what we want to see? This is where the line is drawn, and it is so carefully held yet so easily crossed. Perhaps sometimes imagination takes the place of vision; perhaps there are instances when our hearts, bent on visions of what is true, good, and honourable, bend so far to peer into a situation that the visionary becomes the creator of a fantasy? If we are honest with ourselves, we may see that we are so impassioned to see good that we naively ignore wrong in pursuit of seeing Hope.

And yes, there is always Hope. No one can blot out the tender lines of Hopefulness that can pull anyone out of the most dire need and press them in the race as though to win, and to run as though it is already won. But visionaries, like myself, also live inside the imaginary. The eye is sharp to see what is not easily seen; to see one glint of light and run with it as it becomes the whole horizon. But discretion is desperately needed to define what is the Spirit of God implanting vision and what is the eager fabrication of a mind so desiring to see Good.

How do we weigh what is vision and what is imagination? A key lies in an aspect no one cares to delve into so deeply: it is what is called 'searching one's heart', or in different terms, disecting one's reasons behind intent. What is the outcome of seeing this 'vision'? Is there any personal motive, even a good one? Will we get anything out of this 'vision' being fulfilled? Or are we pushed to encourage for the sake of seeing God's heart fulfilled; to see another person enlivened; to selflessly back it with a steadfast heart that pursues the vision with a constance and passion that works in a pattern of Righteousness, not a self-derived want of seeing Rightness?

There is nothing wrong with seeing past the glass; seeing someone as more than they see themselves; seeing a circumstance in context of the greater situation; but let there not be confusion between what is man-derived and what is God-given. Though the line is a fine one, there is an enormous space of difference between Discerning Knowledge and Ignorance. Even the most well-meaning heart, working out of love in its entirety, can obvert the circumstance & still peer through the glass darkly.

There is such great Vision to pursue! Let us pray that our own goodness & kindness inside visionary creativity does not become naivety, but that the skill & Wisdom learned inside being visionary presses us to see through God's eyes, cleaning the glass to strongly define Imagination versus Perspicacity.

My Music

2008-12-24T00:40:00.002-05:00

I find music inescapable. It's as haunting as words to me; the words that run their ribbons through my consciousness until I sit down and sculpt something out of them. And sometimes, when paired in music, there's no sculpting involved: sometimes writing music is like taking diction. I could almost promise I'm playing music already written: and I believe it is. If God chooses to use me to voice His song, I'm honoured. Why He chooses me is like someone asking why I choose a certain pen or piano when I write: I can't say why, but they are usually the ones that are readily available, and I know what is right for the task. If my hands are readily waiting & my focus on Him, I know there is a chance that, as I meander through each day, a song may just come of it. I spend a lot of time in thought, and sometimes I think best with my hands on a piano keyboard. My songs come from my own experiences; from observing people; especially from relationships that have built themselves around me & conversations that have filled those spaces; and of course, the “taking of diction” when God seems to decide to have some fun with me and watch me scramble for pen & paper when He drops a song into my mouth.

My heart’s cry is for people; I love observing them, knowing them, and loving them. If my music has one goal, I want to see healing in the tender & vulnerable places of our lives. If my music can enhance a time of reflection or prick a consciousness; if it causes some framework of peace in a moment of the day, then it has done its work. The human heart cries for beauty; for wholeness; for someone to find words that explain them and put their hearts to rest. I don’t know that I accomplish this yet, but if I have one musical & lyrical aim, that is it.

I grew up to music, traveling & singing with my entire family (parents & 6 children) around the East Coast in full-time music ministry. I first sang in public in a hole-in-the-wall coffeehouse in Ocean City, MD when I was 2 years old: the rain was pouring down in torrents outside and many homeless men had come in to stay dry & warm. I don’t remember the moment, but I’m told a baby girl—no taller than 2 feet—was set up on a bar stool, handed a microphone that filled both her chubby hands, her two pig-tails flopping, and allowed to sing the song of her choice: Jesus Loves Me. I’m told it was enough to make the toughest homeless guy in that place break down and cry. I, on the other hand, had no thought but to sing my song for God and then hop down and be done. Since then, I took dance lessons and quickly passed them up (for lack of grace) for piano lessons, then cello. I’d always written poetry since before I could write: I’d recite it against the cold glass of the window, feeling the sticky moisture of my breath on my cheek, hearing those delicious words reverberate back into my ear. And somewhere along the line, the music that I’d sung since a baby started pairing with my well-loved language & songs began to fill notebook after notebook throughout my childhood and teen years.

I am now a 22-year-old musician/poet/music teacher/worship leader and my music has graduated from college rule notebooks & cassette tape recordings to… well, My Documents folders & roughly recorded tracks by people who believe in me and use what they have to get my music at least hear-able. But though my tools may be limited, I don’t believe in letting it limit what God has for me. Besides, nothing could stop the music even if it tried. The only times I’ve felt the gift go slack are the times my heart is slowly distanced from the more intimate proximity to God’s heart. Only He can remove what He gives, and He will if I take it for granted.

So, in short (or rather, long)—this is me. I believe in the power of words; the great & precious tool found in music; in the incredible pairing of the two. But in as much as I believe in the Great & Profound Majesty housed inside them, just as I believe in the Great & Profound personified in God, I also believe in the intensely stirring power of the simplistic. I believe in the miraculous wonder of healing found inside the quietest song. I believe in the most life-changing experiences found in the gentle nudge of the Holy Spirit. I believe in stripping away the excess & discovering the sweet, inescapable core of all that we do & are: it’s simply Love, and the heart-wrenching, beautiful Perfect seen in our imperfection when looked on through the eyes of that Love. I believe in that vulnerability. I believe in the stirring inside the stillness. I believe in the uncomplicated.

So that is my music: and for me, each song is custom, like a journal entry; it's an open page to my spirit & what His Spirit is doing. It's me singing the songs I sing when alone; in the turning over of thoughts in my head; in hopes that some vulnerability will open the closed places in hearts that are too afraid to go where I’m attempting to go; a place where I tread softly; a warm, whittling, & coaxing place in the presence of God.

"Where's My Wife?": A Muse on Old Age

2008-12-22T21:53:00.009-05:00

"Do you know where my wife is?"
His loud voice startled me.
I shook my head and said I didn't,
afraid that I already did.

He sat in the middle of the hallway,
his shrill whistle made me look again
as he got the attention of the nurses:
"Where's Ima? Where's my wife?"
He grew impatient and urgent.

They glanced at each other warily;
"I just told him two minutes ago."
The whisper made me dread the answer
as he rolled his wheelchair closer,
his grey hair combed neatly, his one leg left missing.
(A war wound? Disease?)
He yelled louder for her still,
and I felt an ache inside.

"I told you," one kindly answered,
leaning over him in his shiny chair,
"she's not here now."
His mind wasn't his own anymore,
and I wondered whose it was.

His heart recalled things
which his mind could not;
but absent as he was,
his Ima was there.
I tried to walk out before
I'd hear what they would say:

"...I told you, honey. Your wife..."
I wanted to cry as I feared they would say,
would have to tell him, again...
"...is at a doctor's appointment."
I sighed with relief.

I thought he should be relieved too;
she'd be back very soon.
But I heard him yell from behind me,
his every two minutes a panick, booming:
"Where is Ima? Where's my wife?"

***

I can't imagine what it would feel like, to not remember my life anymore. My memory has been lapsing a bit the last few months and I dislike it. Granted, my memory has been strangely keen throughout my young life, but I've missed it when it drops a piece of information here and there. Passing the gentleman mentioned above at the nursing home last week really gripped me. His memory was gone; yet not completely. And I wanted to cry when I realised his mind had dropped the hows, whys, whens, & wheres... but not the 'who'. I heard in that 30 seconds of conversation between him, me, & the nurses everything I needed to know about him and his wife: they love each other, undyingly. Even when minds slip and bodies fall apart, he didn't forget her. He couldn't. His heart was right where it had been the day he married her. And it would stay that way.

Old age is strange to me. I see deteriorated people, and I constantly have to remind myself that they were young once just like me: with minds that were vibrant & quick, and bodies that were limbre & agile. They never used to repeat themselves over and over, or say odd things that people snicker at. Their hands used to be able to grasp their teacups without a thought, and they could walk hand in hand with the love of their life for miles without thinking how their knees can't take it or how each others' fingers can't intertwine because of too much pain.

I feel unsettled when I see old age. It doesn't scare me, but it just doesn't fit. And I realise, that isn't what was meant to be. God never had it in the plans to let us fall apart in the end. But it's part of the Fall; part of what we brought on ourselves. But I wonder; why do so many fall so hard in the end? And why do some claim it so willingly? Last week, I heard one older lady ask another how she was, and the response was, "Old. I'm old." The other said, "That's what you always say! Don't say that!" to which the second replied: "But I am old. With a body like mine, deteriorating? It's only a matter of time." And I cringed. I could never bring myself to ever think of the end continuously; to speak death over me. Yet some do.

Last week, I was beside a cemetary at a church, and one of the tombstones caught my eye: it was half a tombstone, half a bench. The stone was enscribed with the couple's names, and the names of their 8 living children. It said, something to the extent of, "They lived and laughed and loved; they loved their family. They lived to the fullest and enjoyed every day. So come, sit and enjoy the view and fall in love with your life just as they did when they lived."

Again, I wanted to cry. It was one of the most joyous and hopeful inscriptions, but still, my heart went straight to my life and the end; more, the ends of the lives around me. I don't mind leaving this world so much, but when I think of living it without those I dearly love, I break. (It's the one thought that brings into focus who I care most about, every time.) Yet I know, that even in the end, I want to have lived a life (and lived alongside lives) that have lived to the fullest, spoken life into each other, and aimed to redeem what has been lost. Age will come, its strangeness irreversible, but the Hope inside the Life that does not end with age is something to bring youth, joy, and vibrancy even to the oldest of people. But even though every two minutes might still bring the panick of, "Where's my wife?" I have to learn to see the hidden gladness inside even the heaviest trials: every two minutes, he might get concerned, but every two minutes he gets to smile with the new revelation that she's returning all over again.

I do not look forward to being aged, but I do look forward to the depth of life I will know and the love that I will hold through it all. There will always be something to be discovered, always something to learn, always something to remember, and always something to live for, come what may.

'Tis The Season

2008-12-20T18:26:00.001-05:00

They say things come in seasons.

I'm not sure who "they" are-- those highly elusive "theys" who seem to dictate every adage which pertains to the status quo-- but whoever they are, I think they are right.

As a writer, I definitely have my seasons and stages. I once journalled excessively; then I blogged on the (almost) non-existent Xanga; and then Facebook took over my world and I didn't write page after page, day after day anymore. Somehow, writing "notes" on Facebook just doesn't have the same feel. I somehow find it sterile and less inviting than a page solely devoted to the written word. And so I have written very little there and simply posted poetry.

But just as seasons roll around, fade, and about-face all over again, my want of writing (and wont of writing) has taken its hold of me and urged me the past few days to write faithfully again. And a public audience is exactly the motivation I need. I never realised how much properly blogging really does boost one's writing skills-- or at least maintains it.

So I'm back, with a fresh page. I'll refrain from saying, "I'm not sure how much I'll use this, exactly" because the last time I said such, I proved myself a definite under-estimator of the length & quantity of my writing capabilities. I do plan to write regularly, and keeping up with that will hardly be a problem for me, I'm sure. I'm afraid I'm almost never at a loss for (written) words.

I've been realising a lot of myself is feeling kept up inside, both artistically and expressively. My point in writing here will be to have a purpose to get things out-- much as my old page did, which, by its prompting of writing exercise and the wonderful critiques and encouragement from the readers, inspired me to come up with something each day. And some of us know how many of those posts (by the urging in the comments I received on them) became my first book. So, who knows where this may lead? I'm hoping for something even more. We're coming up on a new year; the days are fading fast; and my mind and heart are quickly weaving their skills together, bringing feelings to thought and thoughts to words. I know this feeling: it's what pushes me to write. It is what says I must, lest I lose these chances and inspirations. So please read, think, comment, and critique. I have much to say and much I want to learn!

'Tis the season to begin again.

L.E.