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.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Settling.
Settle down inside myself,
I sit and you,
sit too.
Rest my head,
my weary, weary. . .
but not so weary with you.
And I will keep you
right there.
Just there,
(neat little boxes
strewn on the floor;
untidy feelings
left at the door)
'til comfort leans
toward me once more
and proves that it
is you.
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.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Fell Swoop
You tripped the line that got my heart,
you found the spot and took me down,
for only you could say the words again
and get me now.
You and all your catching ways,
you weave around my heart and say,
and say that you will come, my love,
and be my love someday.
You make every line awake,
for every soul must take a piece of another
down with it.
You took me down again today.
One fell swoop, one felling strike,
the timber creaked and fell tonight,
the forest shook under the might
as it was burned in firelight.
You take me in; you capture me,
the sidewalk takes me aimlessly,
and Wond’ring pours my coffee cup,
steeps my soul and fills it up
and I wonder at this fact that catches me.
One surprise, one word you said
and things came waking from the dead.
The thoughts that fall out of my head
are caught inside my heart instead.
Don’t take me down too easily;
your eyes can still speak wordlessly.
I do not trust a single thing; do not trust
the days I leave and do not trust the days
I keep.
I do not know which way is right,
to want the tree or firelight.
Aches are burning, feelings turning,
back inside our habitat.
Too easily I’d fall for that
and wisdom says to leave it here
and do not wake a love that seers,
but hearts are cold without a flame
and flames are made to live again
in embers that have stayed the same
though mine were cold
and nearly dead.
If I turn and choose to stay
I know that I won’t move away.
So much for that old yesterday;
it just became my new today.
Breaking glass, it can’t be put
back into one piece again,
and circling will bind my song
and another’s heart and then…
there’s still only one face I see
waiting in the aisle for me,
under the ancient canopy,
no other there to wed with me.
The air is cold and Autumn’s come,
and being tired runs me down,
these are thoughts deep in my mind
dropped back into the space of time.
My finger tremble with the key
glist’ning brass & gold and saying
“Throw me away or hold to me,”
the choice is mine and mine to be.
You drive in deep, suffer my sleep,
break out the tomb I’d left as was,
cried my widow’s tears because
I died
and left my love inside.
All my flowers turn and fade.
Yes, I live and yes I’m brave,
but all my life’s a solemn grave
to live so wise and live so safe.
Willows flurry, flurries snow,
I’m lost inside this space & rain,
my hands are cold though never once
did we ever hold them; touch.
But seasons run me through and say,
wait for me just as I wait
and ask again some other day
what we can never ask today.
October 3, 2008
you found the spot and took me down,
for only you could say the words again
and get me now.
You and all your catching ways,
you weave around my heart and say,
and say that you will come, my love,
and be my love someday.
You make every line awake,
for every soul must take a piece of another
down with it.
You took me down again today.
One fell swoop, one felling strike,
the timber creaked and fell tonight,
the forest shook under the might
as it was burned in firelight.
You take me in; you capture me,
the sidewalk takes me aimlessly,
and Wond’ring pours my coffee cup,
steeps my soul and fills it up
and I wonder at this fact that catches me.
One surprise, one word you said
and things came waking from the dead.
The thoughts that fall out of my head
are caught inside my heart instead.
Don’t take me down too easily;
your eyes can still speak wordlessly.
I do not trust a single thing; do not trust
the days I leave and do not trust the days
I keep.
I do not know which way is right,
to want the tree or firelight.
Aches are burning, feelings turning,
back inside our habitat.
Too easily I’d fall for that
and wisdom says to leave it here
and do not wake a love that seers,
but hearts are cold without a flame
and flames are made to live again
in embers that have stayed the same
though mine were cold
and nearly dead.
If I turn and choose to stay
I know that I won’t move away.
So much for that old yesterday;
it just became my new today.
Breaking glass, it can’t be put
back into one piece again,
and circling will bind my song
and another’s heart and then…
there’s still only one face I see
waiting in the aisle for me,
under the ancient canopy,
no other there to wed with me.
The air is cold and Autumn’s come,
and being tired runs me down,
these are thoughts deep in my mind
dropped back into the space of time.
My finger tremble with the key
glist’ning brass & gold and saying
“Throw me away or hold to me,”
the choice is mine and mine to be.
You drive in deep, suffer my sleep,
break out the tomb I’d left as was,
cried my widow’s tears because
I died
and left my love inside.
All my flowers turn and fade.
Yes, I live and yes I’m brave,
but all my life’s a solemn grave
to live so wise and live so safe.
Willows flurry, flurries snow,
I’m lost inside this space & rain,
my hands are cold though never once
did we ever hold them; touch.
But seasons run me through and say,
wait for me just as I wait
and ask again some other day
what we can never ask today.
October 3, 2008
Holiday
I've discovered a love for roads travelled;
they're enough for me to say,
(since they bring such dear friends homeward,)
I love a holiday.
The yellow lines down on the asphalt
seem dull with hours passed,
but they are lines trailed, long and ribboned,
that lead to home at last.
The cold may set in our bones, and
though they do not long for such,
if it brings you to this doorway,
then, indeed, it matters much.
November 8, 2007
they're enough for me to say,
(since they bring such dear friends homeward,)
I love a holiday.
The yellow lines down on the asphalt
seem dull with hours passed,
but they are lines trailed, long and ribboned,
that lead to home at last.
The cold may set in our bones, and
though they do not long for such,
if it brings you to this doorway,
then, indeed, it matters much.
November 8, 2007
Boys & Girls
There’s no space inside these places;
the cupboard’s small,
and I’m too tall to duck inside
and somehow hide.
The little boys are making faces;
I watch them smirk
and start to lurk to find me there
where it’s unfair.
I’m rather mad they make me squeal;
their fingers poke
and make a joke as though my scream
will crown them king.
I cannot say just how I feel;
I claim the swing
and softly sing as they walk by
all looking sly.
Sometimes there’s one who’s sometimes shy;
he slightly smiles
and girlish trials feel like they’re just
a girlish must.
The other boys are throwing grass;
he joins right in
the feuding men, for they all see
the girl in me.
They run for food and I am left;
the prickly grass
has made a mess up in my hair
and settled there.
I get back on the empty swing;
I might have fussed,
but I half blushed for just a while
to see him smile.
October 15, 2008
the cupboard’s small,
and I’m too tall to duck inside
and somehow hide.
The little boys are making faces;
I watch them smirk
and start to lurk to find me there
where it’s unfair.
I’m rather mad they make me squeal;
their fingers poke
and make a joke as though my scream
will crown them king.
I cannot say just how I feel;
I claim the swing
and softly sing as they walk by
all looking sly.
Sometimes there’s one who’s sometimes shy;
he slightly smiles
and girlish trials feel like they’re just
a girlish must.
The other boys are throwing grass;
he joins right in
the feuding men, for they all see
the girl in me.
They run for food and I am left;
the prickly grass
has made a mess up in my hair
and settled there.
I get back on the empty swing;
I might have fussed,
but I half blushed for just a while
to see him smile.
October 15, 2008
180°
If life turns circles, I will grind
the wheel until it’s turned full-round;
If walking opposite will find
me back from losing you to found,
then I will work until I’m shown
the moon in day; the Spring gone brown;
the antonyms synonymous
where down is up and up is down.
I’ll work to where I left you off
and leave the ache inside my chest,
if putting feeling in a box
and saving it is truly best,
then I will do it best I can
and leave you to the valiant rest
if you will fight and tell me that
you will try and clean this mess.
If cruel is but a way to feel
the subtle brush of something kind,
if crushing pain is just to seal
the healing beauty in its lines,
then I will bear it with some strength
and tuck it deep inside my mind
until the seasons weep and break
and make some sight out of the blind.
October 21, 2008
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
Thursday, January 1, 2009
You Must Think of Me
When you go down the sidewalks,
grey-ish and cracked,
and the filmy store windows
don't reflect back anyone but yourself;
wind whips your hair,
I'm not there,
and it's felt:
you must think of me.
When you're pouring your coffee,
strong; piping hot,
and you find that there's more than
one cup in the pot as you set out two cups;
it's a mistake,
and you shake
off the crumbs;
you must think of me.
When you're saving your seating
there at the play,
and you count out an extra seat
quite by mistake, and you've taken two programmes;
script lines are felt,
no one else
understands:
you must think of me.
When you're sitting there musing
yourself 'round the globe
and the aging of time has you
living alone, just to frequent this park bench;
foreign or home?
you don't know
which is which:
you must think of me.
When you're juggling grocery bags,
car keys, and lists
and you flick on the light to see
what you have missed on the caller ID;
there the light blinks
and you think. . .
your heart beats:
you must think of me.
When you're facing a closing door,
watching for light
to come on in the windows and
pull up the blinds, for a sign to come in;
When you need to dream,
when you seem
at an end:
you must think of me.
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.
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