smallest words

sunflower

2011-08-15T14:58:00.000-05:00

along away

through yellow petals traced with the scent

of summer grass,

my face in it

and falling through

to roots of trees and other things…

a small cascade, if there’s such a place,

is my escape

and last autumn's leaves

impress the sun around the water’s face.

Song of Isaiah

2011-06-16T01:31:00.000-05:00

This melody has been swimming in my head today, applying to everything, as the Word of God is wont to do... I grew up in an LCMS congregation, singing hymns and psalms and liturgy, and many of them have stuck with me. I thank God. I have fallen in love with the melodies that carry Scripture from the pages of the Bible into the air from the pipes of the organ and the lips of my brothers and sisters in Christ, and every so often they play back, sometimes in my own young voice. Today was one of those times.

This particular refrain comes from an arrangement of Psalm 31 and a song of Isaiah (12:2-9). The melody that has stuck with me is the one printed in the CW, p. 77...

Surely it is God who saves me;

I will trust in him and not be afraid.

For the Lord is my stronghold and my sure defense,

and he will be my Savior.

overcast

2011-05-11T20:21:00.000-05:00

overcast isn’t over anything.

it’s perfect.

a shade of dark that accentuates the green under my boots.

constant conversation in the air entreats my silence.

but there is music and narration in my mind,

atop my footsteps,

in my place,

because i am invisible here...

Psalm 121

2011-05-01T00:06:00.011-05:00

I lift up my eyes to the hills—

where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,

the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—

he who watches over you will not slumber;

indeed, he who watches over Israel

will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord watches over you—

the Lord is your shade at your right hand;

the sun will not harm you by day,

nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all harm—

he will watch over your life;

the Lord will watch over your coming and going

both now and forevermore.

2011-04-30T00:22:00.000-05:00

looking at things, more things, and pictures of things

has closed my eyes to looking into

for a time,

but the thought, that acknowledgement, has been the transition

back to awareness

of myself, of what is beautiful, of what is valuable,

of what is desirable.

and my memory sings and sings…

“oh be careful little eyes what you see.

be careful little eyes what you see…”

…be careful little heart what you want,

for your desire is your worth,

and your Father has paid so much for you,

so much,

because he loves you.

the lines on his hands must be the most beautiful—

the hands that formed the dry clay;

that hold the weary when they walk, for we must walk;

that wrote upon our hearts his presence and his will.

those lines…

what beauty, what mercy, what love.

at these thoughts, the significance of my physical eyes subsides

and that of my soul’s sight rises to the welcome task of recognizing

the Savior’s face, the Father’s hands, the Spirit’s voice,

and then I see

what I must see.

oh be careful…

oh be full of care…

reflections

2011-04-15T00:54:00.000-05:00

is it late enough for you to come climbing in

through cracks and quiet hallways?

dark enough, and late?

***

what is the cloth that covers eyes when mem’ry overtakes?

a film, a picture, clear as sight, and yet unseen,

so that the slightest twitch of your finger

means to your mother that you felt the wind,

when really, you felt two years ago when you worked so hard to do so well,

and he put his arms around you to reassure you that it was not in vain;

you felt his heart,

in his words and in his touch,

not the wind.

the veins that show on leaves against the sun

are invisible though vibrant as a backdrop to a tear against skin

made warm and red with sincerity and love.

the stem between your fingers means to your sister and to your brother

that you are savoring life,

you are cherishing light…

in your mind you are,

but you instead hold his face in your hands

and feel his warmth and sweat,

a testament – no need for proof – to the powerful hand of our God.

that warmth rests around your hopes

and cradles them like babes whose eyes are closed in sleep.

***

you are absent here, replaced by a distant cousin,

one less distinctive and distinguishing than you…

where you lay meaning,

she is the meaning you try to encapsulate.

where you evoke sentiment,

she is the sentiment that quivers on their lips,

and where you meet

is where we learn how to hold on

and what to hold,

for a word without meaning still speaks,

and a meaning without a word still breathes.

with love for those who can't help their red skin

2011-03-18T16:28:00.000-05:00

You’re rosy in May—are you mine?

Are you mine? Walk this way.

When we look off the edge of the bridge,

we can tell it’s still raining,

but we know it won’t stay...

Cast from clothing, our legs hanging down from a pier,

quite the pair of true lovers we look from afar.

Can’t stand still or sit still or be still and still,

it’s the motion that turns me to stillness inside…

Wait one afternoon, or two hours, but don’t hold your breath.

A fresh scent lingers on the deck from leaves left…

When the sun dies down, we know it’s time.

Are you mine?

You are mine…

2011-03-16T20:53:00.000-05:00

Her tangled mass of long, thin hair

caught the wind and held it and they played,

like red yarn holds kittens

whose whole life in a moment is to stare and paw, fixated.

The concrete of the cracking farm wall beneath her feet

looked like Time giving all his strength to help her stand

as she walked and talked,

and in her smile, the Sun…

Each memory matters as much to me as my lungs

to keep me breathing,

to keep me alive.

She was my poetry child,

her movements words that I have taken down

on the wrinkled lines of my brain.

She gave me pages filled with the trees and sky—

how she captured the sky—

and the grass that once touched her face…

Still so distinct from any other grass in the world.

Taken down from her hill by the grayest cloud,

she sleeps and keeps a constant watch on the stars.

Ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand…

never through, her fragile fingers glow against the blue of twilight.

My light…

When I return to the wall on afternoons that keep no name,

I dust the cracks with weeds and wonder

if the wind can recognize what she inherited from me—

soft skin, a focused brow,

a small brown freckle on her left ear…

Sometimes it nods or strokes or speaks of these things,

but most often of her warmth

in words so softly spoken I can’t trace their origin;

of a disposition so mild, in voice and in pen,

yet so powerful that it traveled backwards,

from her into me.

We are free.

Psalm 16

2010-11-10T23:32:00.000-06:00

I've been on a kind of roller coaster this semester, especially the past few weeks. God always seems to put the right words in the right place at the right time. In His Word we rest secure.

Psalm 16

“Keep me safe, O God,

for in you I take refuge.

I said to the Lord, “You are my Lord;

apart from you I have no good thing.”

As for the saints who are in the land,

they are the glorious ones in whome is all my delight.

The sorrows of those will increase

who run after other gods,

I will not pour out their libations of blood

or take up their names on my lips.

Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup;

you have made my lot secure.

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;

surely I have a delightful inheritance.

I will praise the Lord, who counsels me;

even at night my heart instructs me.

I have set the Lord always before me.

Because he is at my right hand,

I will not be shaken.

Therefore my heart is glad and my toungue rejoices;

my body also will rest secure,

because you will not abandon me to the grave,

nor will you let your Holy One see decay.

You have made known to me the path of life;

you will fill me with joy in your presence,

with eternal pleasures at your right hand."

First Fall

2010-08-20T11:11:00.000-05:00

It has been a long while since I've posted... too long. July completely escaped me, and August is about to do the same. I confess I have not kept up on my poetry (on or off this blog) as I would have liked... I give you these words to usher in the Fall and the many changes that come with it...

First Fall

The tree outside my window has begun to change,

its red face turned to the new sun,

the rest looking west

remembering summer.

I knew him when he was small,

and he knew me,

the little one trudging the yard

in search of Easter eggs or a favorite kitten.

And then I grew up on the other side of the house.

This is our first Fall together,

and I will have to leave him for other trees,

trees that say little to me but "We are here."

I'll return when his branches are bare

and the shadow he casts has atrophied to a whisper.

He will wake me,

and we will remember.

free

2010-06-22T18:30:00.000-05:00

(the portions in quotation marks are taken from a poem by my best friend.)

“barefoot and crazy

but mostly free,”

i discuss with myself

the me that i wish i still knew.

she was contemplative, focused—

i am scatterbrained and distracted.

she was innocent, graceful—

i am worn and bear witness,

self-conscious and uneasy.

a battleground between confidence and self-doubt,

between soaking it all in and articulating the beauty before me,

between knowing what i have learned to know, and learning what i’m told i should.

my mind wanders with my feet to the field,

to distant memories brought close by the familiar sounds

and sights of home.

the sun keeps his promise

to rise and set as he did when we were children,

but now the grass grows shorter

and in different places,

my secret places gone or changed.

i try to fit regardless, and i find only mild satisfaction.

what is this desire?

i scold myself for hiding here,

for waiting as the days pass, as the light drifts

and looks in on me in my quietude.

have i abandoned freedom for fear?

(this question has changed me…)

for fear that i must keep my freedom?

that it is somehow i who must portion off some days to be free

and others to be full, filled by obligations and “the rest”?

we cannot live as we once did,

and yet we must.

we cannot forget the feeling of dirt and sand and grass and stone beneath our feet.

“we are free, to the same extent we are fearless.”

they are bound up in each other,

the freedom to fly and the fear of the fall.

they direct our steps,

sometimes careful, sometimes reckless.

both can result in injury,

one results in joy despite pain.

in my hands, in my feet

i remember beauty the way it should be.

“barefoot, be free.”

Imagine

2010-05-29T00:25:00.002-05:00

I believe that a person must always hold on to her imagination. No matter where she goes or when she gets there, she must always see beauty in the things around her and be reminded that her world is, at least in part, what she would make of it. I think one is blessed with a better imagination if she believes that the Creator is the source of all of these beautiful things. And with faith in Him, she may also see and acknowledge that this beauty has been tainted. Imagination encompasses more than beauty. Indeed the fear and pain and sorry of the world contriute to its greatness as well as does the majesty of life. May we ever lok with both eyes open.

be still, my soul

2010-05-27T12:54:00.000-05:00

i thought about it as we sang those words...
the thought that it is actually my soul that keeps me still
under the cross of grief or pain,
rather than encouragement from me
that keeps her sane.
and these words came...

a conversation with my soul

she sings out in hymns of praise
and it is the glow of the glory of God
that she brings to my face.
she is mine,
and my salvation is found in the fact that we hold fast
to the love of Christ.
oh faith!
oh soul!
the echoes of the waves upon the walls--
notes struck,
notes bowed,
heads bowed and voices lifted to our God...

internal shouts burst forth,
she cannot be contained;
for love she knows,
by love she's owned,
and here that love is named:

ah dearest Jesus.
Lord, abide with us.
your hands have bled,
your words have fed
our hearts and heav'nly hopes.

she is passionate
and she cries when she sees the Lord behind closed eyes,
imagines his feet coming towards her,
she looks down,
she lies down,
but here she's lifted up.
everything that is gentle and good in the world
is here.

"I am the good shepherd.
the good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep."

though in the dark,
she can't make out his face,
she thinks of white,
of warmth,
of song and light and grace.
and she cries when she sees the Lord behind closed eyes...

open them.
she tells me like it's easy.
open them
and see before you

"... the Sun of life divine
through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine."

2010-04-14T23:39:00.000-05:00

"you are too beautiful to be broken," she said to me.

"i break every day...

i am beautiful because

someone keeps putting me back together."

Job 5:18

picture by lauraisakitten

rain, rain don't go away

2010-04-12T20:43:00.001-05:00

i am all kinds of aimless fury inside.

where can it go?

where can i go?

summer

2010-03-31T16:09:00.001-05:00

my mother used to put dried flowers in my hair
just like these…

that is summer in my mind sometimes.

photo by Amy Longberry

sometimes

2010-02-23T16:38:00.000-06:00

sometimes i forget that you haven’t known me all my life,

that you never knew the little girl

that became a not-so-little girl

that became this young woman you call friend.

sometimes i remember what never was

because today is something that i never imagined.

sometimes i forget that i have to tell you about myself for you to find out

what’s in there.

sometimes my past catches up and my present wants to step aside.

sometimes my present catches up and i just want to go back.

it is strange for me to think that you have made assumptions

about me,

but i suppose we all have our suppositions.

i feel i know you where the rain meets the leaves,

whatever that means,

and though i am so familiar,

you don’t know what to think

sometimes.

in with the arms...

2010-02-03T18:58:00.002-06:00

by loney dear

in with the dark nights,

in with the weighed down clouds

suburbs and stations,

long range trains coming in

how can you manage?

how can you bear me now?

coming in fast, bringing the lights

keeping me calm, keeping me calm like you do

i’m tearing us down,

how can you do?

keeping me down…

in with the trains rushing through the lands

in with the aeroplanes,

breaking through heavy nights

where does it go?

when does it sleep again?

off with the devils,

off with the devils…

keeping me calm, keeping me calm like you do

i love you. i love you

keeping me calm…

in with the trains, rushing like blood to my limbs

come over dance with me,

come on over dance with me

in with the warmth, in with the comfort to me,

citadel band play for me, citadel band play for me

keeping me calm, keeping me calm like you do

i love you. i love you.

off with the boards,

off with what’s keeping me down,

in with the arms,

in with what’s keeping me calm,

i cannot go, i cannot do

in with the arms

in with what’s keeping me calm

i cannot go, i cannot do

i love you. i love you.

in with the arms,

in with whats keeping me calm…

autobiography, of sorts

2010-02-02T01:17:00.000-06:00

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.” Psalm 139:14

She has had a direction without realizing it,
or rather, articulating it.
For years,
a purpose, a motivation.
Humbly she seeks to capture that,
to shape it before her eyes so that you can see too,
so that she knows where she’s going.
“Fearfully and wonderfully made,” she says to herself,
and the words “full well” swell up on her tongue,
spilling over gracefully as she writes them down.
The words on the page draw her in
and push her out—
in asking questions,
out with new ideas—
She is intrigued by the concept of concrete words
representing abstract thought...
To do with myself what is right for such a creation.
To do with myself what is right.

Like an old film reel clicking away on a screen before an empty room
so her memories come.
Full of glad faces,
a wholesome childhood,
good feet to walk and stand upon.
“Do you regret?” you wonder.
“No, I cannot,” she replies.
“Sometimes, it hurts…
But so does the sand that rubs against me when I swim in the ocean.”
Her voice is soft—not quiet, soft.
One has had a successful journey when she can look back and see
she would not have gone any other way.

“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;
I will counsel you and watch over you.” Psalm 32:8

She learned from Christian teachers
to put one foot in front of the other
to move forward,
never sideways.
To appreciate beauty,
and to create it.
She did well, which bothered her at times.
Not quite good enough…
but by whose standards?
Finally, “It is not how you are doing,” someone seemed to say,
“but what you are doing.”
And a tattered road sign appeared to her right:
Keep Going.

“I guide you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight paths.
When you walk, your steps will not be hampered;
when you run, you will not stumble.” Proverbs 4:11-12

A dream awoke her:
“Do not be afraid,” she heard him say.
She cannot shake it, and she is not afraid.
What is it to be wise, she wondered.
Wisdom is not the mere absence of fear,
but the practice of discretion and compassion.
With a spark of this, she took the bend in the road,
which led her away from home
toward another one…
Crossing borders internal and external,
invisible and plain,
the lines of the road formed one solid streak as they passed by…

“Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” Colossians 4:5-6

Here, we catch up with her.
It is strange, but she has felt like the outsider
looking in, attempting to find words to fit where she is,
to ask and answer the questions.
She has always wanted to give words
and her love for them—
not simply the letters, but the way they form a partnership,
a definition.
“Do you see how they connect us?” She is excited.
You can see her chewing on your words,
absorbing your inquisition and throwing back strings of thought.
You challenge her,
and you watch the edges of her eyes settle into a squint
as though she’s trying to cradle the thoughts just a little longer.
They’re not ready,
but they will be.
“Make the most of every opportunity…”
This means the journey is slow,
but to take it faster would be a mistake.

On the way, the way home,
she sees their faces,
those talented minds between youth and adulthood.
She calls them to come along for a year—
maybe less, maybe more—
Where? Where are we going?

If you have to ask, I can tell you only this:
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path”
On our way home.

Psalm 139:1-18, 23-24

2010-01-19T21:36:00.000-06:00

For the director of music. Of David. A psalm.

O LORD, you have searched me

and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise;

you perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down;

you are familiar with all my ways.

Before a word is on my tongue

you know it completely, O LORD.

You hem me in--behind and before;

you have laid your hand upon me.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,

too lofty for me to attain.

Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from you presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

if I settle on the far side of the sea,

even there your hand will guide me,

your right hand will hold me fast.

If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me

and the light become night around me,"

even the darkness will not be dark to you;

the night will shine like the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you

when I was made in the secret place.

When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

your eyes saw my unformed body.

All the days ordained for me

were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

How precious to me are your thoughts, O God!

How vast is the sum of them!

Were I to count them,

they would outnumber the grains of sand.

When I awake,

I am still with you.

Search me, O God, and know my heart;

test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,

and lead me in the way everlasting.

down

2010-01-18T13:25:00.000-06:00

a morning of masks and disguises—
each sound that comes from my mouth to them
at odds with a shapeless weight my shoulders bear.
what is it?
a glance, a despairing feeling, and we look down at our feet.
still down, my eyes go to the sky, to the sun.
it was golden when i awoke
and now warm, melting winter bit by bit,
but still i stand before a shadow,
always between the sun and my shadow…
they see me as usual,
but i am the shadow today.

silent night

2010-01-11T16:03:00.002-06:00

she has been thinking many things,

many kinds of thoughts,

like the face of the moon--

some illuminated, some forever in darkness

or like snow falling--

in seemingly slow motion,

gentle, careful...

(but given wind it is fierce,
it is powerful)

like holding your breath under water--

survival. and you hear the sounds around you, muffled.

you see the light and shadows.

you are immersed in almostwarmth

and it fills you with solitary pleasure

and panic

all at once.

you want to hold on, to stay under,

just a little longer...

like looking at your hands in the dishwater--

feeling decades older,

feeling like you're looking back at a full and happy life...

i want you to burst through the door right now

and look in my eyes.

i want you to read this in my eyes.

somehow, they are written there,

the years that have not yet been.

every real thing,

every beautiful thing...

this is why she stays in silence for so long--

all this going on...

heard it today...

2010-01-11T00:53:00.002-06:00

"you should not be so wanting.
you are flying in the face of God..."

(photograph by me on the way to England...)

amazing life

2010-01-09T00:36:00.003-06:00

amazing life

we've been given

i know that you've had some troubles

i have had some troubles

we've been wasted

we've been complacent

we've given in to getting through the days

i hear the doves

singing in the trees

they call the dusk

tell us not to sleep

the coming dark

can't hide what we can see

the algebra

of innocence

is lost in the bathroom mirrors

practiced born and steady

been complacent

we've been bad neighbors

we've been unfaithful in our prime age

to open up to see what happens next

to see our hearts

to risk breaking our necks

to chop it down

to follow there against

so we'll be young again

amazing world

the ground that gives

i know that you've had some troubles

i have had some troubles

we've been wasted

we've been complacent

we've given in to getting through the days

i saw a star

fall from a green sky

i saw you laugh

your eyes were open wide

i saw your skin

uncovered in the night

-matt pond pa

please hold

2010-01-04T22:38:00.003-06:00

i see the side of his face best now,

his conversation drawn elsewhere,

and i listen to the low murmur of the crowd,

the mingling of people,

their voices echoing distantly.

i see the smiles,

greeting and bidding farewell--

kind, genuine, and beautiful.

i am at his side, on his arm, in his company

while he exchanges words and laughter with those he knows and loves,

those who are quickly filling my heart as well.

i smile too, glistening like a jewel on his crown...

but he knows i am more,

and he looks at me knowingly.

we are surrounded by lights and sound,

moving in slow motion

past mouths hindered by some invisible force.

a golden thread frames his figure as he stands against the light,

his own mouth moving slowly.

i am the silent audience of this inexplicable and pleasant upheaval of reality...

--in an instant it enveloped me,

and in an instant it was gone.--

i hear the click,

and his voice comes back across the line,

apologizing for the interruption.

i let escape a joyful grin

whose origin he can only nearly guess--

the picture in the silence.

The Poet

2009-12-16T19:22:00.005-06:00

"The Poet, gentle creature as he is,

Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;

His fits when he is neither sick nor well,

Though no distress be near him but his own

Unmanageable thoughts : his mind, best please

While she as duteous as the mother dove

Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

But like the innocent bird, hath on goadings

That drive her as in trouble through the groves;

With me is now such passion, to be blamed

No otherwise that as it lasts too long."

-William Wordsworth, The Prelude

12/15/09

2009-12-15T20:26:00.002-06:00

"i need you so much closer..."

image from IS Photography

pages

2009-12-15T01:01:00.001-06:00

(the edges of these pages are as ragged as my thoughts, but they are beautiful, they are beautiful too...)

ghost

2009-12-14T22:45:00.003-06:00

she cries into her hands in the softly lit room...

she is the reason children still tell ghost stories...

i can hear it,

i can see it coming down the hall...

draped in white, she sings through tears,

music coming from her

like the song of a thousand strings...

she cries before the cross,

lays herself down,

a river to make glad the city of the Most High.

sweet lady, what grieves thee?

dear lady, what sorrow...

she must have been real at one time

the way her weeping catches in her throat--

fighting herself, casting off demons that plague her memory long--

sweet lady, who are you?

dear lady, what beauty...

and tragedy makes sweeter still the ashen frame,

a pain that prods the past and future dame,

still very much alive,

so very much alive...

she is graceful but not liquid movement,

not luminous but pure and clean,

and now before my face, her presence

is all grace has ever been.

i am cautious

as though treading on the ice of Spring,

refined, exhausted,

weak to the warmth of April.

this she cannot flee.

i am afraid that much she cannot flee.

sweet lady, where are you?

dear lady, what dream...

12/12/09

2009-12-12T15:05:00.003-06:00

He looked at her with the sorrow of a grown man crying. A mysterious sorrow, one that she couldn't help feeling in her hands, her face, her eyes. Every pain of the world was hers in an instant, her burden.

She wanted to touch. She couldn't touch. She wanted to cry out. She made no sound. She wanted to breath. She had no breath. A new part of him was laid bare before her, an answer to the glimmer in his eyes that she had come to know by making him laugh. She regretted asking the question.

If the silence had lasted any longer it would have killed them both.

"We're right here," he said.

scatterbrained

2009-12-03T00:13:00.004-06:00

my fingernails are yellow from peeling clementines.

each time i approach the door of my building,

i notice the head of a red carnation

broken from its body,

neglected,

underfoot.

every time...

i may be acclimating to white noise,

but my mind longs for silence,

silence to fill with its own clamor.

forming letters is therapeutic.

forming words provides relief.

words that become solace for you

are my greatest successes.

Time is threatening me with its motion,

right now.

inescapable,

but not all powerful--thank God!--

it leads and follows,

pushes and drags me,

a leash and a weight at once.

but this gift--for that is what Time is--

this precious gift is a most valuable tool.

without it, i am lost.

without it, you may be too.

without Time, we could not be timeless.

our words would have no walls off which to echo.

like a blanket

weariness wraps me in its arms.

they are uncomfortable

and overbearing.

yet i belong here...

i have not done if i cannot be done.

i have no need for rest if i am never weary.

it provides a hope that constant respite could not bring.

focus--

see the letters are all cloudy.

though deep in thought,

i have naught to show,

not yet.

and even this

will slide beneath the cracks in the floor

and find its way into the shadowy recesses of history

never explored...

but it wants so earnestly to become something,

to develop a face,

and to be recognized by that face.

it can see, with one-sided eyes,

that no one is looking back,

not yet.

not yet, it chides.

my sleeves slide down my forearm

to remind me that they are too short

or my arms are too long.

my sweater's faded pattern takes me to my young self

on the carpet with her dolls...

the smell of the basement,

that lingering scent of books,

of learning...

(and i have separated myself from this moment...)

let me not live in memories, however dim or bright,

but in the light given me by hope,

that hope given me by faith,

that faith given me by love.

what Love!

what Love...

away,

i've come a long, long way...

evening poem

2009-11-27T17:11:00.003-06:00

the sky is vibrant pink-purple-blue,

a cold color saturating colder air.

the tree branches form intricate patterns of black lace—

all i can see through the window—

alarming, alluring, alive…

sweet chords fill my ears,

and a familiar voice

gently proclaiming love, pain, reality…

it is more potent, more understandable through music…

these words i’ve been thinking,

these notes i’ve been living

without knowing it till now…

the blue seeps into the purple,

more defined, overpowering;

but purple gives way willingly,

and with a placid sigh…

“the evening is yours now,

the evening is yours…”

blue rises and deepens,

like looking back into my own eyes,

in recognition of something more beautiful still

in the dim light that makes me squint

and yet sets everything aglow

as with all the energy stored up from day.

in between.

i want to say it’s soft, comforting,

but this evening is oppressive.

in all its beauty, it is cruel.

i cannot judge it because it is inevitable.

i cannot hold a grudge against what must be.

but this day was ours,

and i do not want to let it go…

you remind me of the light of tomorrow,

and with that thought,

we accept that the black lace has disappeared.

the window has disappeared,

so that all that remains is within.

back from the bookstore

2009-11-21T14:44:00.005-06:00

i like to be on the road. by myself, i can sing. with you, i can talk... and sing, but we stick mostly to talking. it becomes a state of being. neither here nor there, but in between, on our way, looking forward...

i've bought some books. some out of necessity, some out of desire... no, all out of necessity i suppose. a woman needs her books. even Emerson, whom i don't particularly enjoy, made his way onto the pile for purchase. whatever my likes and dislikes, it strikes me that had i lived when he lived, we may have had a conversation (however unlikely...) and now that his words have made their way to my eyes yet again, why not converse in the present?

"off to it then," i tell myself. soon enough i'll be back on the road, on my way there...

come by storm, you've come by storm...

2009-11-18T14:14:00.003-06:00

words and music for this rainy day...

Come By Storm

by Laura Gibson

when my eyes survey the tree line
i'll recall a voice
and how I took great care with words

all that was a picture

was a poem, was a poem
words were trees of brown, of gold
you were a place i had come to know

if the dark falls early
would you come in the night,
would you come with the morning,
come by fire or come by storm

when my days turn to gold,
turn to gold,
and pull to the sky,
to the sky,
i'll recall the time i was more alive
when i lose myself to words
did i die in your arms
or did i die alone?

when the dark fell on me
did you come in the night,
did you come with the morning,
come by fire or come by storm...

unremarkable

2009-11-17T18:36:00.005-06:00

i've sat a long time, staring

at the roots of trees.

for me to see, they must be uprooted,

disturbed.

then i can imagine,

and they need feel no pain.

i smell the dirt

and touch the earth,

call up the mem'ry from every trip home...

the fallen tree that pulled with it an almost perfect circle

of ground,

a halo at its base,

lying by the road, tucked away

by the bushy arms of its brothers till winter comes

i want to stop.

i've wanted to for a long time.

months, years...

each time just a glance,

a glance at my holy tree.

now i need no picture,

just the memory.

and in me, i bear the halo,

i smell the dirt.

in the pavement and the florescent light,

i have the earth,

and shall not be uprooted.

thoughts in the not-quite-silent library

2009-11-16T22:06:00.002-06:00

almost gone...

whispery voices to keep me company

as i convince myself

not to close my eyes...

i'm fighting,

in my corner,

with its little window and blinds...

the draft,

the lamplight,

and my reflection...

feeling sorry for her

because she's on the glass,

transparent,

cold.

i can feel her blowing on me,

blowing on my shoulder...

"go to sleep..."

she doesn't take or want my pity.

she wants to hide me.

she wants to hide.

in the darkness, she more than disappears;

she ceases to be.

but she likes it there.

unlike me, she can reappear from disappearance.

once i am gone, i'm gone.

the body, such a fragile thing...

inward pressures out, and outward pressures in.

so weak though "the spirit is willing..."

almost gone...

just barely here,

transfixed by dark reds and purples,

and poetry,

mine and yours.

"will you take me in your hand,

turn me over and over,

and read me

like the eyes that proofed my lines

once practiced?"

"will you have me then?"

you will have me then.

never gone...

in the city...

2009-11-14T16:33:00.004-06:00

(this is me not doing the homework i should be doing... well, no. that's not completely true. it started as homework... then it took a more natural course and we ended up here...)

Cities Inside Us

By Alberto Rios

We live in secret cities

And we travel unmapped roads.

We speak words between us that we recognize

But which cannot be looked up.

They are our words.

They come from very far inside our mouths.

You and I, we are the secret citizens of the city

Inside us, and inside us

There go all the cars we have driven

And seen, there are all the people

We know and have known, there

Are all the places that are

But which used to be as well. This is where

They went. They did not disappear.

We each take a piece

Through the eye and through the ear.

It's loud inside us, in there, and when we speak

In the outside world

We have to hope that some of that sound

Does not come out, that an arm

Not reach out

In place of the tongue.

the words

2009-11-08T20:25:00.000-06:00

i want to give you the words,
the words that will warm you like cider,
smooth, pure, natural...
the words that will make you well.
the words you can taste and breathe
and use.

11/1/09

2009-11-02T01:36:00.002-06:00

"maybe i was born to hold you in these arms..."

a prayer

2009-10-19T13:41:00.001-05:00

Jesus, take me o'er

and pilot now my course.

My hands, my feet, my mind, my soul

surrendered, I am yours.

Abide with me anon

and into every day.

Alone, awake, adrift, apart,

a sinner, I have strayed.

What voice disturbs my soul,

and wherefrom is my peace?

The same, from first and to the last,

my Jesus, my release.

behind my eyelids

2009-10-07T14:21:00.001-05:00

sudden gusts from the storm outside
remind me that i am still alive,
still a part of this world that i see
and feel,
but do not know.
the earth is spinning faster
than this chill that finds my face,
bringing tears i wipe away with my wrist.
warm to cool, self to storm.
i have not thought as i usually do
about the forces pushing, swirling, and embracing me.
i have not been one for words.
no, not like i usually am.
yet i have not been in want of words;
they’ve come.
at my fingertips—
the same ones that freeze in my pockets now—
symbols spill and spew in some kind of meaning,
meaning i have chosen for you.
this is what i want to tell you.
what i cannot say
appears in the color of my eyes.
this i cannot control or describe.

i have spoken of a place behind my eyelids,
and this wind feels like the wind of that place.
the air is black—
not polluted or clouded,
but black.
here, my eyes are open though i feel them closed.
here, i know for certain what i merely entertain in the light…

here, i come upon fields of tall grass,
dull brown and green,
in rows of waves that roll and sway
as though they were under water.
at the edge, the harvest has begun,
the waves have been driven back.
one man holds the blade,
and i know this man.
he reads and writes slowly,
pen and paper a hindrance rather than a tool
for his thoughts
just yet.
he writes to me…
he writes the truth,
and in the sun, we shed our tears.
his hands folded in their own struggle,
a picture of our hearts
as we part ways.

this is the place
behind my eyelids
at night.

2009-09-22T12:46:00.002-05:00

the sound of silence
pulls the pen to paper now,
one lamp, my night-friend,

and the evening comes
like a soft, bewitching song
through my head, away…

strings recreate sound.
i cannot hold it for long
in my wrinkled palm.

it seeps through the cracks,
drips onto the page and bleeds
through several layers.

light, ethereal
i never owned it at all,
night inspiration?

call it lucky ink,
and the sound of silence rings,
one lamp, my night-friend.

2009-09-21T19:12:00.005-05:00

"...Music, I'll call it music. It's what we need

as the sun staggers behind the low gray clouds

blowing relentlessly in from that nameless ocean,

the calm and endless one I've still to cross."

from Call It Music by Philip Levine

image by Zaria Forman

2009-09-12T17:35:00.003-05:00

Love

simplicity

balance

CHRIST

image by ~dim ~baida found on favourite things...

2009-08-25T17:22:00.002-05:00

"the hush of reverence is inappropriate for literature; great writing makes a great noise in the mind, the heart."

~salman rushdie

reading and writing of writing

2009-08-25T17:01:00.003-05:00

"... passion to proclaim the truth..."

don't try too hard, or you'll just dance around it. the search for profundity often ends in nothing. the exercise of one's God-given gifts to search, to communicate, to articulate, to feel, to reason--these combine to form the knowledge, even the wisdom, others may marvel at. these are the things that connect us to each other. passion is necessary. passion to proclaim the truth more vital still. if truth is relative, there is no end. since truth is not relative, the end is in sight, though still perhaps unclear. we write to it.

library

2009-08-21T22:46:00.004-05:00

the first books on the shelf are never read,

though 'never' is an exaggeration.

someone whose goal it is to devour all

might see them,

but 'devour' is an over-statement.

you want to look to the inside, to the next shelf,

and the next one.

who stops at the beginning?

i say, my friend,

who starts?

i see you in the third row, the fourth row,

covers open, pages falling under your thirsty eyes.

but oh for a thirsty mind...

i am distracted by chatter and natural sounds that seem unnatural in this place. awkward conversation--she doesn't know that man, and all she can think of is her safety, her smile. 'please, someone, come to my small rescue...'

cart wheels

a courteous farewell, and then the laughter.

"what a weird man..." lies under friendly laughter.

a place of income for those who can see past the shelves.

a heavier helping for those who cannot.

what does seem natural in this place?

the smell...

the smell of pages, lives, minds...

has it always been this way?

i can imagine it no other.

i suppose that is why i'm here...

the fear

i wish that element would leave,

or perhaps it resides only in me.

it is outweighed by my interest,

but it is still there.

the fear of seeing

and being

seen.

this is not my place,

but it is a place for me.

2009-08-04T02:27:00.006-05:00

i came across a letter today. i won't tell you much more than that. but it sent me somewhere else,

somewhere i haven't been in a long while.

i put it away carefully, knowing i won't look at it again for who knows how long, but i will think of it often. i will think if it.

1. Vintage Letter - 1881 3. Letters from the past

2. to send a letter 4. handwritten letter

love

2009-08-03T23:38:00.003-05:00

love means to learn to look at yourself

the way one looks at distant things

for you are only one thing among many.

and whoever sees that way heals his heart,

without knowing it, from various ills--

a bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

then he wants to use himself and things

so that they stand in the glow of ripeness.

it doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:

who serves best doesn't always understand.

~Czeslaw Milosz

don't go away

2009-07-28T01:24:00.005-05:00

it's raining, and though i cannot share the sound or the smell with you, i can share thoughts, memories of summers past and expectations of days and nights to come. rain is like a gentle friend, and gentle friends are good ones to have. even a heavy downpour is still graceful, still just as it should be. i have not yet been swept away. i have not been displaced by sudden waves. if i had, perhaps i would feel differently, but as it is, rain is my sole companion tonight, and a good one. it does not listen, though; only asks to be heard. as i have so many things to tell, but really nothing to say, that may be just right...

basically

2009-07-21T23:03:00.000-05:00

i will try not to share too many mundane bits. but sometimes, that is what life is. and that is often what makes it lovely. something simple, unexciting to anyone but me. a sound, a movement, a light, different from (or maybe quite the same as) every other of its kind. i won't tell you to notice its beauty. if you didn't, you probably won't. but if i must be the one to set it before you, i will do so gladly.

a little vanity is alright, i suppose...

2009-07-21T12:26:00.001-05:00

to you

2009-07-21T00:50:00.000-05:00

to you who have never seen my face,

every kindness and grace

fall around you.

the song near my window

never seems to cease

and i keep wishing

i could send its rising and falling

on to you.

the sky, the wide night sky

bids me to walk out under it,

if only it were still as wide as it once promised,

i would walk to you.

carry this with you wherever you go.

and if you never see my eyes,

they're looking up

for leaves and sun and shadows...

from below, someday from underneath the ground,

this face will rise,

this soul will fly,

and dust like life's sweet breath

will fall around you.

until then, until the end and ever after,

carry this with you wherever you go.

soft light, like cream,

flows through an endless dream,

two drifters know where once was sorrow

never more shall be,

but only grace.

you know my face

and every kindness it endows.

so to this end, i take your hand

and never lightly.

for two faces without names,

we love so rightly.

"now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. now i know in part; then i shall know fully, even as i am fully known. and now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. but the greatest of these is love."

1 Corinthians 13:12, 13

at the end of the day

2009-07-21T00:26:00.001-05:00

if i heard your voice tonight,

i think that i would cry.

some one else's...

2009-07-20T20:46:00.000-05:00

a sleepless night

Philip Levine

April, and the last of the plum blossoms

scatters on the black grass

before dawn. the sycamore, the lime,

the struck pine inhale

the first pale hints of sky.

an iron day,

i think, yet it will come

dazzling, the light

rise from the belly of leaves and pour

burning from the cups

of poppies.

the mockingbird squawks

from his perch, fidgets,

and settles back. the snail, awake

for good, trembles from his shell

and sets sail for China. my hand dances

in the memory of a million vanished stars.

a man has every place to lay his head.