Melancholy New Year

I want this night to be special,
to anticipate the night,
to eagerly await,
the ringing in,
of a brand new year,
and yet,
it doesn't feel right,
with melancholy shadows,
I wait,
for nothing,
what's a new year,
but another day,
another excuse,
to “celebrate,”
when I'm not in the mood,
to throw parties,
when I'd rather just chill,
and chat with some friends.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: In anticipation of the night.

A Random Light

My writing for yesterday's prompt came late and is too personal to share, but for any one interested the prompt was: These are the delicacies of a ruined evening.

Today's prompt from A Writer's Book of Days is: A random light.

And that brings you a poem. I don't know what it means. It just kind of fell out of my head, so here you go:

A random light,
a star in the night,
a drop of sun,
upon a stone,
that hidden bit,
of light inside,
the special glow,
of newborn smile.

Smudges

If I tell you the truth...
Will you believe me?
Will you understand?
Or will I have to hide?
Will it be ok,
this part of me is me?
Will you see the need,
or write me off,
say it's wrong,
disallow this part of me?
Will you still respect me?
Will you still believe in me?
Will you still love me,
if you know,
I'm not all white and pure,
there's smudges on my innocent act,
and I kinda,
like them there?


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: If I tell you the truth...

Day 3

After a long day I finally wrote. I can't share what I wrote, but I'll tell you the prompt for today was "Write about a time someone told you a secret."

"A Writer's Book" Day Two

The prompt:
Write about something sacred.

The random rambling:
The earth is sacred, the ground we walk the stars above, the pen in my hand, writing itself. Life is sacred. I could write about anything and it would be sacred, but what does sacred mean. To me it means valued, loved by God, necessary for wholeness. Anything life giving is sacred, but so are the things that take life, because without those things we couldn't see the value of the things that give life. Love is sacred. Loving is living in the sacred way of God. The sacred is both invincible and as fragile as a glass ornament. The stuff of life is sacred. Life is sacred. Books and words and feelings. Relationships. Touching the soul of another. Perhaps that touching is the most sacred of all things. When you touch somebody so deeply their very soul moves inside them. Connections are sacred. We live in a web, tied to the earth and the sky, each other, all creatures and all creation by invisible threads, and everyone of those threads is sacred. Ubuntu.


The poetry:
Sacred Threads

I
am
not
alone.

I'm tied to you,
to creation,
to the earth,
to the sky.

Connected,
bound up,
by God's love,
the sacred threads.

The ties of love,
the give and take,
the push and pull,
the stuff of life,
that makes us whole.

The sacred is knowing,
I am because you are.
Ubuntu.

Going Far

I remember eating Chinese with the Leadership Now crew. We always had good food, but that day we ate Chinese, and the fortune in my cookie was perfect. I remember reading it, and thinking it was so appropriate, so perfect, so fitting to the group I was with. I wanted to keep it forever. To always remember it and to always hold on tight to the friends I was with. It was something about friends. And something about going far. I nearly forgot it. Until a moment ago I thought I had forgot, but I think it said something like “with good friends you'll go far.” We giggled and laughed; go far we would. As we ate we were preparing for the biggest trip of my life so far. In a few months time we were in Africa. Good friends going far.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: “We ate Chinese.”

P.S. I'm so excited I got that book for Christmas :-D My (highly ambitious) goal is to write something for every one of the prompts this year.

Tasting the Bread

Last night my church had one child attend the Christmas Eve late service. This little girl was absolutely adorable. She looked about four, had a head full of curly hair, and spent half the service whispering to what appeared to be her mom and grandmother.

When it came time for communion everyone was invited to circle around the altar table to share the bread and juice. The little girl was antsy waiting, then didn't want to take any. When everyone returned to their seats I could hear her asking her mom "why did you taste the bread?"

Though the whispers of a four year old changed the mood of what is generally the "adult" service, I found it both adorable and thought provoking listening to her. Nearly every Christian church serves communion at least occasionally, but how many adults even don't really understand why they take communion?

So this little girls question got me thinking. Why DO we "taste the bread" at communion? If a child asked me that could I even begin to answer? Do I even have a reason for it when I take communion, or am I doing it just because that's part of what we do? If it's hard for adults to understand, how can we possibly explain communion as anything more than a snack to a child?

I can't answer all the questions. In fact I'm not sure I have any good answers, but it did make me think about what communion means to me. And I realize... sometimes I'm just going through the motions. Sometimes I take communion because that's what you're supposed to do, and it really doesn't mean anything to me. Perhaps I should be ashamed to say that is probably the case more often then not.

As often as it doesn't mean anything though there are times it does. Sometimes it is exactly what I need. Sometimes I need to be told I'm loved. I need to be told God loves me enough that it doesn't matter how much I screw up or how stupid I am God is there with open arms and a precious gift. Sometimes that simple reminder of love - love directly from God in Christ and love through all the people who hold my hand even when I doubt God is there - is exactly what I need.

So I think if I were asked "why did you taste the bread?" I would have to answer that it's a reminder of God's love. That it's a reminder God loves me and you enough to give us the most precious gift that could be given, and that there is nothing more important than sharing the love God has given to all of us.

And there's my sappy Christmas post that was surprisingly difficult to write...

Untitled

A cluster here,
a group there,
circles of friends,
cozy up inside,
against the winter chill,
they group together,
to paint a picture,
of who they are,
creating one image,
like constellations of stars,
but I'm alone,
blue as the moon.

Writing prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: "Write about winter constellations."

Ash

I hate,
how fast,
my mood,
can crash,
like snips of paper,
consumed by flames,
shadows of joy,
whither away,
leaving me empty,
dust drifting aimlessly.

Invitation

an invitation,
rejected,
stinging,
salt in a cut,
me left refused,
wishing,
I wasn't alone...


Writing prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: "Write about an invitation refused."

Succumbing

Old habits,
die hard.
I've tried to forget,
and never return.

Just one night,
stay away,
a wiser friend pleas.

He knows how I'm hurting,
it's for my own good.
One night and one more,
now repeat that again.

I've been a good girl,
stayed out of trouble,
but the lonely night taunts me.

Just this once...
Just so your not alone...
Just for a friend,
since no ones around.

I nearly succumb,
I think I want to,
until I find,
a better friend,
in just my pen.

Nean's Challenge, or Ten Things I Like About Me

Tonight I was talking with my crazy, annoying, favoritest cousin, and she gave me a challenge. She told me to list as many POSITIVE things about myself as I could, and that she wanted me to list at least ten things. So I'm making my list...

I can write
I'm a poet
I'm an artist
I'm a dreamer
I'm a visionary
I'm passionate about my kids
I believe in justice for the oppressed
I'm smart
I can laugh at myself
I'm trustworthy
I'm working towards my goal of getting a college degree
I like being challenged
I'm compassionate
I can sing
I'm a good listener
When I speak up in a group I can say things people value
I'm beautiful
I'm part of God's creation
I'm honest
I can hike
When I'm in nature I feel alive and unstoppable
I know when to talk and when to listen
I'm creative
I'm good at making things
I'm patient with my kids
I'm resourceful
I'm a thinker
I'm modest
I'm brave
I'm me.

I know not all of these things are ALWAYS true, but at least sometimes they are, and I'm proud I can say they're part of who I am.

Unwinding

Come to the center,
distractions fade,
sitting in,
the shadow of God,
walked a path,
closer to you,
now it's time,
to unwind,
retrace the steps,
away from the center,
and yet remain,
centered with God.

Walking the Labyrinth

Faded paint,
soft echoes,
of stories told,
memories caught,
upon cold stone.

Quiet voices,
whispers on the wind,
creating anew,
todays stories.

Worn soft,
threads of time,
holding us together,
tying past to present.

Handprints left,
to mark this place,
a space to be,
alive with God.

Pajamas

Soft warm flannel,
hugging with warmth,
wrapping close,
the comfort of,
a hundred peaceful,
winter nights,
fabric worn soft,
a simple comfort,
for chilly nights.


Another prompt from Nean: "describe the perfect pair of pajamas."

Rain

Cold drizzle creeps,
into bones,
sinking in,
chilling,
heart,
and mind,
and body.

My blankets call out,
stay in bed,
snuggle in,
drink some tea,
and write a bit,
block out the cold,
with warming ritual,
tea and books,
writing by fire light.

Icy grip,
of downcast weather,
slows me down,
but children are immune,
bouncing and giggling,
begging for escape,
confining space,
too tight,
trapping busy bodies,
who resist the call,
of rainy rest,
with boundless,
overflowing,
energy.


Writing prompt (courtesy of my cousin): "a poem... about... rain and obnoxious children"

Giving in,
and giving up,
relinquishing control.

Unclenching fists,
to take a hand,
offered in love,
with words of wisdom.

Surrender not ending,
internal conflict,
help myself,
or fight for control?

Heart racing in fear,
have I done the right thing,
fought the right battle,
given in where I should?

I nervously swallow,
ironically fearing,
the very thing said to help,
chase away worry.

The Night Won't Save You

Crisp air blows,
stirring the darkness,
bright moon glows,
a beckoning call,
crickets chirp,
their incessant song,
promising not,
to leave you alone,
if only you'll follow,
into the night,
escape from the light,
but the night won't save you,
illusion of company,
in a lonely world,
promising safety,
but offering only,
a melancholy home,
for a broken heart,
the night won't save anyone.


Writing prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: "The night won't save anyone."

Trustworthy

This foreign word,
you say is me?
It's not that I'm,
unworthy, per-say,
but... why me?
Why trust me when,
I'm so untrusting,
hiding behind a screen,
lost in tight-lipped silence?
Why not tell,
a better friend,
someone you've known,
more than I'll talk?
I wouldn't tell a secret,
but surely there's,
more worthy keepers,
of these things,
you trust me with?

Finally!

My cousin and I wrote this story about a month ago, and have been waiting for the entire thing to be published a sentence at a time by Gloaming Gap before posting it elsewhere. I hope you enjoy :-)



“Sleep Tight: A Gloaming Gap Story” by Beth Dombach and Jeannine Burkholder


Dr. Frederick von Bedstein squirmed between the storage boxes and a few stray shoes under Emmi’s bed. It was too neat, and she no longer kept fun things under her bed. The only thing the least bit amusing he found was an old bell with bits of string tied to it, and the cat had already informed him that was NOT for him to play with, nor was it Emmi’s to share.


Em’s eyes shot open and she blinked for a moment into the pitch blackness. “What time is it?” she groaned nearly inaudibly and shifted to see the LED display read 12:47 AM. “Oh my God, SERIOUSLY? That STUPID CAT!” Em froze at the sight of a long-since-forgotten tail slithering under the edge of her bed, the only thing she would possibly be able to see in this darkness. “Ugh, now I’m seeing things too!”

Frederick froze as he felt the bed shifting above him. He hadn’t meant to disturb her sleep. He didn’t even know how he would tell her. It had been years since he’d even stopped by – over ten since he officially retired from being her bed monster – and here he was trying to give her a message. He shook his head to clear it. He didn’t know how he’d make her understand, but her daughter’s safety depended on it. He stretched his hands and examined the sharp claws he’d carefully hid from her as she grew up. Reaching one clawed hand out from under her bed, he scratched noisily at the floor beside her bed.


Em could feel the goosebumps rising on her arms. Her logical grown-up mind told her that she was, of course, still imagining things. It had been a rather stressful day. Several people in her department had been laid off today, including Andrew, the guy on the other side of her cubicle wall. He had seemed nice enough, but he was, like all the other men, more interested in Rachel in marketing… Em saw the claws and her rambling mind stopped mid-thought.

Frederick slowly pulled his hand back under her bed. Even if she was all grown up, he didn’t like scaring his girl, but he had to warn her. He took the oath he’d made so many years ago seriously, but some of the younger bed monsters were less concerned with keeping promises and more concerned about getting attention. His Emmi’s little girl was unfortunate enough to be paired with a rebellious young monster that made no qualms about breaking the lesser of the rules in the oath, and now he heard rumors that her monster would even break the most sacred of laws. Frederick wasn’t one to get in the middle of things, but he knew it would hurt his girl if her daughter were injured, and even after all these year’s he couldn’t bear to see her hurt.


That claw was not the cat — real or imagined! Em had a sudden urge to walk the 20 feet down the hall and check on Cassie. She felt suddenly uneasy, with the sudden reappearance of her long-forgotten imaginary best friend, Mumble… Mubboo… what did she call him? He hadn’t had claws though… at least, not that she’d ever seen. What did this “mutant version” of her strange friend from her past mean? Cautiously, she inched her head to the edge of the bed to look down, feeling silly and a bit like her seven-year-old self. Not sure what she was doing, she whispered, “Mum… Mumbly-Boo?”

Frederick flicked his tail out from under her bed. It had been a long time since they’d played these games, but he hoped to catch a glimpse of the delight she always showed when he flicked his tail. Remembering what he came for he let out a low grumble. He hummed a few lines of her mother’s lullaby – the one he used to try to copy, and then in a low growl he changed to a tune he’d heard make her daughter cry when it came on the tv earlier that evening.


Em was filled with a mixture of pleasant nostalgia and irrational fear. She still wasn’t sure if this whole exchange was real or just a nightmare, but there was something strangely familiar in this. As terrified as her friend made her from time to time as a child, she knew he always had a reason. And she’d learned decades ago to trust him implicitly.

Frederick hooked a sharp claw on the edge of her blanket and gave a little tug. He needed her to get up, needed her to realize her daughter was in danger. If he let Cassie’s bed monster inform her of his existence it could be too late. He growled the scary tune a little louder, willing her to go check under her daughters bed, not that she would see anything there….


The blanket fell to the floor, and Em jumped out of the bed, no longer even wondering whether it was only a dream, and barreled down the hall. She flung the door open in time to see Cassie gasping for air, her face a pale bluish-white. Em reached her side as Cassie’s little eyes fluttered open and she coughed. “Mama…” she whimpered. “C-can I sleep with you? ….I don’t want it to come back….” Em brushed her hair back from Cassie’s forehead. “Of course, sweetheart,” she murmured.

Relief flooded Frederick as he watched a small set of bare feet patter into the room next to his grown-up Emmi’s feet. He heard Cassie’s small voice, so much like his little girl’s, asking if it would ever come back, and felt the bed shift above him. He stretched, readjusting himself to get comfortable under the unfamiliar bed, and quickly pulled the tip of his tail back into the dark.


Em glanced over at Cassie and pulled her closer as the little girl’s eyes widened. Cassie had obviously seen the flicking tail too. “It’s ok, sweetie, it’s just Mumbly-Boo. He’ll keep us safe tonight.”

Untitled

warm and fuzzy,
bold red sweatshirt,
looking cheerful,
bright and happy,
to hide the pain,
tied up inside.

Cold

Cold and hollow,
left untied,
falling,
apart.
Am I,
really,
all alone,
stuck inside,
this hollow empty,
broken space?
My heart,
forgets,
how to,
be loved,
Wanting to,
remember how,
to love myself
broken and,
fragile as
I am.
Blindly,
reaching,
for escape,
from self-made,
traps and walls,
confining
weights,
hold,
my,
heart.

Hidden Beauty

liquid fills,
eyes not green,
not brown,
or maybe both...
drops of feeling,
melt through hazel,
words of truth,
cut straight to heart,
burns like salt,
tears upon a cut,
echos of romance,
clouding,
hollow heart,
confused by love,
hidden beauty,
embraced,
a glow of warmth,
confounding,
what is this thing,
this hidden beauty,
lost within,
and yet you see

I love you

little words,
said with simple,
sincerity,
every pint-sized hug,
proclaiming,
the truth of words,
not heard enough.

The Bicycle

a humble trip,
through rain and sleet,
propelled by feet,
a course uncharted,
or forgotten,
a simple pair of wheels,
scavenging for meals,
her statement made,
an act of courage,
choosing to forage,
defying form,
redefining norm,
denying expectation,
an act of meditation,
on the worthiness of life.



This poem was inspired by the prompt "Create a character sketch based on the type of car the character owns. Select the car, ie: Buick, El Camino, Limo, or use the lack of a vehicle, as your starting point." which immediately brought to mind stories from "Carrot" who blogged about biking through all weather and living off of things other people threw away because she intentionally chose to minimize the impact she made on the earth.

What Good is a Day?

What good is a day,
if nothing gets done,
if nothing's accomplished,
to say I'm proud of this?

What good is a day,
that's not being lived,
that's simply passed through,
without celebrating life?

What good is a day,
lived in a fog,
forgetting the meaning,
of living life to the full?

What good is a day,
wasted on worry,
filled with fear,
and marked by despair?

What good is a day,
when I feel this way?



Poetry Prompt - Write a poem using the following start: "What good is a day..."

Color Blind Tree

Proud and majestic it stands,
reaching arms to the sky,
stretching toes deep into rich earth,
wrapped in rough callused skin,
clothed with soft velvety moss,
fluttering fingers in the air,
tickling sky,
catching the sun,
dripping shadows of cool,
to the grass below.


Free Writing Prompt - Without using color names, describe a tree.

What language are your tears?*

If a picture's worth,
a thousand words,
a tear drop must be,
worth a thousand feelings,
a thousand stories,
of pain and joy.

If a tear drop tells,
a thousand stories,
it must be in,
the language of love,
love for the broken,
love for the living,
love for the hurting,
love for the celebrating,
love for the one,
who forgets that they're loved,
and love for the one,
who's wrapped tight in love.


*Title and inspiration came from the song "Is Love Enough?" by Michael Franti

Writer's Anonymous

Simple words,
spilt on paper,
but they're more,
addicting habit,
spreading ink,
like drops of feeling,
laughing as,
once unknown thrill,
becomes compulsory,
an insatiable need,
the inner poet,
once denied,
demands to be,
the only one,
who speaks,
the true.


Poetry Prompt - Write a poem using "Writers Anonymous" as your title. (Or, "Hi My Name Is")

Reading in Bed

With eyes scrunched shut,
breath held tight,
a too still body,
listens...

To the creak of the door,
carefully opened,
to take a peak
at a child's sleep.

Wiser eyes know,
the scrunched ones aren't sleeping.
With silent smile,
they turn off the light.

After the door shuts,
and the footsteps die,
small eyes pop open,
as if spring loaded.

Little hands search,
for their lost page of adventure,
to silently read,
by the light of the moon.


Inspired by the prompt "After the door shuts and the footsteps die..." which my cousin shared with me.

Who told you that?

That's an electric fence,
to shock you if,
you try to break in.

Who told you that?

It's true,
they turn it on at night,
and then,
it shocks people.

Who told you that?

My mom.
A child's eyes declare,
it must be true,
My mom said so.

It's not,
but how can I say,
Mom lied to you?

What Do You Do?

What do you do?

When you know too much.

When you're bound in trust,
to keep a confidence,
that's none of your business,
but's told freely,
spilled honestly,
at your ear,
never to cross,
your lips.

What do you do?

When your gift is listening,
but what you hear,
is less a gift,
and more confounding,
troubling mind,
confusing heart.

Silence and secrets,
mingling uneasily,
with love and trust.

Respect denying,
it could be as bad,
as the words sounds,
but misdeeds burdening,
more than one love.

What do you do?

Keeping Watch

I am waiting,
watching,
seeking answers.

I see God's face,
but cannot read it.

The spirit whispers,
on the wind,
tugs at my heart,
calls to me in the night,
but what does it say?

How can God know me best,
when his face is shrouded in mystery,
when her voice is but a whisper,
both comfortingly familiar,
and foriegn to my ear?

How can I write,
God's vision on a tablet,
when I doubt my eyes to see it?

How can I speak for God,
when I question what I hear?

Breaking Through

I spent the past week as a volunteer counselor at church camp. There's nothing quite like going to camp - the great outdoors, the sunshine, the rain, the campfires, wearing the same muddy jeans all week, and *gasp* no computer!

Those of you that know me well know that leaving my computer for a whole week is a little traumatic for me. I'm used to spending every night online. I check facebook several times a day, frequently read friends blogs as soon as they post, and share more over IM than I ever say aloud.

I joke with my online friends about being addicted to the computer, but really it's not about having a screen in front of me. As easy as it is to get into the habit of sitting in front of the computer screen, the real addiction is to the instant connection with other people. Simply by logging online I make myself instantly available to anybody who might need me, and, perhaps more importantly, I have friends instantly at my fingertips almost any time I need them.

I realized this week as I took up the challenge of leaving my computer, that I depend on my online friends for instant affirmations. When I lack confidence in myself I count on my friends to tell me I'm worth while. If I don't think my writing is "good enough" I demand one of my writing buddies reads it as soon as possible, because I know they'll tell me it's better than I think it is. If I'm not sure about something, or am upset, or feeling down about something, I can usually find somebody online who understands what I'm going through, or at least can tell me it will be alright. And as long as I have online friends giving me confidence I don't need to find my own confidence.

As I spent the week camping I couldn't rely on the friends I usually chat with to give me confidence, so I was on my own. Some how I made it through the week without my computer, and I realized I was ok. I could find enough confidence in myself to get through the week, and to climb mountains, be a role model, get called a good counselor, find God in the silence, be comfort in the storm, learn from my campers, and connect with people I'll never totally forget while I was at it.

One Year Later: Claiming a Rainbow Umbrella

Nearly a year ago I wrote this blog post about attending the local Pridefest. It was the first Pridefest in my town and the first Pride event I attended. The festival itself wasn't all that different from any other festival, but, watching the scene at the gate, I was both appalled by the need for, and fascinated by the work of the Silent Witnesses, who were providing a human barrier against the verbal attacks being made by protesters. Listening to the festival goers, and Silent Witnesses, being verbally attacked, I promised myself that next year I would be there holding a rainbow umbrella (one of the identifying marks of a Silent Witness).

As I wrote about that day, I promised my readers I would work as a Silent Witness this year. Friends and strangers alike expressed encouragement and gratitude on my post, and told me how much they appreciated what I wrote. I had been afraid I would get negative feedback when I posted it, but the overwhelming positive response made me all the more determined to follow through with my promise.

After waiting all year to be a Silent Witness for the local Pridefest, I attended their training session. During the training their nonviolent, non confrontational, philosophy of peacekeeping was explained. They talked about what roles they need people to fill during events, and the importance of NOT visibly reacting to the protesters. Though any form of communication with the protesters is strictly off limits, the trainers explained that it's ok, and even encouraged, to talk to anyone else. I remembered many of the things they talked about from watching the Silent Witnesses at last years event.

Since the training I attended was only a few days before the local Pridefest, it included some discussion of what to expect at this specific event. When they showed a map of the park it was in, they pointed out the main gate and the secondary gate, explaining that the protesters didn't discover the back gate until late afternoon last year, but now that they knew about it they would likely be there earlier this year. As they pointed out the back gate I felt year-old negative emotions boiling up in me. I remembered walking to the back gate with the first Silent Witness assigned there after the protesters found it last year, and wondered if I could really do this.

The morning of the Pridefest I listened to my favorite politically minded music, and tried to prepare myself for the work I was about to do. Listening to the Michael Franti lyrics “They say you got to choose your side and when it's done, nobody right, nobody wrong.... ...tryin' to make a point or have the last word, but most the time people just tryin' to be heard....” I thought about the fact that as Silent Witnesses we're NOT to try to stop or silence the protesters. It's not our job to keep them quiet, it's our job to keep the peace, and protect everyone's rights, including the rights of the protesters, as distasteful as we might find the way they choose to use their right to free speech.

Though I was slightly nervous, I was mostly pumped up and excited to help. When I arrived at the check in station I proudly claimed my rainbow umbrella, and put on the bright orange safety vest with Silent Witness logos that would be my uniform as I worked. The rain in the morning had done more to scare away the protesters than it did to scare away the vendors, so things were quiet at the gate when I first went on duty. The Silent Witnesses stationed themselves around the gate, welcoming everyone with their colorful umbrellas and friendly greetings. When protesters began showing up we continued our job as welcomer, carefully positioning ourselves between the protesters and the path to the festival gates.

Before I knew it, I had been on duty for an hour and a half. I took a break to explore the festival, and when I returned there were a few protesters preaching to anyone in ear shot, and even more Silent Witnesses stationed around the entrance. I took up my umbrella and found a corner without as many Silent Witnesses to stand at. Word was casually being passed around that the rain would strike in about fifteen minutes, but we were already prepared with our umbrellas. For the next couple of hours I stood, umbrella in hand, with the other Silent Witnesses. We chuckled to ourselves over the illogical arguments made by the protesters, and grinned as the sudden downpours drowned out the protesters words, and made us glad to have our umbrellas.

As I stood there I felt hurt for the people being insulted by the protesters, but even more so I felt sad for the protesters. I believe God and Love are two forces that cannot be limited, and yet the protesters were trying to limit both, and truly believed what they were saying. Hearing the protesters ranting I couldn't help but wonder what version of the bible they read that says it's ok to judge, but the more frustrating thing was wishing I could convince them of how much bigger than their narrow definition God's love is, and knowing they wouldn't, perhaps couldn't even, believe it if I told them.


This entry is also posted on my political/social justice blog.

Witnessing Love

Fingering the purple band,
wound around my wrist,
I think of yesterdays events,
holding a rainbow,
in the pouring rain,
an umbrella of hope,
in the storm of hate,
love abused.

I'm sad for the insulted,
sadder for the insulter,
who's forgotten the music,
the tune of God's love.

This poem was inspired by my experience working as a Silent Witness at a local Pridefest.

Silence

Silence pounds in my head,
tearing me apart,
not because there is no noise,
but because I feel unloved.

Noise and busyness and chaos,
swirl about around me,
trying to break in,
but not the noise I want to hear.

I stumble into loneliness,
the friends I want to hear,
silent.

Just a few words,
I plead in my mind,
would help lift my mood,
when idle chatter,
leaves me lonely,
longing for more,
needing true friends.

Tipsy

First nervous sips,
taken shyly,
between glimpses stolen,
by the cameras eye.

Carefully tasting,
grown-up versions,
of mint chocolate chip,
in a martini glass.

Giggling,
hiding,
shyly avoiding,
pictures taken,
to celebrate the day.

Slowly sipping,
raspberry ice cream,
in a glass,
but more fun.

Softly she croons,
come closer and share,
this sweet release,
raspberry laced unleash.

A small red drink,
tasting like cranberry,
lit on fire,
beckons giggles of glee,
to our merry table,
melting away,
lingering shyness.

Rise with a giggle,
like stepping ashore,
stumbling,
swaying,
and giggling more.

IHATU

for my Pre-Ker, who's only beginning to find the power of writing

"IHATU",
carefully drawn,
in big pencil lines,
angry words,
in a lined paper book.

A cruel face bares teeth,
upon page two,
all because he couldn't place,
the carrot seeds,
that he wanted to.

Shattered

for my sis, in memory of Lohti

Lives shattered,
broken,
torn,
punching holes,
in the cloth,
of humanity.

A mind destroyed,
by war and gore,
plucks away hearts,
with life left to live.

Death spreads,
it's gloomy cloud,
smeared by love,
across earthly bounds.

Like a spider,
sensing it's pray,
on distant threads,
I feel the ripples,
of painful tearing,
as another thread,
in this human web,
is pulled,
too hard.

Of Age

First legal sip,
slips,
bubbling down my throat,
ice cold bottle,
pouring warmth into me,
a taste of beer,
ironically taken,
not from my own bottle,
but offered by mom,
a simple taste,
same as past,
but legal now.

Falling in Love

I wrote this recently for a challenge in a poetry group I'm in.


Falling in Love

Sitting alone in the pouring rain,
a simple hi is all it takes,
to call my attention to,
a man who shares my quiet,
I feel myself slide,
falling in love,
wanting you,
romance,
mine

Falling

Lonely,

tired,

hungry,

aching.

Needy,

demanding,

expectant,

uncertain.

Falling apart.

Spiraling down.

Losing my grip,

beginning to slip.

I slide into uncertainty,

wondering who really cares,

as soon as no ones there,

to raise a hand,

and say I'm here.

My mind begins to doubt,

that anyone should care.

In loneliness I fall.

Tears

Tears pour down my face, for hurt not mine,
I cry in pain with face unseen,
her hurt now his, his hurt mine,
one girls hurt, hurting all,
her pain cutting deep,
wishing to die,
needing love,
spilling,
tears.

Itching to Write

Itching to write,
my fingers twitch,

Eager to feel,
the pen in my grasp,

Slide over smooth paper,
spilling out words,

Unleashing a story,
capturing remnants,

Stray thoughts to challenge,
complacent minds.

Unleashed

Minute by minute,
the clock ticks later.

Knowing my body,
needs to rest,
I say good night,
and try my best,
to fight the urge,
to stay and chat.

With teasing grin,
my friend suggests,
Let's stay up all night,
it'll be great!

Pushing aside,
the nagging reminder,
that working my job,
sucks when I'm tired,
I giggle and think,
it would be fun.

Unleashed from my worries,
by sleep deprived madness,
I'm suddenly hyper,
grinning and crazy

Easter Poem

I'm lost.

Caught in a web of lies,
things I only half believe,
I struggle to be me.

Some where I cross a line,
trying to design,
a lie that's true enough to live,
but "right" enough to give,
a sense that I belong,
in the only world I've known.

I'm tired of the game,
I must be breaking rules,
but once the game's in motion,
it engulfs you like an ocean.
Quiting's not an option,
but playing on is a dungeon.

I lie awake at night,
trying to uncover the fake,
face it and make it,
more true to me.

Truth is relative.
Mine,
yours,
ours,
as different as we.

I want to be me,
but I'm glued to a lie,
afraid your love for me will die,
if I stop the lie,
that you'll worry for my soul,
if I tell you my truth in whole.

Maybe it's just a phase,
maybe I'm in a daze,
but I can't comprehend,
this Easter craze.

Love and blood and sacrifice,
clashing.

How can my God of love,
demand a sacrifice?
How can my God above,
give his own sons blood?
How can a God of Earth,
give his own life,
and call it a birth?

I don't want the "love,"

of a God of death,

filled with wrath.

I don't want to worship with bloody crown,

thorns grown to torture,

an innocent head.

I don't love a God of the dead,

giving death before life,

and demanding a price.

I believe in a loving God,

a spirit of compassion,

loving without ceasing,

giving life without a price.
A God of all,

who weeps for the broken,

who carries the hurt,

gives another chance,

til we get love right.
Who sits with us in the night,

and leads us in her light.

Crying Out

Desperate for something,
my heart cries aloud,
...searching,
.....seeking,
........wanting,
..........needing,
a hand to hold,
a place to cling.

Tears burn my eyes,
as I try to face,
the lonely ache,
the empty space,
need I cannot comprehend,
hole I cannot mend.

My heart cries out in pain,
but my tortured mind,
steals my tongue,
...refusing,
......denying,
........resisting,
..........silencing,
holding me captive,
stifling my cries,
drying my eyes,
to hide the pain.

Playing games to resist,
the ones who insist,
I'm,
...beautiful,
.....loved,
known in their hearts,
and destined to be,
used by God.

Jail

"Jail.
Jail.
You're in jail"
They tell me I'm glued,
...taped,
...stapled,
to the fence,
and yet I feel freer,
than when alone.

When jailed by a preschooler,
it's easily to escape,
to run and be free,
til little hands catch me,
giggling "jail."

If only the prison,
inside my head,
were as easy to escape,
as energizing to run from,
but locked in my mind,
is a vacuum for courage,
a dark tangled web of fears and despair,
holding me captive,
draining my energy,
stealing all motivation,
to take care of myself.

My kids tie hungry tigers,
round the jail they make,
say the tigers guard it,
will eat me if I run.
They let the tigers eat me,
and yet I feel more whole,
than any other time.

My own imaginary tigers,
gnawing at my mind,
eating me alive,
from the inside out,
are far worse a threat,
than any my kids set,
to guard my playground jail.

Alone

Please don't leave me,
all alone,
to think,
and be,
left to my own devises,
alone in the night,
with my own thoughts,
wishing to be loved,
wanting to be held,
lacking the company,
of sweet romance,
all the more lonely,
for knowing you've gone,
to hold another,
in the kind of love,
I only wish for.

Every Morning

Every morning is a new day.
Some days begin like a happy dance,
with sunlight streaming in my window,
to kiss my face good morning.
Some days begin like a sorrowful storm,
with gray clouds creeping in,
to say "just stay in bed."

Every morning is a new day,
a chance to begin.
Some begin with happy song,
bright birds singing,
their morning praises.
Some begin on a sadder note,
discordant buzz of alarm clock,
met by dreary drizzle.

Every morning is a new day,
a chance to begin,
to live in the moment.
The smell of coffee brewing,
promises a family day,
but ordinary smells,
herald in a work day.

Every morning is a new day,
a chance to begin,
to live in the moment,
a chance to sing,
whatever song you're given,
a chance to connect,
with the world a new.

Be with me each new day.

Pray to the Ends of the Earth

God of all people,
Let me live your love,
to the ends of the earth.
Shine your light,
in the darkest corners of despair.
Touch your most broken people,
with your healing love.
Shine your light through me.
Fill every heart with compassion,
from here to the ends of the earth.
Touch each being you've created,
with desire to live,
not just for themselves,
but for for all the Earth,
that they may live in you,
and you in them.

Writing to God

Dear God,
Walk with me.

Help me see your footprints,

beside me as I struggle.

Hold my hands,

so I can't beat myself up,

when I make mistakes.

Give me patience,

to wait for you.

Reveal your path for me,

like the moonlight.

Call me away,

from worldly distractions.

Keep my heart pure,

to serve you.

Hold me tight,

when no one else can offer,

the kind of love I crave.

Give me strength to face,

the challenges you set before me.
Pour out the love,
you've put in my heart for others.
Heal my scars of brokenness,
but don't let me forget,
how it feels to be hurt.
Help me to see,
your desires for me,
and live in your will,
not the will of this world.

A Trio of Poetry

Longing to be barefoot

Feet trapped,
in hot black shoes,
rest upon the grass,
wishing to be free,
to feel the soft green blades,
tickling at their toes.


Talking to Strangers

If you've ever taught a child,
you've said don't talk to strangers,
and yet how else is there,
to make a brand new friend?

Friendship Pains

With true friendship,

comes the pain,

bitter sweet,

of honesty.

No secrets,

means no hiding,

the struggle to keep,

a friendship pure.

Beginning to Glow

I've hidden in myself,
long enough I know,
clinging to my worries,
to save myself from me.

It isn't easy,
letting go,
but you take my hand.

Uncertain of my beauty,
I say I'm fairly plain,
just a simple woman,
inside and out,
nothing special really.

I wouldn't say I'm ugly,
but only others say,
I'm beautiful.

Shhing all my protests,
you say there's light inside,
my eyes are blinded to it,
but you say it's there,
and if I try to grow it,
I'll surely glow with it.

Pretending I can see it,
I try to be that light,
no one else can know,
but I'm starting to believe it,
that light is really there.

With every mention of a light,
I think of that,
deep hidden glow,
and every time I picture it,
it shines a little brighter.

Then some else confirms,
"You have a glow about you."

Something Different

Caught off guard,
by words I heard,
"It seems to me,
there's something different."

Something different,
a change in me?

I shrug,
and wonder,
what it means.

Have I really changed,
silently slipping,
into something different?

More colorful,
more confident,
more sure of myself.
They say I'm becoming,
a person of my own.

I try to fight the words,
to change is frightening,
but maybe,
it's true.

I'm a different me,
from what I used to be.

Twisted Humor

With twisted sense of humor,
God stops me in my way,

calling out my name,

"lay your cares before me,

I'll light a path for you."

I beg my friends,

to call me crazy,

for hearing this,

unworldly call,

and yet,

they all say,

"pray."

With every thought,

I grow more certain,

I'm called to go,

and terrified of that.

Sensing a Storm

I see...
the clouds roll in,
like blankets,
protecting me,
from the light of day.

I smell...
the sharp sweet aroma,
of coming storms,
buzz of electricity mixing,
with subtle earthiness of rain,
dancing together,
like preschoolers singing,
two different songs.

I hear...
the wind,
like whistles in the trees,
the rain,
like drums on the roof,
coursing a beat through me,
both calling me to dance,
and lulling me to sleep.

I feel...
raindrops drench my skin,
waking me up with excitement,
like the first plunge,
into a spring swimming pool,
while wind tugs at my hair,
like gentle little fingers,
"fixing" it for me.

I taste...
the air,
filled with dampness,
mingling earth,
and rain,
and storm,
like the sweet spicy delicateness,
of warm tea mixed with honey.

Starting a New Notebook

The First Page

Guess what?
I've used up,
every page,
of my last notebook.
A new one calls,
with crisp white page,
just waiting to be filled.
The smell of paper,
fills my nose,
with pen in hand,
I try to say,
the perfect thing,
to start a new day,
in my writing way.



There's nothing quite like the feeling of filling a notebook. It just seems to complete a sense of accomplishment that I've written enough to fill a notebook. I may have written a lot of junk in my last notebook, but I'm proud of filling it and I even think some of it turned out pretty good. So today I'm starting a new notebook, and to start a new notebook I always struggle to find the right thing to say on the first page. It always feels as if the blank notebook is perfect and if I say the wrong thing I'll ruin it, yet all those blank pages call out begging to be filled with words. Good or bad I have lots of words to fill them, I just need to drag those imperfect words out of my head and onto the pages.

Poem and a Prayer

Heart's Desires

My reasoning head,
must fight to silence,
the illogical longings,
of my heart.
Pressing against,
my hearts desire,
to cast away,
the sanity of reason,
my mind demands,
my full attention.

My willful heart,
against all reason,
presses back,
pushing me,
from inside out,
to take a risk,
to trust the aching,
longing cry,
of beating heart,
that will not cease,
to feel the pain,
of others hurt.

I'm sure my body,
will explode,
if I can't stop,
the battle inside.

My heart must fight,
against my mind,
to say the thing,
that's deep inside.
To speak aloud,
my hearts desire,
must surely mean,
my needs are dire.
I'm losing every sign,
of sanity,
yet the longing,
ache remains,
pressing ceaselessly.

Dear God,
Hold me close.
Give me faith to trust,
the longing you put in my heart.
Help me to be your hands.
Give me eyes to see,
the path you lay before me.
Make my heart true,
so I can serve you better.
Heal my aching,
so I can love you fully.
Let me wrap others in your love,
as you have blessed me with friends,
who wrap your love around me.

Moon Song

Inspired by the writing prompt "Give me a moon story"

Moon Song

I stare in wonder at the moon,
it's face a shining orb.
Each night it changes, as I watch,
color glows from red to white.
It's shape grows ever rounder,
til it starts to wane,
slimmer,
dimmer,
night by night.
It's light is never the same.

God of Light and Stars

This prayer/poem was inspired by a combination of conversations with a friend and last weeks writing prompt from a prayer group at church (which may have in part inspired the conversation that helped me form this into words).

God of Light and Stars

Dear God,
I feel you in the night,
when star light guilds the sky,
you brush against my skin,
with cool and tender touch.

While hiking in the night,
you touch my path with light,
to guide me on my way.
Through the starry sheen,
I see you in the trail.

With the gentle glow,
you show me your true self,
inviting me to be,
the best I can for you.

With this unearthly light,
I see you in creation,
and I become a part of you,
a part of light,
to love the world for you.

Unanswerable Questions

Unanswerable Questions

in honor of the friends who challenge me, and love me through the confusion.

Pushing, prodding,
you challenge my thinking,
with questions unanswerable,
you keep me awake.

Frustrations abound,
in efforts to answer,
and yet, to ponder,
the unanswerable questions,

is freeing.

At last unleashing,
the chains of heartache,
pains pushed aside,
but not forgotten.

Exhaustion

Waiting for exhaustion,

complete and total exhaustion,

The moment I no longer,

have to think,

because the thoughts,

Clambering about my head,

are too jumbled,

to realize,

I'm ignoring them.

Yet,

in the moments before,

as exhaustion just begins,

My tired mind,

confesses the truths,

Hidden deep within,

by my,

more rational,

waking

self.

With dread,

...and longing,

I await,

the moment of truth,

Where honest thoughts,

locked up in fear,

escape,

and rush,

onto my page,

Before my saner,

wakeful mind,

Can shush their daring,

crazy cries.

Writing to God

Earlier I asked my frequently annoying cousin to guess what I wrote yesterday, and one of the things she guessed was a love letter. Somewhat take back I told her I didn't have anyone to write a love letter to. She said I should still write a love letter "just to experiment" and than she challenged me to write a love letter to God. Even as I told her I didn't think I could I knew I would try it, just because I can't resist a challenge....

So I'm not really sure if it's a love letter, perhaps psalm would be a better word for it, but here is what I wrote:

Letter to God

Dear God,
My words are too small,
for your magnificence.

I am but a child,
young,
naive,
unworthy of you,
and yet your love is greater,
than my bravest dreams.

The touch of your breath in my hair,
sends shivers down my spine,
I delight in your power.

You send the sun to shine upon me,
my whole being comes alive,
at the touch of your warmth.

You walk with me in the woods,
I inhale your scent.

I dance childishly in your presence,
yet you sing to my soul,
begging my spirit to commune,
with the world you created

You come to me in the darkness of night,
whispering to me,
awakening my inner most desires,
calming my fears,
with quiet assurances,
of your love.

You pierce my heart with desire,
to care for you in the smallest,
most broken around me,
even as I feel too small,
too broken myself,
to offer my own hand.

When my heart aches to be understood,
you are but an invitation away,
waiting for the chance to touch me again.

Be with me,
I want to feel your presence,
be wrapped in your arms,
touched with your love,
undeserving as I am,
I want to be yours,
always.

Writer's Life

Writer's Life

Is it true?
We're all the same,
just terrified of failing?

Begging someone,
tell us our worth,
to press us,
to keep going?

Does every writer,
with bold,
prophetic,
strokes of pen,
hide the fear inside?

Is it the writers destiny,
to question every word,
to judge,
and say,
it's not enough,
of everything they pen?

Pen to paper,
a magic touch,
and yet it comes with fear,
fear of failing,
fear of falling,
short of what's enough.

Fire Drill

Today a smoke detector in the daycare I work at malfunctioned, leading to a unplanned fire drill in the cold. While fire drills are a routine thing, hearing the alarm, and looking toward the office to see the director with a face that says "what's that?" is not. If a fire drill is planned the director knows it, but when the alarm goes off and I see she doesn't know what's happening, it's down right scary. As the adrenaline rush slowly faded during my break a couple hours later I wrote this poem:


Adrenaline

Alarms sound,
My heart pounds.

"Fire Drill"
my voice is calm,
but one glance,
tells me,
this drills not planned.

My racing heart, combats,
the sureness of my voice.

"Fire Drill, line up!"
Thirteen kids,
listen quick.

Grab a clip board,
counting heads,
"You take them,
I'll help the babes."

Fueled by adrenaline,
I act with confidence.
Pick up a baby,
"I'll meet you outside."

Count the kids,
everyone's here.
Shiver in blankets,
hear the siren.

Watch the truck,
and wait to hear,
"All is clear."

Excerpts from "My third Grade Journal"

While cleaning out our old school/craft/storage/everything room earlier we pulled out a box of workbooks and school notebooks my brother and sister and I used. I flipped through a few of the books looking at the work I did and thinking back to when I was in school. We were discussing getting rid of the used workbooks when my mom handed me a small notebook "You might want to keep this."

Wondering what it was, I took the notebook and opened the cover to see "My third Grade Journal" and my name written neatly in my best cursive. I couldn't have even told you that I had a journal in third grade, but it's neat to look back and remember the things I was doing.

In honor of the nostalgia I'm posting a few excerpts, complete with horrible spelling.


First entry:

Tuesday, September 3, 199*
This week I started school and ballet. Miss Becky is my ballet teacher again this year and, I remember most of the girls from last year. My school work is fun. I like science the best but phonics is to easy.


When Nana helped me make a quilt for my baby doll:

Wednesday, October 30, 199*
This week I made a quilt for Joy. I picked 7 different faberics. Next I cut the faberics into 3 1/2 inch squares. Then I sewed them together on my Nana's machine. Next I cut batting and backing. then I sewed the top, batting and backing together. Then I used heavy thread and made 9 knots.


When I was going to Nana's to make a quilt for my sister's doll:

Friday January 3, 199*
I'm going to Nana's house for the weekend. I am excited. me and Nana are going to sew a quilt for Emme. I thingk I'll have fun whith Nana.


Trying to sail (probably without wind):

Mach Friday 28, 199*
Today we trid to go sailing ,but we didn't, we just moddered around. I sawl a person capsised. I was in the lookout touer most of the time!!


Going on a field trip:

May Fryday 30, 199*
Today we when to fish lift. I thoght I knew how it worked but how it workes is totelly different from how I iccepted. My faverit thing was whaching fish zoom by! Nekst stop greek food festavil where we piked-up 3 gyros, 2 dissert sippers + 1 laghe sald. When we got home the kids chached into swim-suits to have some water fun!


* Year removed because I don't want to publish how old I am online.

What My Cousin Made Me Do

My pesky annoying cousin, who demands I call her wonderful and beautiful, took my laughing at her for being a sucker as saying I'm a sucker too, so now I have to be interviewed by her on my blog. Love ya Nean ;-)

The Interview:

1. If you could take a vacation (no expenses) anywhere in the world for one week, where would you go and who would you take with you?

There are a lot of places I'd love to visit for a week (or more). Someday I want to go back to Lesotho, I want to visit Scotland and Ireland, and I'd love to go to Taize, France. For a no expenses vacation, I'd probably jump at the chance to travel just about anywhere, especially if it was somewhere I could really learn about and experience another culture.

The who with part is a little trickier. I'd get too lonely if I went by myself, but I tend to need space and quiet time to think, so it would be hard to spend a whole week with someone very out going. I'd go anywhere with any of my covenant group buddies from my Africa trip, as well as a lot of the other Leadership Now people. There are people from my church and some other friends I might also choose as travel companions. As long we're talking anythings possible I could pick Fallon and some of my other ProU buddies, just because it would mean getting to meet them in person, but in reality it'd be terrifying to go away for a week with people I'd never met face to face.

2. Tell me about your dream job/career.

Do you know how ironically (un?)timely this question is? This week I've had some frustrations with my current work situation, so I've been thinking quite a bit about work and careers, what I'm doing now, and what I might eventually want to do. As difficult and frustrating as it can be at times, I love teaching and can't imagine having any other career (besides maybe eventually being a full time mom, but that would still be teaching just with kids of my own....) I think my dream place to teach at would be some kind of alternative school that emphasizes learning through living, and strongly considers student interests and learning styles when planning – something that embodies the educational values I grew up with home schooling.

3. What is your favorite way to relax?

Relax? What's that? I tend to have a hard time really relaxing. I can be lazy, waste time, etc., but that's not the same as relaxing. Even when I'm accomplishing nothing I tend to stress and worry over things and create busyness, rather than really relaxing.

To really relax I like to curl up in a blanket and drink hot tea, or lay outside watching stars (all the better if it's on the deck of a gently rocking sailboat). The right book to read, or sometimes when I write can help me relax. Connecting to nature also helps me relax, whether it's dancing in the rain, seeing the sun stream in the window, smelling crushed leaves or wood smoke, watching snow turn everything white, or feeling the wind in my hair.

4. If you had a million dollars, what would you do with it?

Ah, the million dollar question.... If I had a million dollars I'd want to give some to all the organizations I support. Pro-U would get some for an over due server upgrade, as well as for the scholarship. Some would go to Leadership Now (because they're awesome!). I'd give to Schreiber for their rec programs, and maybe donate to a few other places.

I'd also want to use some to pay for college, so I could get a degree without having to worry about money or balancing work and school. I'd give some to my parents for a new kitchen and to remodel the bathroom. I would use some to travel, and I would invest/save some.

5. What kind of music do you prefer and/or what is your current favorite song and why?

My tastes in music are pretty eclectic. The music itself can be just about any style for me to like it, but for me to really love a song it's lyrics need to speak to me. I hate it when I find a song with a really cool tune, but crappy lyrics.

I think my current favorite song is “Life in the City” by Michael Franti/Spearhead because the first line of it got me thinking about something that inspired a story I'm working on, and also because the more I listen to it the more powerful the rest of the lyrics seem. Franti is definitely my favorite artist right now, just because he writes such meaningful lyrics.

Now if anyone is into this and wants to be interviewed, let me know:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me" (or tell me some other way).

2. I will pick five questions to send to you by email for you to answer.

3. You will update your blog (or FB note) with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation & offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you choose five questions for them to answer.

If I'm You

If I'm You
to the beautiful person who inspired this poem.

Caught in the tangle of life,
afraid to be judged,
desperate to be understood,
hiding in layers,
keeping out,
even best intentioned.

Does that sound stupid?
I laugh at myself.
Pretend it's a joke,
and no one will know,
it hurts when you laugh,
and say that's silly.

"No, I get it."
not even a laugh.

Understanding wraps around me,
like the hug I need.
Some way,
some how,
you break the layers.

Relief floods me,
knowing someone
knows me.

I wonder how
you know me,
understand me,
when I don't even understand me,

"Because you're me"
you say.

If I am you,
I hope someday,
someone,
admires me,
as much as I
admire you.

Vday Rant

It's Valentine's Day - A day of love and relationships. A celebration of intimacy, friendship, romance, and caring for others.

Or not.

In the past few days I've talked with a couple of different people about Valentine's Day, the commercialization of romance, and the inadequacy of candy hearts and roses in expressing true love. Instead of being about real love (in all it's forms), Valentine's Day has become another excuse to sell crap, tell people they need to be sexy, and devalue anyone who isn't in a romantic relationship.

Quite frankly I'm sick of all the mushy lets-be-romantic-because-it's-the day-of-love crap. If you want to be romantic you shouldn't need a special day for it, and, as a new friend reminded me earlier, romantic love isn't the only kind of love. Love is a good thing, but telling people they need a special day to love someone or that buying over priced candy, flowers, and jewelry is synonymous with love isn't a good thing.


"So if you love somebody better tell them so, coz you never ever ever no when they gonna go, if they love you back, just give thanks, can't keep love like money in the bank"
-Michael Franti, Life in the City

Snowy Poems

Despite having been fully convinced I could never write a decent poem just a week ago, for the second time this week I've felt inspired to write poetry. Todays poems are:


A Flurry of Contradiction

With shouts of glee,

the children squeal,
It's snowing! It's snowing!

Look it's snowing!

Snow floats free,
soft as a whisper.
Gliding gently, always knowing,

pure magic touches.

Worlds Collide.
A squeal, a sigh,
both magic in their knowing,

snowing way.

Nap Time

Twitch,

fidget,

talk to a bear.

Shhh,

sleep,

Rest my dear.

Quiet music,

dim the light.

Watch the snow fall,

soft and white.

Embrace the stillness

with a sigh,

While in quiet

of sleep you lie.

Honest Nights

I haven't even tried to write poetry in years. I like poetry - when I "get" it - but I've never thought I could write poetry. I used to try, but with about one exception in my life, I never thought I was very good at it. Before I'd graduated high school I'd put poetry on my list of things not worth wasting time on, but late last night I got some inspiration for a poem, and, since I'm trying to embrace the challenge of writing, I actually put it on paper today.


Honest Nights

Shrouded in silence
I sit and listen.
Keys click softly,
breath's a whisper.
Noises unheard in the light,
echo softly in the night.

Go to bed,
my tired eyes say.
I savor the silence,
just a little more.
Wrapped in the stillness of night,
most honestly I write.

In the middle of the night,
my thoughts and feelings
spill upon the page.
I write furiously to say,
things not put to paper in the day.

If only sleep were optional,
I wouldn't have to stop my pen,
when late at night,
I find my voice with honesty to write.

Happy New Year

As I write this it's just a few hours into 2009. I could be all nostalgic about what a great year 2008 was, or I could be all optimistic about what I'm going to do in 2009, but I'm not feeling terribly inclined to do either.

It's fun to celebrate the New Year, and growing up it was always such an exciting night, but the older I get the more I tend to wonder what we're really celebrating. Has it really been such a great year that we should celebrate? Have we really accomplished as much as we could in the year? Done as much as we should have? Lived life to the fullest, and changed the world around us? And if we're celebrating the coming year do we really think we'll accomplish everything we say we'll do?

When I was a kid my family always went to the same family's house for New Years Eve. We'd spend the evening eating shrimp and lots of munchies. The men and the kids would play with electric trains, legos, or whatever cool toys we'd get out. The women always fussed at the men to aim away from the picture windows when it came time to pop the cork on the champagne bottle.

As midnight neared we'd gather around to read last years resolutions, and write resolutions for the coming year. It was always fun to look back at what we said we'd do a year ago, but I don't think we ever accomplished most of the thing we said we'd do. We don't get to spend New Year's with the same family any more, and with that change we've fallen out of the habit of formally writing resolutions.

As I look back on 2008 I'm finding myself wondering if there are things I should have accomplished and just didn't bother to? Are there goals I could have met but didn't in the past year? It seems like the year has gone by so fast, and I don't really have much to show for it, but maybe I just expect too much of myself.... Maybe I should stop worrying about what I haven't done and be proud of what I have accomplished.

As I look ahead to the New Year part of me wants to declare out loud my goals for the year, but why bother? I know that no matter how ambitious I am about sharing goals for the year, I'm not likely to stick with or accomplish anything that I wouldn't do any way. Saying something is a New Years resolution doesn't make it any more or less realistic a goal than any other goal.

Maybe the thing I really don't like about New Years resolutions is it gives people a reason to put off working toward their goals until the New Year. When I get something in my head I want to accomplish, I tend to need to start working towards that goal in a few days, or I end up losing interest or just putting it off indefinitely. Waiting until the New Year or some other "start date" to start trying to reach a goal just doesn't work well for me. I have to accomplish as much as I can while the idea is fresh, or I get too distracted from it.

I'm sure this is rather incoherent and scatterbrained since I'm up too late to write intelligently, but I want to post it before bed anyway.... Because if I don't do it now I'm likely to get too distracted to come back to it.