160 Characters

I text in sentence form,
only trading u for you,
when I reach a character limit,
and some times,
for a challenge,
I write in exactly the max characters allowed.


Prompt: Write a text message poem.

Prayer for Courage

1 Samuel 17:32 Let no one’s heart fail because of him (Goliath).

Amid giant fears and overwhelming tasks, give us strength of heart to press on. Give us courage to battle the giants that try to obstruct our way. When we feel small in the face of the challenges in our lives, remind us that you are bigger than Goliath and bigger than the obstacles in our lives. When we feel silenced by those in power, give us your voice to stand our ground.

Who am I?

Somehow in the blur of life,
I’ve become a little lost,
forgotten who I am,
let myself get so busy,
trying to pass as something,
that I no longer look like me,
now I’m trying to remember,
to rediscover,
who I am.

You say I need to get to know me,
and I know you’re right,
but my heart tries to fight it,
looking for an easy way out,
or a simple escape,
from the truth.

I look inside and I cry,
broken pieces remain,
of a neglected spirit,
I used to cherish.

An artist,
a writer,
a singer,
a poet,
a creative flower,
in need of water.

Pieces of me cry out for attention,
wanting to be known,
like I used to know me.

Things I Saved

Prompt: These are the things I saved.

Bits and projects,

stones and shells,

a stack of tee shirts,

I won't ever wear again,

a million papers,

my best artwork,

middle school essays,

my high school portfolio,

“important stuff”

that means nothing to me

- tax forms and pay stubs

from old jobs

snips of writing,

quotes from random places

- most I've forgotten why I saved,

but still make me smile,

relics of childhood,

and teenage years,

stuff in itself unimportant,

yet glued to precious memories.

Sexual Assault Awareness Month

The poem below is written in honor of April begin sexual assault awareness month. Most people never talk about these things, but you probably know at least one person who has lived this. Women and men, young and old, all demographic of people are both directly and indirectly effected by sexual assault, but many will never tell their stories. Would you be willing to listen if they did?

trigger warning: this poem talks about sexual assault.

One touch

He wanted her

led to another

his hands across her skin

she didn't like it

he'd get what he wanted

pushing away

he liked her feisty

only encouraged him

he'd take what he wanted

to get what he wanted

despite her tears.

despite her pain.

Midnight Chatter

Are you listening,

in the night,

as I whisper,

secret fears?

This is when,

I should be sleeping.

I can tell,

because I cry,

when I catch you,

closing eyes,

and drifting off,

to that elusive,

land of sleep.

Stress and Writing... Or Not

If you've ever tried to write I'm sure you've experienced writer's block at some point. It happens to all of us, and about the only way to completely avoid it is to just not write. Obviously just not writing isn't a satisfactory solution for me, so I've been thinking lately about what causes writer's block.

For about a month and a half I was spending fifteen minutes to an hour or more writing at least four days a week, then suddenly for the past week I couldn't really focus on writing any of those times. It's not that I suddenly stopped having anything important to say, or that my time available to write changed at all, I just hit a vague lack of focus and found myself unable to concentrate at any of the times I had been writing.

I'm realizing the biggest reason why – stress. The last time I stopped regularly writing for myself I was highly stressed over my school and work situation. Now I've spent the past week worrying over my finances. I realized my current income to expenses is not sustainable, so naturally I've been worrying. I've been hyper aware of how much money I'm spending, and thinking twice before putting anything I might some day want in the give away pile (I've been working on cleaning my room, but that a whole other subject) just because it might be more expensive than I can replace later, even if I don't need it now.

And my writing suffers. When I'm stressed or worried about something I can't fall into my writing like I do at other times. The stress holds me at the surface and ties me to reality when I would rather get lost in words. At best I do this, and ramble on paper about whatever is bothering me. At worst I can't focus, can't sit still, and find myself pacing the room, fidgeting anxiously, or sinking into depression. In any case I lose my creativity, and I hate that. If I don't have creative outlets I don't feel like myself.

The Dust I Know

When the dust settles,

what will be left?

Will we still remember,

the clash of sticks,

scratching at ground,

the fascinating ability,

to find the fun in anything,

or will we be wired,

inseparably tied,

to electronic beep,

and flashing light?

When the dust settles,

will we still know how,

to play in the dirt,

make mud pies,

make cookies from scratch,

and laugh at a poof of flour?

Or will we forget,

what it means to get dirty,

how to sustain ourselves,

the taste of homemade bread,

and the thrill of waiting,

as it's smell fills the house?

When my kids are grown,

will dust mean the same thing,

or will the only dust they know,

be stirred up by power,

outside of themselves,

a race car's wake,

or the danger filled cloud,

whisked up by the buzz,

of a rotary saw,

big boys toys,

to be carefully guarded?

When the dust settles,

will we still be human?

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: When the dust settles.

Letter to Myself

Dear Self,

One day you will see how important you are. One day you will believe it when someone says “I love you” or “you're beautiful” or “you're worth it.”

I know you mean it when you say those things, but sometimes it's so hard to believe. I want to be the smart, strong, beautiful woman you say I am. I want to be confident in myself. But...

I know it's hard to believe now, but one day you will see. You're already starting to. You know you want to believe it, to understand yourself that way, and that's the first step to getting there. One day you'll realize you don't just want to believe it; you'll know it's true.

You are strong. You're smart. You're beautiful. You're powerful. You might not believe it, but it's true. And, if you look deep enough, you're confident too. You know you are all these things and more. You deny it, but you know it.

I can be... but...

I don't feel worth it. I want to be. I want to be worth it. I want to love myself as much as you say I deserve to be loved. I want to be happy with myself. I want to celebrate who I am, but so often I can't until someone tells me to.

But you are worth it. You know you are. Right now you need someone to tell you you are important, but one day you'll know it and believe it all on your own. One day you will tell yourself that and it will be true. One day you will stop doubting yourself, and then you will be truly free, truly alive, and whole.

I like the sound of “one day.” I want to tell it to come faster, but some how I think that would slow it down.

So smile and enjoy the journey. You're worth it, and I'm here if you need me.

Love,

Me

This post was inspired by the daily prompt "One day, . . . " and a suggestion to write a letter about why writing is important to you/a letter of encouragement to yourself (both from A Writer's Book of Days). I thought it was just an odd reflection on myself and no one else would really relate to it, but after a couple of my writing buddies told me they could relate to it I decided I should post it.

Close Your Eyes

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Close your eyes. Write about what you see.

It's hard to write with your eyes closed.

When I close my eyes I see faces. I see my kids begging me to play, and the little girl I held in Africa. I see friends, I see the guy I like, and I see the person I pretend to be, when nobody is looking.

When I close my eyes I see some place warm and comforting. I see the comforting pale brown of warm milky tea. I see the bustle of busy people, oblivious to me, moving about their day. I see a market place, with people working, the smell of exotic foods and familiar comforts, at lunch hour.

I see a confusing crowd with everybody knowing where their they're going, except for me. I see business and colors. I see red. I see energy. I see noisy.

I hear a million voices at once. I'm torn in a billion directions, and find myself grasping desperately for a single idea to chase down or simply a moment of peace. I see nothing in particular and every thing at once, and find myself wanting the blissful peace of nothing on my mind.

It's like at night when I try to sleep but my mind won't let me. As soon as I close my eyes my mind is racing, showing off its speed, dancing from thought to thought as if I could forget how quick it is, as if I really want to race the million threads of color darting through my head.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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..."

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?

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.