Tuesday, November 3, 2015

[The things the forest didn't tell me] // November Third // Poetry

You found me with
Eighteen years bursting out of the backpack
Slung on my shoulders and
a knife in my back pocket.

I was trekking through late fall forests,
Dry trees and dead leaves,
Calling it an adventure while
[secretly]
looking for
A Name Of My Own.

A birch tree
[who called me friend]
told me
That I was headed straight.
That my full backpack meant
prepared for all
That my readied knife meant
safe from harm
That my focused hazel eyes meant
you've got it together, kid.

The maple leaves
[who were ablaze for me]
sang to me sweet-sounding songs.
An anthem of autumn.
A
Keep Going,
Don't Stop Now,
You Will Get There Soon Enough
melody.

[I sang along]

My jacket kept warm,
Though maple leaves kept waving goodbye.
Trees spoke more quietly.

[I walked on]

My feet began to grow weary,
My shoulders slumped from the straps from the weight of the backpack that
once held promise.
[I wished for a compass]

And so then my eyes searched more;
desperate
in a dying land,
for something
for anything.
[How could I forget a map]

Birch tree woods wordless.
My seemingly purposeful knife never drawn upon attacking enemy,
But looking more like a friend to me.
The Sharpness sang loudly while
maples
went
silent.
[I had packed appropriately]

Autumn fell.
Silence.

[I was quiet too]

In the winter
Hunger groaned
And my jacket did not keep the bitter snow from soaking my skin.
My years fell artifact by artifact into the white piles around me as
The zippers on my backpack gave up.
[I gave up too]
There were no red leaves
[though my sharp friend could find red in me]
Only gray everything.

The ice grew around me.

[ ]

I was alone in a dead world when
You Found Me.

The first hint was the Gold.
I knew

brown
gray
white,
I knew
red.
And I knew yellow
But none like this Gold.
[I was a stranger]

The Gold came to me
Line by
Line.
Bursting through the gray.
The Gold threw itself against my bed of ice
and melted the bitter cold that felt permanently a part of me.
The Gold is what started it.
[I did not know, I did not deserve]

With the Gold came newness.
With the Gold came green;
sprouting,
promising,
breathing.
Hands gaining feeling,
Hearts gaining meaning.
With the Gold came life.
[And so I let You take my heavy backpack and my knife]

I had left on an impossible journey
Convinced that those leaves and trees would give me that which I wandered for.
Mistake-ridden, lost and hopeless girl, I walked until I no longer could.
[I needed You to lead me]

I did not know that the Sun could be so faithful,
until I realized that the leaves could never be.

[This is what the forest did not tell me]












Friday, June 26, 2015

"Can you not see?" || 20

"Nikki, I love you. 
You are precious. 
I love you. 
I love you. 
Can you not see? 
I want you. I love you.
Can you not see?

Look around. Look at Dayton, Ohio. Look at your hometown. Look how I redeem broken life. This is all for you.
Can you not see?

The things and people you love are all testaments of my love for you. It is for you!

Nikki, it is for you

Give up your shame, you do not need it in my arms. I think you are beautiful.

Lay down your self-hatred. It does not belong in your small, tender hands. Let me take it from you. Be mine.

All I want is your empty hands to fill, my Nikki. I am God. I need nothing from you.

You are enough for me. You always have been.

Here, rest here. I have made a home for you in myself. You are always wanted here. You need not earn a spot. I did that for you.

Nikki. Do you believe it? Do you see it? You are mine. I am yours. It's what I want. You are what I want.

Daughter of mine, I give you every good thing. Enter into my Kingdom. It is yours. Live in it. Let's build it together.

I delight in you, my Nikki. Have you fallen? My grace has caught you. It will heal that hurt. It will never break under you. I will not allow such things.

Nikki, you are safe here.

I love you, my Nikki.

Can you not see?"


But now, thus says the Lord, he who crated you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel:
"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. I give Egypt as your ransom, Cush and Seba in exchange for you. Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you, I give men in return for you, peoples in exchange for your life. Fear not, for I am with you; I will bring your offspring from the east, and from the west I will gather you. I will say to the north, Give up, and to the south, Do not withhold; bring my sons from afar and my daughters from the end of the earth, everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.

Isaiah 43:1-7

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Eyes and Songs by God || A one-syllable word poem

Eyes. A clump of cells that can see the world. 
How did you do it, God? How did you make man? Man who is art. Man who is so well made, well thought. 
Want to know what is more wild? My mind knows I can see. I mean, what is a mind? Seems to be a whole world in a skull. A world that two know: You--God--and me. 
God, how did you think of me? Why did you choose to make me, me? 
I like paint and songs that my friends don’t. I like poems and green things. I like the time of day when it’s gold out. 
Why did you choose these things? I am made like you. You said so. 
But if that is true… Well, when I think of you, I think of songs. Songs that play soft sounds that scream your name. So does that mean there is a song? A song that goes with just my name? What song is it, God? 
I think I can hear it. It sounds like the songs I like. I love how you sing, God. So while you sing songs to me, I will too. I will sing back to you. We can call it life. I will sing and see life with my eyes.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Hands || poetry about the shaping of life



My life has been shaped by hands.


Seven years young. 
Just a few haircuts 
and awkward phases ago, 
I watched my mother 
pen my name 
onto the back of her hand every day. 
A tattoo,
nearly,
Of my name and my need.
Every day she wrote it as part of her grand scheme for the day,
So as to never forget her nurturing me.
My mother is a planner,
Who goes to great lengths.
Her paper days scatter our kitchen as decoration,
Signs of life lived.
Her lists like poetry,
Her subject of choice, motherhood.
Yet her favorite line of each poem always seemed to be the one's that had my and my brothers' names.

My father. 
A man of provision and of care.
From childhood,
He has never stopped watching over me.
Bath time each night, 
I sit as he sings songs over me and takes away the day's dirt. 
I am helpless to care for myself;
he knows.
Yet with joy he does sing songs that entertain and teach 
as I splash about and make a mess.
With joy he does wrap me in my towel and wipe away the cold.
With joy he does carry my sleeping body to warmth and comfort.
With joy he does it all again the night next.

Clay solar systems and model tree houses and easy bake cookies.
Legos, the saxophone, and the pajama pants I sewed in the fifth grade.
Guitar chords, water colors splashed and term papers typed.
My hands love to create.
Once tiny with disproportionate imagination,
Now nearly balanced, less tiny
But no, never creating timely.
Never consistent in hobby or phase,
But certainly
Always
Creating.

Three sets of dearly loved hands,
Their prints marking my life.

But none of these hands are my favorite hands.

No, I know hands who do all three hands' work perfectly,
And just so much more.

The hands of my God.

In the word it says that we are 
Molded 
as by a potter's gentle hands, 
we were clay. 
In that case,
My clay solar system 
Has nothing on the originals
That my God has spun into motion,
That he has created from His own 
Insane
imagination.

I created for years,
I still do.
But it must be said that
All that I have made 
Is modeled off of that which my God,
My Creator,
Formed first.

My mother writes my name on the back of her hand with what I need,
But my God had engraved my name on His palms, before I was even a word for my mother's living poems
And He tells me He will never forget me.

As my father washed my body clean as a child,
My Heavenly Father washes my soul as His child,
Renews, restores and redeems.
He sings songs about me and rejoices,
Wraps me in His goodness
And carries me to lay me down in safety.

My God, my Father, my Lord.
Though 
my hands were dirty, 
You held them. 
my hands aching and bare boned to no avail,
You healed.
my hands in desperate need of saving,
You pierced your own.

My name is written on Your hands,
Gracious God,
And I will not be forgotten.