Crimson's Lullaby

What a nice night
to fall asleep to cars in the distance
driving down the street
behind my house
it somehow sounds
like waves ebbing and flowing.
As the icy limbs of trees
clink and rattle into each other
with each breath of wind.
I lay in my warm bed
and let my eyelids grow heavy
wondering if there is anything
more like a lullaby to me.

Winter the ill-appeased Bride

We have snow in december this year,
surprising, I know.
It has come and gone
come and gone
and come again.
The last four days it has drifted down
in steady clusters of fluffy flakes.
Painting the scenery with dashes of white.
The evergreen limbs weighed down with its white mass,
the deciduous trees clothed once more
after letting their leaves fall long ago.
The air is crisp and fresh.
It should be such a pretty sight,
and it would be if I was not so far-sighted.
Everyone is enchanted with winter,
like husband with his new bride.
But it won't be long before
the incessant nagging,
of storms and squalls,
of shoveling and stripping off hot coats
that they will become despondent
and give up on her high maintenance,
they will long for spring and summer,
the loves of their youth.
The ones who required little,
the ones who only  punished occasionally
with a heat wave or flood.
They will wish their mouths had never mouthed,
"I wish it would snow already."  

Laughable Adult

I used to have this picture of myself
far away in the future
being this slender,
dominant woman,
wearing high heels
pencil skirts
getting my hair cut every six weeks
manicured nails.
When I was young
I thought no way would I grow up
to be the odd awkward one.
I should not have been surprised
that an odd awkward child
grew into an odd awkward adult,
no one else seems to be.
In some ways though,
I feel that if I trade my tromping boots
for heels,
my long hair
for a stylish bob
my worn jeans
for pencil skirts
I will not be the person on the outside
who reflects the person inside
I look awkward
because I am awkward,
I look ugly at times
because inside I am ugly
but it is ok
no one  is sitting in the judges panel,
I'm not walking down the runway
I'm lucky if someone recognizes me.
I have no regrets about not being
that sharp dominant woman
I'd rather be an approachable adventurer 

Broken Mug

Tonight I broke a mug
one that I have owned many years,
sipped from, and gulped from
coffee in the morning rush,
tea at night
at my desk.
Tonight it slipped
through my soapy fingers
and smashed upon the floor.
And I stood there in shock
it was a small loss.
I liked that mug,
liked--not loved.
There will always be others.
But it occurred to me,
as I swept shattered fragments
from the bleak tile floor
that were I to glue it back together,
were I to hunt out each shard
and position them just so,
it would never be whole again.
Never be able to hold my coffee,
never capture my tea
it would always be a leaky mug.
I used to think myself the same
even though all the pieces were there,
never would I be whole.
Never would I be able to do
what so many others could.
Until you took my hand
led me to a mirror
and showed one by one
the cracks you fused together,
until they became invisible.
How you gathered each piece,
that I thought was missing, broken, lost
and put it back in its place.
You showed me how you made me new.
How I could never hope to do it on my own
How you had been longing to fix me.
How you made me new.

December Scene

I glimpse the snow drift down
illumined in the light of a streetlamp
while everyone sleeps on a cold december eve
realizing that this scene is like the mortar
which holds together precious moments;
the ones which are supposed
to make us believe once more
in the dreams of childhood.
It is like a scene from a fairy tale
and although I may want to believe once more
my heart has run out of the magic
which it was supposed to sense back then.
And alas here in this moment,
standing beside the Christmas tree
I feel it grow colder still.

Bitter Waters

I would have never thought
that I could be this sensitive
this picky
this messy.
That a certain smell or sight
could make me fall apart.
I cannot even begin
to express this guilt
this weight
this heaviness
because I know what I'm destroying:
it was what I coveted most.
But hey,
if I can't have it why should anyone.
Why can't I just be happy for you
I don't know.
I just don't know
where this spring of bitter waters
flows from within me
I wish I could stop it up
and make the out pouring cease
for your sakes at least.
But I cannot.
I'm sorry I've tainted your well
with my own poison
It was never my intention
but I can't wipe the blood from my hands
I can never claim innocence.

Armour

I never thought
that something so small
so minuscule
something most could pass
without a fleeting thought.
Could shake me so.
I used to foolishly think
that I was somehow bulletproof,
nothing could touch me
unless I let it.
I thought I had learned
from previous wounds
how to protect myself
with steel armour,
impenetrable.
But there it is
that sharp reminder
like an arrow piercing right through
that I am much more vulnerable than
I appear. 

Steam

I love the way steam rises
in rolling torrents
off the surface of my favourite mug.
It has no objective,
no one direction in mind
but outward.
Like myself, as I sit and ponder
on a clear November evening
about what has been
and what is yet to be.
Even in the midst of great turmoil
which can be hiding
just under the surface of nearly boiled water,
it  is the simplest observations
the simplest consistencies
which give me peace.
I am sure that in the future
whatever I find my fortune to be
I will still be able to appreciate
a mug of hot tea on a cool evening
just as well.
Still be dumbfounded
at the design the frost crystals make
on a frozen windowpane.
Still be enthralled by Your presence.
Still be ok as long as I can see beauty
in the smallest details

The Song of Despondent Moments

I sit and listen
to a Hawaiian man sing
and play his ukele
even though he is long since dead.
La Elima.
If my life were a movie
this song would play during the parts
when the audience thinks there is no hope.
When I think there is no hope.
It would play melancholically
while I sit looking out my window
at the same backyard I have known
my short life.
It would play while
I sit alone and consider
heartache after heartache.
It would play while
I let bigger hands
lead mine to places
I do not want to lay down.
It would play while
I while I sit on Christmas mornings
and observe the damage.
A wrapping paper filled living room
still cold despite the warm air.
While I wonder why I still don't feel
the magic I'm supposed to
while someone yells from another room.
It would play while I sit
and wait in emergency waiting rooms
and browse watermarked magazines.
While I hold my grandmother's weathered hand
and wonder what she would say if she could.
It would play every time I sit up at night
as a child and not as a child
and wonder if there was anyone
that could hug me close enough
to feel my heart
and lift above my sorrows.

Autumn Questioning

You would think
that it is when they are first alive
that the leaves would be the most vibrant
the most colourful
the most showy
the most vain.
That they would be so attention seeking
when they are young and foolish.
But it seems to me
that they wait
until the they are ready
to fade away that they reveal
their true colours.
And who could guess
in the spring time
when they are such a young green
that they will one day mature
to become crimsons
golds
and amber.
Though still I must ask
why now?

Nearly Departed

When I think about you
it is always with a little ache
in my chest
because I miss you so.
It is so strange
what brings you back to me.
An old photograph
a saying
like one of the dependable ones
that used to always grace your lips.
The sound certain cupboards make
when they close
just like the ones in your apartment.
Seeing children feeding ducks.
But your memory will always be
like so many others
bittersweet.
Because it is so flavored
with tender kisses
and gentle words
and kind touch
that I cannot help but regret
how much I took you for granted
I expected,
like so many shallow childish hearts
that you would exist forever.

Lost Hopes

Sometimes it is on nights like this
I lay awake
and think about this place
I find myself
floating in the tide
on a sea of lost hopes.
A melancholy sea
of things that will never be.
Of dreams that have not
nor ever shall come to pass.
Of hopes long discarded
and yet
each time of disappointment
I dare again
to let this wayward heart of mine
find its way back to shore
only to be pulled back into
the tide of reality
once more.

Grow Up With Me

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3o0MFSv4dw

This is so beautiful. Just listen to it, I wish I could write like this.

Reflections of Intimacy

Open Yourself to me Lord
let me into Your very heart
surround me with Your arms
let me lay down in You.
Let me melt into Your very being.
Let me leave this body here behind
So that I may exist only in You.
I want to sink into you,
and pulse with Your heart.
Let me run within all that You are;
look up and revel at Your vastness.
Lay down inside of You
and breathe for real
for the very first time.
Lord let me be washed
in Your bath of love
like a sea's waves
crashing rhythmically over me.
I want to be so overcome with You
so synced with You
so full and surrounded by You
that I'll wonder how
I could have ever existed  apart from You.
How I could breathe air and live
instead of Your breath.
Wonder how I ever settled for a touch
when I could have an embrace.
Wonder how I could sleep
without resting in You.

Summer Hospice

Summer is breathing
its last warm breath
upon a nation
that is not yet ready to part
with its warm rays
and long hazy days
that meld into glorious sunsets
summer, it seems only yesterday
it was unpacking its things.
Now it's saying its goodbyes
lying on the door of death.
You can feel it in the air
the electricity that is so common place
in the muggy months
is gone already
like a love affair that was too short,
dying from lack of fuel.
And we wash up in this
new shore of a foreign land
no longer green trees
but ones ready to burst
into orange, yellow, and red fevers
without warm winds to sing us to sleep
but brisk zephyrs to chill our bones.

Hands untwined

Today is your birthday
I could never forget it
it's engraved in my mind
like an epitaph on a tombstone
I just cannot forget it.
Neither can I forget
the phone number
you no longer use.
I used to recite it
as fast as my own.
Back when everything
was whole and shiny
no one knew it would one day
crack open and reveal what lay under
such a placid surface.
And like a tapestry unraveling
everything that we once were
fell apart.
Sometimes I wish that we could
learn how to weave it back together
that we could fire these shards
into something new in the kiln.
I doubt you remember my birthday
or favorite colour.
That you lay awake some nights
and wonder where I am.
Or what my life is like now.
Who I dream of
and where my heart wanders to.

Perishable Summer

It has been hot hot hot
these past few days.
The sun beats down
and the air is stiff
and humid
like being locked away
in a stuffy closet.
And yet I wouldn't
have it any other way.
The sky is blue
and the clouds are pregnant
almost ready
to give birth to thunderstorms
with labor of lightning
and birth of fat rain drops.
I know in my heart
that in six months from now
there will be only snow
and cold winds that chill you
right to the bone.
There will be no sunshine
no clouds ready to burst
only the sterileness
of impending winter.
And I shudder at the thought
that all of this will come to an end.
This must have been
what John felt
when he saw
the end of the world,
and knew
it would soon come to pass.

Half Smile

Maybe you don't remember
how you used to make me
read to you in bed

And how I'd kid that you
were too old for that.
I wonder if you were trying
to hold on to the last bits of
childhood you could salvage.

Don't think I didn't like you.
I liked to tease you and show
you how much I cared in a
different way than most.

Especially when I'd debate with you
and let you think you won.

Like when I'd let you do what you
you really wanted to do,
stay up late with me and talk.

I still thought about you all the
time after I left.
wondering if I'd ever see you again
if you were mad at me.

Now you must be so grown up,
the same age me when I used
to read to you in your bed
late at night.

Every now again I find myself wishing
that I'll run into to you somewhere,
and that things can go back
to how they used to be.

So long ago

Some nights
when the air is still
and there is no sound
I still think of you.
I still miss
being your friend
and no more than that.
I think of being
half awake
half asleep
in the car together.
The asphalt too black
to see in the night.
The lines of the median
blurring together
separating
what should
and should not be.
The only sound
was our laughter
as we laughed
at our own lame jokes.
The sweet scent
of perfume
exhaust
and sweat
in the air.

The Dandelions

The dandelions
have already come
and gone.
The last traces
of the white dust
blown away
and still
time marches on
and the sun
seems hotter
everyday.
But nothing
seems as bright
or promising
as a boulevard
painted yellow by
the dandelions.

I don't need any help to be breakable, believe me

The National, "Slipped"

Psalm 100

Grains of Time

I thought I had lost my spark
my need to create
as the rain beat down
on dirty window panes
and one day melted into the next.
I drifted from week to week
never stopping to savor this.
This one last vacation
one last pit stop on my journey
to true adulthood.
There has been something so mindless
in these faded days
that seem to have been hung
worn and tired to dry on a clothesline.
And now I find myself catching my breath
on a cool evening
looking up at the blue blue sky
wondering where all the wasted minutes go
when I refuse to acknowledge their existence.
And as I wash ashore
onto the sandy beach I realize
they are the grain which slipped through my hands.
Well no more.
I take them and mix them into paint
to paint sunsets in the back yard
adding them to the green
of freshly mowed grass.
Sprinkling them on the flowers in the garden.
Breathing them in like exotic oils
as I begin to dream once more
while the moon rises solemnly
in a deep ocean of night.

Turning in the Right Direction

I had almost forgotten how this feels,
How good
how normal
how right.
I have been trying so hard
don't be angry with me.
I thought I didn't need
to bother you,
just like everyone else
I don't want to be a bother to.
Spilling out how I feel
to those who have neither
patience or time for me
as they trot through their own
self-absorbed lives.
It's not their fault,
they're no different
from every other twenty-something.
But You,
you take my face in hands
and turn me to look at your face.
You are not twenty-something,
or middle-aged.
You are not too busy with your own life.
In fact You have been passionately
searching for me all along.
And as I turn, everything comes apart.
Everything that I have taken such pains
to try to hold together.
All the wounds I've tried
so desperately to stitch together myself.
All of the filth I've tried to hold down
in front of us now.
And it disappears as you heal me,
and clothe me in white.
I melt into your arms
I forgot how right this is.
How good it feels to be here
where I was made to be.

Spring Blooms

Spring is finally beginning
it's not obvious
with the cool breeze blowing
or the lingering snow
but it is creeping out.
You can smell it
in the rich smell of earth.
And as I breathe it in
I find buds growing sprouting
in my chest
the beginnings of a longing
for sunshine and warmth
to lay down on green grass
listening to the bird songs
and stretch towards blues skies
to smell wildflowers
and tramp through meadows
to drink in the beauty and life
of spring with greedy gulps
and lavish in its splendor.
Yes with this little inkling
that spring is here
I can once again bloom.

I want to

Post Secret

Long Remembered

I cannot concentrate again.
My mind is set on wandering
down a well trodden path
that leads to you.
It has been years since we've spoken.
Years since our eyes met,
as they occasionally did.
And yet...
yet I find myself coming back to you.
Painting a picture of you in my mind.
Some days it is ugly,
I pronounce all of your faults.
Others, though,
show the idol I thought you once to be.
Those are the days I long for touch,
for kinds words and good wit,
for adventure and mischief
and the warmth of smile.
And I know, I know, I know
I ought not.
I know I should take your image
your memory, and seal you away in my mind.
Lock you up in maximum security
and forget to feed you.
You never were any good for me.
For all this trouble,
all this wasted energy,
all these nights laying awake,
Do you ever even think of me?

Today you were defeated,discouraged,dejected, burned again.
Someone brought it up, dressed you down, told you off, and staged another coup.
Any other day you could’ve shrugged it off: but not today.
A tone, a word, a face dragged you into a pit, a chokehold, a fog.
It stings. But hey: you are not what has happened to you.
You’re not someone else’s fake idea of who they think you should be.
You’re more than a backroom whisper where rumors lose reality
— you are more than seedy surface opinions born in a broth of fantasy.
You are beloved by a cosmic king of constancy
who has narrated a different history over today, and everyday, and for eternity.
He underlines, highlights, italicizes you apart from who you think you are:
and He is writing you with a furious final love.
Don’t let a bad mood steal you; don’t let a bad day say more about you than today.
Because it’s just today.
Let love say good morning.
J.S. Park

Winter Longings

It is at this time of year
that my eyes begin to crave beauty.
They long to see
the green heads of crocuses
peaking through the snow.
And my skin yearns
for the warmth of the sun,
unhindered by clouds and icy winds.
My frozen heart once more
desires to beat again within my chest.
My lungs want to breathe life
in and out
as my hands create something
wonderful, beautiful, spectacular.

True Father

I've done it again,
been careless
and down right naughty.
I look to the door
expecting the belt
to fly off your waist.
Expecting rage to fill you,
and contempt in your words.
I expect profanities
to fly around the room
like little nasty birds
pecking at my skin.
While I experience
the beating of my life.
I've blown it again.
I knocked over the vase,
got paint on the walls,
tracked mud in the room,
left myself unkempt
in smelly stained clothes.
And I stand in front of you
in anticipation of a beating.
Maybe that would be easier
than trying to make things right.
Just take your rage out,
But you aren't angry.
Yet, I know from your look
there is disappointment.
I've disobeyed.
Instead of blows,
your words flow out like
honey and lemon
on a sore throat
Stinging and sweet all at once,
cleansing and healing.
You take me by hand
and dress me in clean clothes.
Then help pick up the pieces
of shattered ceramic.
Help me scrub the paint
off the wall,
the vile words disappearing
letter by letter.
Help me wash the dirt off the floor.
All the while
whispering words of kindness to me.
And I cannot believe my luck.
Why aren't you angry?
Why aren't you giving me the silent treatment?
Don't you think I deserve...
You know what I deserve,
but you already gave it to someone else
they volunteered to take my punishment.
Have I forgotten so quickly?

An Intimate Picture

Yesterday I was sharing with someone a bit about something I'm struggling with right now. Sometimes it's really hard for me to remember how much I'm loved. I was telling this friend about how during my youth I was bullied enough to question myself for a long time afterward; do people really want to be my friend or are they just pretending? As I shared this, the pain of being 13 came back to me, man those are awful years even without being bullied. After I had explained these things to my friend she said that it seems like so many unfortunate things have happened to me and that she couldn't believe how far I've come (knowing a lot of my history)it's amazing how resilient I am."It's like there's just something in you, that keeps you going." But before she could continue I stopped her. When I let people know about all of the experiences I've had and the home I grew up in, they are often a little awed by where I am now. But it is good to remind them that there is only one reason why I was able to overcome; why I am on the road I am on today. And that reason is that God, out of His mercy and humbleness, not only reached out and changed my circumstances, but continually reached down to me with open arms-even though I had rejected Him so many times before-and embraced me with a love that knows no bounds. No, it is not because I just have this special power to pick myself up again, or because I read some self-help book, or because I went through years of therapy that I am where I am today. It is only because of a God whose love knows no bounds, and will stop at nothing until He brings His son or daughter home to Him. I remember right after I came to know Christ, reading the story of the prodigal son many times, each time my eyes dewy. It is such a beautiful picture: a father who has every right to be disappointed, to reject his son who has run away from him in search of something better, but who instead runs to meet him and celebrates that he has returned. And the son cannot believe it; he is expecting to be treated no better than a servant or slave, but instead his father treats him as an honored guest just so delighted that he has returned. That of course is the love of the Father, unquenchable and overwhelming for each of us. It is by Him that we take each breath.

Poetry of Pottery

I used to think
poetry was just pretty words,
strung together like beads on a string.
Likewise, I thought life,
would be the most beautiful
if it were composed of only
the prettiest, cleanest, most perfect things.
I thought my lot,
all I could hope for,
was a little perfect suburban life.
Until the paint began to peel
and I saw what it really was.
Nothing short of horrid
and full of contempt.
I turned halfway around
and drowned myself in feeling
thinking that surely poetry must be
all grit and real raw emotion.
It must be dark as the future I saw
for everyone around me.
I thought for life to be beautiful
it must be filled with filth, dirt, broken things.
The only way I could bare it would be
to full it with things as dark
as the depths in me, and tunnel in front;
But the light found me in the end.
I was so wrong, I admit.
Poetry is not just pretty words,
nor is it profanities
smeared on the bathroom wall.
Neigh, it is something richer, deeper
it tells something prose cannot.
Molds the words like clay,
and then fires them into something solid
paints them with details,
sometimes intricate and dazzling
sometimes functional.
Likewise, with my eyes wide open now,
I see that life is most beautiful
when we see ourselves like clay.
Brown, plain, miry clay.
Nothing special, and unable of changing itself
unless it's put in the right hands,
then hardened and tested through the furnace
painted and glazed with care and intimacy
then filled with the right substance.
For a vase meant for flowers,
will never be content with ashes
likewise a jar made for oil
will not welcome flowers.
And like poetry things that are forced
to be beautiful, never seem to turn out
just so,
but when the right purpose, circumstance, reasons
are behind it, it will be so very wonderful.