Written during church

When we live hidden in Christ,
We...
  see the sunset every day,
  sing and dance,
  apologize for tears we caused,
  forgive those who made us cry,
  spend grace and mercy as our currency,
  give generously,
  communicate honestly.

When we live hidden in Christ,
  The world sees Heaven on earth.

One poem of many about suicide

March 5, 2012 will never be forgotten. I miss you, uncle Peter.

One

One bullet:

A thousand echoes

Phone calls

An obituary

A life in four hundred words.

One bullet:

A thousand pieces

Our shattered world

My broken heart

A family torn apart.

One bullet:

A thousand tears

A hundred handshakes

Mourning and night

Grief never rests.

One bullet:

One less.

Introducing my poetry

I remember visiting my grandmother's house as a child. She always had a pile of scrap paper and a coffee mug full of pens. I used to draw until I learned how to write. I never advanced from my standard sunset, squiggly ocean waves, and a sailboat sketch. Words are my palette of colors.

Recently, I shared a poem with a dear friend. She, in turn, shared that poem with other people whom she knew. The feedback my friend reported was perspective-shifting. I was described as intelligent and brilliant based on my poetry. I've been called smart before but not for my poetry. My writing has always been therapeutic for me. A place where I can release the emotions built up within me.

So, I think I'm going to start sharing more of my poetry on my blog. I've withheld mostly because I want to be published. I have had this dream since I was young. Well, younger as I'm still young. It just seems silly to have my poetry sitting in a binder, unread. Perhaps, it will stir up some words for your feelings. Perhaps, you will say, "Yes! That's how I've felt!" Perhaps, you will even say what I've written is hogwash. That's fine, too. I write for me. Besides, most of my poetry I don't like. I write a variety of poems. Some I actually have an idea and a plan for, others are therapeutic, and others still are a gift from God. He often reminds me of the gospel and of His love for me.

I'm going to begin this new phase by sharing two poems. You see, I'm on a journey with God. He's stretching me thin and reshaping me. He's retaining my essence but making me stronger. There are days when I feel like I've made no progress. Then, there are days when I reread an old poem...

Originally written April 27, 2011 (it has been edited twice since then)

I silence the voice within me:
It is choked, suffocated, buried alive.
The painful pleasure at play in my mind
A swingset of needles,
Daggered monkeybars
I merrily go around and around.
A voice desperate to speak

...and compare it to one I've recently written.

Originally written April 12, 2012, entitled

Alternative Communication:

My soul has a voice.

Sometimes it is silent,

A single tear sliding down my cheek.

My soul has a voice.

At times, it is demanding,

A wailing torrent of tears.

Even still, it is joyful,

Tears responding to Love and beauty.

Other times, it is angry,

Frustrated sobs for injustice.

My soul has a voice.

When needed, it cries out in exhaustion,

The final tear yields rest.

When moved, it expresses sorrow,

My pain and that of others.

My soul has a voice,

Sometimes, in my shame, I silence it.

My soul has a voice,

At times, when feeling safe, it speaks freely.

My soul has a voice,

Praying with or without words.

My soul has a voice,

Even now.

Eyes glistening.

Prayers in poetry

In rereading a poem I wrote on October 24, I realized my prayer was answered, in part on the very day I wrote the poem.

Here is an excerpt: "Yearning for an apology, closure, peace/A band-aid to hide the hideous wound/Cover it up while it heals/Will it heal?"

On October 24, I received an apology. On October 30, I received closure and peace. I am still healing, but my hope is in God, and He is the ultimate healer.

Summer Day

You are the

Hair swaying breeze

Encompassing blaze

Cruising bicyclist

Ambling man, tanned and bearded, in rolled up blue jeans

Rolling water in the bay

You

Composed this summer day

From the conversations,

Passing vehicles, to the

Steady beat of runners.

We are

Your instruments

Ready to be played.

Conjectures of a Speech Language Pathologist

High fives with as much force a 5 year old contains,

Spilling his energy into the world,

Radically sculpting his niche.

Frozen in his class picture: smiling and gazing outside—

Beyond the moment.

A still body witha busy mind,

Building connections,

Foraging his path to enlightenment.

He will excel in grade school.

His dimples will break hearts;

His enthusiasm will breed friendship.

He stalks knowledge, interrogating teachers.

Yes, he will excel.

He will never light up or sip an intoxicating drink.

He will live in the bubble of his class picture:

Safe.

A future teacher will ensure he continues to grow.

Surely, this gem will be polished.

The high five explodes with an echo.

He is waiting.

A walk along my high school Cross-Country trail

Surrounded by chilled moisture,
treading a saturated path seeping damp memories.

Plangent leaves aflame
Confiscated sunshine, a howling breeze, sporadic cloud bursts.
Predictably unpredictable weather.

An impressionistic scene of water and trees.

Rooted in the pervious ground, I grow westward.