I've been shifted
Like a baby born on a ship
Who's known nothing else
'Sides the ever-shifting tide
Choked with seaweed
And left melting into spiteful, swollen breakers
Clammy with the sweat of depression
Stamping prints into the sand
Where foam erased my traces
I saw isolation make the weathered sick
And I, not weathered, thought of death
Disheartened by the loss of joy in those I had called strong
But self-pity totes remorse
And there is no excuse
I tasted with the tang of brine, a ceaseless golden beckoning
Mirth that crushed with fullness
And that simmered at the brim
The sullen cringed in cowardice
Afraid to sip its light
And I stood choking at the fork
Without the bliss of ignorance
But the very knowledge that stole my breath
Turned to set me free
Joy is not circumstance, no, it is a choice
And depression selfish in its nature of prudish misery
And so I had to choose between the old and unfamiliar
But One Whose love was greater
Beckoned me to joy
At last the swaying ceased
And anchored firm I stood
Fearing not the coming or the going or the gone
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Compilation
My Sweet, Wizened Queen
published in the april addition of Teen Ink magazine
I guess she was my best friend.
Tin door to the realm of optimism herself,
Smarties candy,
pig trinkets on shelves.
Inside a brassy lamp molts feathers of light.
I’d been welcomed even before entering her home.
At her usual nest, neatly dressed
atop a pewter wheelchair; her throne.
Feet slightly brushing
the berry plush carpet.
Her crisp salmon suit
interrupted by dark woolen socks
bloated on swollen ankles.
Her face clean and soft
silk hair floating atop
her crown, her sweet, wizened head.
My eyes catch abruptly
on her once lovely hands—
mandrakes knobby and twisted by time
and arthritis that crippled
her strong, hardy body.
Yet iron runs firm through her veins.
I resume my complaining;
she says nothing trite in return—
a gentle lesson
in being thankful—
a lesson I’ve yet to learn.
She quilts stories for me,
spinning gently with words
the halcyon days of her youth.
Oh goodness, Ms. Updike, look at the time;
I really should be going, you know.
My summer days spent in her presence,
a contagious aura of peace.
I truly needed her then,
yet how abruptly summer leaves with the wind.
I see my friend little, now.
But I know that she’s there
waiting and
sitting—
being positive as she knows how.
How’s my dearest of friends?
Mother, call her, you must.
See if all is well on her end.
Dial the number.
The one we remember.
Ring, pause
ring, silence.
Again.
It aches to remember.
I know my heart’s blunder.
Ring, silence.
Ring, silence.
She’s gone.
Lesson
A reunion issued by generations past
Still thriving on love and sweet memories
Some gatherers are graced by graying hair
While others sport crowns of silver—
The adornments I desire in my youth
Children pass back and forth
Bearing tidings from a new generation
A peal of thunder
And disaster strikes with rain—
Torrential to say the least
Itching the less joyful of troopers
Those closest to me laugh notwithstanding
A cadence resembling the rain
Huddled together to keep warm in the flood
Smoke blown in from the marshmallow fire
I notice the eldest member of our hearty clan
Dressed for sunshine in a flowered dress—
A yellow cardigan wrapped delicately around her tiny frame
Eighty-six years of this life
Her birthday near this day
She sits slightly cushioned on a painted red bench
Smiling and eating her cake
Then the simplest gesture of kindness is given
And a lump finds its way to my throat
Her cousin, a man, in a shirt of bright hue
Pulls an umbrella off the table beside her
He opens it there and stands to her side
Guarding her from the cold, melting drops
There he stays
Watching her closely
With a faint smile thinking not of himself
How deeply this touches me—
His selflessness
Love wells up in my heart, as I start to shiver
I wish to act likewise, someday
Nothin’ Happier
Bran muffins in our tree house
Sun kissin’ me gently on the cheek
Leaves fannin’ me cool in the evening rays
My bare feet breathing in the wheaty Kansas air
Seems like Heaven on earth
Grey woody planks keep me cradled in the sky
Touch the reefy greenish lichens on the oak
No makeup, just the wind in my cropped hair
An earthy confluence of copper and of green
A field of minty freshness is my sea
I wanna be here forever,
Away from the obligation leeches
The world filtered orange through my closed eyes
As I go to peace in sleep.
Little Dan
You eat popcorn like it’s sugar.
Eyes like denim, laid back, like you.
You’re just vanilla.
Vanilla skin, vanilla hair.
Dimples that tickle your smile.
I never thought I could find room in my heart
for an ornery monster like you,
but I did.
You have a cowlick parting waves of your goldish hair.
Golly, I love you;
you’re my brother—the youngest that I have—
Little Dan.
When Good was So Familiar
The mountains have never held me as the plains have
But feeling them was different than observing
There, all His good overshadowed me
I was who I was meant to be—selfless
Denying my wants
Discovering the independence I’d feared for so long
And it took me.
I was happy not to be fed, rather serve
with my heart discovering freedom,
and then I was led home.
As the mountains disintegrated into smog,
and smog gave way to prairies,
and Kansas called me home,
I changed.
Dusk stirred to ink and spilled into the streets.
They followed me with luggage,
and memory confronted me at every darkened turn.
We drove the routes of my tears
By the buildings of my troubles,
and The Heaviness—two years old—reminded me of its hold.
The driveway was lit with family,
and it was home to be with them.
Yet my room was as I left it,
pain molding on the walls,
and my sleep was pressed with dreams
of the things that pinch my mind,
and the morning brought only tears on the breakfast platter.
And I wondered,
why the souring of joy so quickly in me?
Then I understood that there is pain in the place that knows me best
Home is the place I love the most and where my heart finds the plague Unrest,
for it knows who I was, not who I am now
unlike the mountains where I was bested by who He is in me
Good didn’t change,
Only my memory of me.
And I find my heart cramping with an ache to again be free.
Lawn-Mower Romance
Hesitation surfaces
I hold the keys to the shed
mowing…again.
Yet, as I alight upon the cracked yellow seat
of the John Deere, 42 inch deck, 0-turn radius mower
I can’t help but enjoy myself
The sweating sun—
it drips on the dusk—shimmers off the scarred blades of grass
The roar of the engine drowns out distraction, and thus it begins:
A date,
a getaway
He comes bearing much peace,
and I’m caught in this simple romance
He puts away His sword in times like these—
His greatness implicit,
yet winsome love He offers
It is innocent, our love
He is perfect, while I am not
yet He does not withhold His affections from me
Our conversation
is seldom scintillating
yet in the stillness, His love is palpable
Sometimes few words are best.
I run out of rebellious grass
how I wish I had more time
please grow quickly
He’ll court me in this fashion next week
when the green shoots are again in need of a trim,
and I’ll wait until I meet him again
How lovely this lawn-mower romance
Satiated
What if love was jaded?
A cold concrete tunnel,
recessed lighting, echoed voices.
The luster cracked off life
like dried enamel.
For what would life be lived?
Would death become the preference
and Heaven a desolate province?
Would light shift to darkness,
warmth from prodding eyes?
Would the wisdom of the weathered
be tossed to rooting swine,
our better judgment blinded
as milky eyes with cataracts?
Would hearts still beat to freedom?
Would there be a need to speak?
Would fire still soak the eyes
of men with starved ambitions
or children cry out “Mother”
in the darkness of their fears?
Or would they rot unborn
inside their mothers’ wombs
stiff and not forgiven
without love to bind their hearts
to those of their hardened bearers?
Would the famished haunt the streets with moans
from pangs of hunger?
Would chains hold rankled spirits or
cuffs the will of man?
Would beauty grace the orchid,
or the woman, or the fields?
Would wedding bells be muffled
with a shroud of melancholy,
graves exhumed and corpses worshipped
amidst the thrust of battle?
Would we trust in the strength of man
or the sorrel flanks of horses?
Would we even trust our brothers,
with our minds estranged and tainted?
What if love was jaded?
It is fading;
and are we?
Kansas
brown-carpet hills
windmills without blades
still mirrors reflecting the sky
winding snakes eroding the land
trees bent the way of the wind
crumbling silos
wind droning through amber wheat
prairie grass trembles
an undulating sea of amber
dusk contrasted with the shades of milo
the west, fuchsia and scarlet
a melting, sherbet sun
fades to a blanket of black
ameliorated with diamonds
over the home that I love.
Mom Hug
The dishwasher hums a declaration of her diligence—
a wonderful wife
Kitchen lights hushed yet still contrasting with the night
She embraces me in the quiet
A prayer is draped over my shoulder
My unnoticed tears skid to hers
Sometimes,
I just need a Mom Hug
Breakfast Bonds
I am scolded every morning by an alarm that has no sensitivity to my needs. Five forty-five. This cannot be healthy. Yet as I catapult my frustration at the "snooze" button, my grumping is not stealthy enough to pluck the anticipation of a new day from its perch. I give in and shake off my mental morning cramps, for my most anticipated morsel of time is approaching. These are the days I love the most, the fallish wintery ones, where everything dies and makes love all the redder. The lights are out. I tiptoe through a maze of furniture trying not to rediscover the ottoman or wake the house with creaking. Dad is in the loft. We have an efficient communication method. A subtle "psst" is all that is needed to roust him. Collecting in our established place of meeting—the kitchen—he preheats the oven to four-hundred fifty degrees, opens it slightly, and lights a pine-scented candle. We assemble oatmeal and enjoy hushed morning talk over tumblers of high-pulp orange juice. I care not for high-pulp, but I drink it for him. There is magic in the early morning banter of juice-induced repartee, and the friendship hewn over our granite breakfast bar has yet to crack. Even reluctant mornings can hold the richest of joys.
Where I'm From
I am from wooden pocket doors always breaking, from Marachaun noodles and Birkenstocks with skinny jeans.
I am from pancakes on Saturday mornings and Prairie Home Companion in the evenings.
I am from fields of sunflowers and a dream to plant poppies, from a peace plant with a black hand, and hostas nurtured under an ancient oak.
I am from McTuesday's and the family stew, from the redheads and vanilla freckles.
I am from quilts from Great-grandma Wissman and afghans from Great-grandma Taylor, from Beason reunions and bare feet on hickory nuts.
I am from the rebels, a grandpa who lit girls' hair on fire and dipped his hands in tar.
I'm from "Good morning, Punkin" and "The Lord bless you and keep you."
I am from the "barbed-wire befriender" and two brothers whose bond stands unshaken.
I am from Bald Knob Cross and a root beer saloon, from a drawer-shucker and practical joker whose love for God I owe my own.
I am from those who have hurt deeply yet love freely.
I am from prayers steadily planted and cotton patiently harvested and a family who knows no mistakes better than their own.
published in the april addition of Teen Ink magazine
I guess she was my best friend.
Tin door to the realm of optimism herself,
Smarties candy,
pig trinkets on shelves.
Inside a brassy lamp molts feathers of light.
I’d been welcomed even before entering her home.
At her usual nest, neatly dressed
atop a pewter wheelchair; her throne.
Feet slightly brushing
the berry plush carpet.
Her crisp salmon suit
interrupted by dark woolen socks
bloated on swollen ankles.
Her face clean and soft
silk hair floating atop
her crown, her sweet, wizened head.
My eyes catch abruptly
on her once lovely hands—
mandrakes knobby and twisted by time
and arthritis that crippled
her strong, hardy body.
Yet iron runs firm through her veins.
I resume my complaining;
she says nothing trite in return—
a gentle lesson
in being thankful—
a lesson I’ve yet to learn.
She quilts stories for me,
spinning gently with words
the halcyon days of her youth.
Oh goodness, Ms. Updike, look at the time;
I really should be going, you know.
My summer days spent in her presence,
a contagious aura of peace.
I truly needed her then,
yet how abruptly summer leaves with the wind.
I see my friend little, now.
But I know that she’s there
waiting and
sitting—
being positive as she knows how.
How’s my dearest of friends?
Mother, call her, you must.
See if all is well on her end.
Dial the number.
The one we remember.
Ring, pause
ring, silence.
Again.
It aches to remember.
I know my heart’s blunder.
Ring, silence.
Ring, silence.
She’s gone.
Lesson
A reunion issued by generations past
Still thriving on love and sweet memories
Some gatherers are graced by graying hair
While others sport crowns of silver—
The adornments I desire in my youth
Children pass back and forth
Bearing tidings from a new generation
A peal of thunder
And disaster strikes with rain—
Torrential to say the least
Itching the less joyful of troopers
Those closest to me laugh notwithstanding
A cadence resembling the rain
Huddled together to keep warm in the flood
Smoke blown in from the marshmallow fire
I notice the eldest member of our hearty clan
Dressed for sunshine in a flowered dress—
A yellow cardigan wrapped delicately around her tiny frame
Eighty-six years of this life
Her birthday near this day
She sits slightly cushioned on a painted red bench
Smiling and eating her cake
Then the simplest gesture of kindness is given
And a lump finds its way to my throat
Her cousin, a man, in a shirt of bright hue
Pulls an umbrella off the table beside her
He opens it there and stands to her side
Guarding her from the cold, melting drops
There he stays
Watching her closely
With a faint smile thinking not of himself
How deeply this touches me—
His selflessness
Love wells up in my heart, as I start to shiver
I wish to act likewise, someday
Nothin’ Happier
Bran muffins in our tree house
Sun kissin’ me gently on the cheek
Leaves fannin’ me cool in the evening rays
My bare feet breathing in the wheaty Kansas air
Seems like Heaven on earth
Grey woody planks keep me cradled in the sky
Touch the reefy greenish lichens on the oak
No makeup, just the wind in my cropped hair
An earthy confluence of copper and of green
A field of minty freshness is my sea
I wanna be here forever,
Away from the obligation leeches
The world filtered orange through my closed eyes
As I go to peace in sleep.
Little Dan
You eat popcorn like it’s sugar.
Eyes like denim, laid back, like you.
You’re just vanilla.
Vanilla skin, vanilla hair.
Dimples that tickle your smile.
I never thought I could find room in my heart
for an ornery monster like you,
but I did.
You have a cowlick parting waves of your goldish hair.
Golly, I love you;
you’re my brother—the youngest that I have—
Little Dan.
When Good was So Familiar
The mountains have never held me as the plains have
But feeling them was different than observing
There, all His good overshadowed me
I was who I was meant to be—selfless
Denying my wants
Discovering the independence I’d feared for so long
And it took me.
I was happy not to be fed, rather serve
with my heart discovering freedom,
and then I was led home.
As the mountains disintegrated into smog,
and smog gave way to prairies,
and Kansas called me home,
I changed.
Dusk stirred to ink and spilled into the streets.
They followed me with luggage,
and memory confronted me at every darkened turn.
We drove the routes of my tears
By the buildings of my troubles,
and The Heaviness—two years old—reminded me of its hold.
The driveway was lit with family,
and it was home to be with them.
Yet my room was as I left it,
pain molding on the walls,
and my sleep was pressed with dreams
of the things that pinch my mind,
and the morning brought only tears on the breakfast platter.
And I wondered,
why the souring of joy so quickly in me?
Then I understood that there is pain in the place that knows me best
Home is the place I love the most and where my heart finds the plague Unrest,
for it knows who I was, not who I am now
unlike the mountains where I was bested by who He is in me
Good didn’t change,
Only my memory of me.
And I find my heart cramping with an ache to again be free.
Lawn-Mower Romance
Hesitation surfaces
I hold the keys to the shed
mowing…again.
Yet, as I alight upon the cracked yellow seat
of the John Deere, 42 inch deck, 0-turn radius mower
I can’t help but enjoy myself
The sweating sun—
it drips on the dusk—shimmers off the scarred blades of grass
The roar of the engine drowns out distraction, and thus it begins:
A date,
a getaway
He comes bearing much peace,
and I’m caught in this simple romance
He puts away His sword in times like these—
His greatness implicit,
yet winsome love He offers
It is innocent, our love
He is perfect, while I am not
yet He does not withhold His affections from me
Our conversation
is seldom scintillating
yet in the stillness, His love is palpable
Sometimes few words are best.
I run out of rebellious grass
how I wish I had more time
please grow quickly
He’ll court me in this fashion next week
when the green shoots are again in need of a trim,
and I’ll wait until I meet him again
How lovely this lawn-mower romance
Satiated
What if love was jaded?
A cold concrete tunnel,
recessed lighting, echoed voices.
The luster cracked off life
like dried enamel.
For what would life be lived?
Would death become the preference
and Heaven a desolate province?
Would light shift to darkness,
warmth from prodding eyes?
Would the wisdom of the weathered
be tossed to rooting swine,
our better judgment blinded
as milky eyes with cataracts?
Would hearts still beat to freedom?
Would there be a need to speak?
Would fire still soak the eyes
of men with starved ambitions
or children cry out “Mother”
in the darkness of their fears?
Or would they rot unborn
inside their mothers’ wombs
stiff and not forgiven
without love to bind their hearts
to those of their hardened bearers?
Would the famished haunt the streets with moans
from pangs of hunger?
Would chains hold rankled spirits or
cuffs the will of man?
Would beauty grace the orchid,
or the woman, or the fields?
Would wedding bells be muffled
with a shroud of melancholy,
graves exhumed and corpses worshipped
amidst the thrust of battle?
Would we trust in the strength of man
or the sorrel flanks of horses?
Would we even trust our brothers,
with our minds estranged and tainted?
What if love was jaded?
It is fading;
and are we?
Kansas
brown-carpet hills
windmills without blades
still mirrors reflecting the sky
winding snakes eroding the land
trees bent the way of the wind
crumbling silos
wind droning through amber wheat
prairie grass trembles
an undulating sea of amber
dusk contrasted with the shades of milo
the west, fuchsia and scarlet
a melting, sherbet sun
fades to a blanket of black
ameliorated with diamonds
over the home that I love.
Mom Hug
The dishwasher hums a declaration of her diligence—
a wonderful wife
Kitchen lights hushed yet still contrasting with the night
She embraces me in the quiet
A prayer is draped over my shoulder
My unnoticed tears skid to hers
Sometimes,
I just need a Mom Hug
Breakfast Bonds
I am scolded every morning by an alarm that has no sensitivity to my needs. Five forty-five. This cannot be healthy. Yet as I catapult my frustration at the "snooze" button, my grumping is not stealthy enough to pluck the anticipation of a new day from its perch. I give in and shake off my mental morning cramps, for my most anticipated morsel of time is approaching. These are the days I love the most, the fallish wintery ones, where everything dies and makes love all the redder. The lights are out. I tiptoe through a maze of furniture trying not to rediscover the ottoman or wake the house with creaking. Dad is in the loft. We have an efficient communication method. A subtle "psst" is all that is needed to roust him. Collecting in our established place of meeting—the kitchen—he preheats the oven to four-hundred fifty degrees, opens it slightly, and lights a pine-scented candle. We assemble oatmeal and enjoy hushed morning talk over tumblers of high-pulp orange juice. I care not for high-pulp, but I drink it for him. There is magic in the early morning banter of juice-induced repartee, and the friendship hewn over our granite breakfast bar has yet to crack. Even reluctant mornings can hold the richest of joys.
Where I'm From
I am from wooden pocket doors always breaking, from Marachaun noodles and Birkenstocks with skinny jeans.
I am from pancakes on Saturday mornings and Prairie Home Companion in the evenings.
I am from fields of sunflowers and a dream to plant poppies, from a peace plant with a black hand, and hostas nurtured under an ancient oak.
I am from McTuesday's and the family stew, from the redheads and vanilla freckles.
I am from quilts from Great-grandma Wissman and afghans from Great-grandma Taylor, from Beason reunions and bare feet on hickory nuts.
I am from the rebels, a grandpa who lit girls' hair on fire and dipped his hands in tar.
I'm from "Good morning, Punkin" and "The Lord bless you and keep you."
I am from the "barbed-wire befriender" and two brothers whose bond stands unshaken.
I am from Bald Knob Cross and a root beer saloon, from a drawer-shucker and practical joker whose love for God I owe my own.
I am from those who have hurt deeply yet love freely.
I am from prayers steadily planted and cotton patiently harvested and a family who knows no mistakes better than their own.
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