Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Ten Poems for Final

Poem Set 1

Icicles 

The hang,
Rooted in unity.
One by one,
They drop.
Freedom's short life.


Sun 

The beauty that no one looks upon,
But always feels.
Faithful, each morning,
The Son guides our daily path.

Mountains 

Oh, to have faith like a mustard seed,
I'll see the mountains dance.




Poem Set 2

Running Shoes 

Tattered, rugged,
soles worn out.
Tossed in the corner,
soon, the trash.

A Drop of Dew 

On the deep green leaf,
it waits.

Roses 

layers upon layers rest
fanned out teardrops.
they tear so
easily.




Sonnet (#3)

Life without You 

The first steaks of light peek through my curtains.
I lie in bed, despondent for the day ahead.
I choose to dream of times we spent together.
When will you return? How long will you stay
This time? Our nights are getting briefer
As the days without you elongate.
I close my eyes and allow you to flood
Over my thoughts, till the world becomes still.

I cannot wait for your presence anymore.
I must move on and live this day without you.
With reluctance, I open my eyes and rise
Out of bed, knowing our time was short-lived.
But throughout the day, I think of you--
Please come back in my life, my precious sleep.



Occasional Poem (#4)

The Hunt for Christ 

When I was young,
it was about the sweets--
Gathering at the start line,
waiting for the signal.
leaving everyone I knew
behind me, dashing off in pursuit.
The chocolate, the candy,
Chocolate bunnies, Easter eggs.
It was the thrill of the hunt
and the treasures inside.

As I grow older,
it's a different day,
not a special day.
Sit through a church sermon,
go shopping, and cook.
relatives, even those unfavorable ones,
make a trip to my house,
where we laugh through conversation.
When finally, the last guest leaves,
the cleaning begins.
I hunt for a reason to even be excited.

As I look toward my time of dying,
I finally see the importance.
I peel back the way society
has portrayed Easter. I look
beyond circumstance
and fabrications of this day.
I reflect on the resurrection--
salvation from the cross,
the love of my Savior.
I know there is life after death.
My hunt for Christ has been satisfied.




Villanelle (#5)

This Moment 

On bended knee, he gave himself to thee—
his heart, his promise, all disguised in gold.
And reality replaced fantasy. 

He knew that together their life would be
whole. Whatever path that would soon unfold,
On bended knee, he gave himself to thee.

She stood there speechless. She did not foresee.
This moment she would remember and hold—
And reality replaced fantasy. 

He reached for her hand, and in jubilee,
told how together they would grow old. 
On bended knee, he gave himself to thee. 

Flustered, tongue-tied, excited, and giddy,
With one last look in his eyes, she was sold.    
And reality replaced fantasy. 

We joined together on a new journey
Where we would write a story yet untold.
On bended knee, he gave himself to me,
And family replaced fantasy.       




Ekphrastic Poem (#6)

She Did It (medium, thread on paper; by Emily Williams





All my life, I blended in. 
What you did, I did.
How you spoke, I spoke. 
What you wore, I wore. 
I conformed. It was comfort.
It was joy. It was easy. 
But it wasn't me.
It wasn't real.
I needed to be me,
Fully.
And so,
Here I am,
Not blending in with you. 
I stand out. 
I’m different. 

Will you join                                                                                                               me?




Ekphrastic Poem (#7)

Wreath 
       "Ever" by Merritt Becknell.  
       Medium: Digital print 


You said we’d be together,
That we’d make it through,
        It never had an ending.
Because nothing on earth,
Could make you as happy as I did.
                                And was filled with lush green needles. 
Moving in together was only the beginning.
You brought home a wreath.
                                But without tender care, attention,
Hung it up on our door—
Said it was a symbol of our undying love. 
                                With time, the end reveals itself.  



"You" Poem (#8)

Empty-Handed

You come empty-handed to the diner on the corner. 
The sign outside reads “Come in and enjoy a fresh batch of pancakes.”
You clench your stomach as it grumbles—it already digested
The apple you ate for breakfast yesterday. 
Though your pockets are empty, and you own no shoes,
You enter in, hoping grace will abound. 

The waitress spots you immediately—you stand out among others. 
She wipes her hands on her stained apron and weaves
Through the crowd to get to you.  You took a seat at a booth. 
“No shoes, no service,” she says, pointing
To your calloused and cracked feet. 

“Oh, Ma’am,” you begin.  “I’ve been traveling so long. 
Isn’t there something, anything, you can give me to eat?”
She wrinkles her face and lets out a snare.  Without even a pause,
She shoos you out.  “Out with you now, you piece of filth.”
You trip over your feet as you rush out the doors. 

You’re hungry and tired and just want to rest. 
You’re broke and you’re homeless and quite smelly, too. 
But, you continue walking, slowly, because
Walking is the only hope you have left. 

Then, up ahead, you see the bright lights.
The vast parking lot, the grocery store sign. 
Maybe, just maybe, you think to yourself,
I can get a job and provide for myself again. 
You tuck in your shirt and straighten your hair.
“May I have an application?” you ask the manager. 
He stands there, staring at you. 
You begin to feel uncomfortable. 
Finally, he says, “No.  We aren’t hiring.”  He walks away. 
You slump out of the store, gloomy and sad,
And there you see it, hanging in the window. 
A “Now Hiring” sign in yellow and orange. 
Your stomach tightens as you realize what happened.
He doesn’t want you—it seems no one does. 

Broken, ashamed.  Weak and hopeless.
You sit on a park bench and begin to think.    
You know you made mistakes in the past—
If you could, you would change them.
But you know you can’t.  A tear
Begins to form and falls down your cheek. 
With no one to turn to and no one to love,
You look at the ground.  You blankly stare at the pavement. 

You don’t see it at first, or rather recognize it—
It’s been so long since you’ve seen that image,
That symbol, that perfect sign of hope. 
It forms on the ground from a shadow
Of the light post above.  It lays at your feet—
The shape of a cross.  More tears
Form as you think about the cross. 

You fall on the ground, coming to the feet of Jesus. 
Crying, you can’t speak, but you know Jesus hears. 
You lay down your sins, your guilt, your anger.
Your sadness, your hurt, your betrayal, and shame. 
“God,” you cry out.  “I have nothing.”  “I am nothing.”
And audibly, for the first time, you hear His voice.
“I love you.  You’re mine.  Accept my grace.” 



Narrative Poem (#9) 

 Jack Nichols—NBA Star

They said they was only gonna sign me for 20 million. 
That ain’t enough to feed my family. I got four children. 
I gotta provide for them. They deserve the best from their dad. 
So if you want me, you gonna have to pay me more than that. 

I spend my weekends on my yacht—it's a break from my family.
For only one million, I couldn't pass it up.
I divide my time between my four houses, but spend most
of my time at my house on the east coast.

But my children, man, they mean everything to me. 
My family, they are my top priority. 
I'm only trying to protect them, that's why
there's no yacht and only one house for them.      

I know that I’m not allowed to see them anymore. 
But I still send them money once a year—50 dollars each. 
I work to give them a good future.  I treasure them,
All three of them--um--I mean four.  
  



"You" Poem (#10) 

Action Required 

We all have them-- 
whether we want to or not. 
You do it on a regular basis. 
Don't even know you do. 

You try to change; 
You're tired of doing it. 
But breaking a habit 
doesn't come easy. 

It's the biting of the nails 
or watching of Netflix. 
It's the late night snacking, 
or impulse buys. 
It's the gossip at work, 
or procrastination. 

I have them,
You have them. 
And though we don't want them
they are ever present. 
The won't go away
 on their own.  
It's up to you.  


Empty-Handed

You come empty-handed to the diner on the corner. 
The sign outside reads “Come in and enjoy a fresh batch of pancakes.”
You clench your stomach as it grumbles—it already digested
The apple you ate for breakfast yesterday. 
Though your pockets are empty, and you own no shoes,
You enter in, hoping grace will abound. 

The waitress spots you immediately—you stand out among others. 
She wipes her hands on her stained apron and weaves
Through the crowd to get to you.  You took a seat at a booth. 
“No shoes, no service,” she says, pointing
To your calloused and cracked feet. 

“Oh, Ma’am,” you begin.  “I’ve been traveling so long. 
Isn’t there something, anything, you can give me to eat?”
She wrinkles her face and lets out a snare.  Without even a pause,
She shoos you out.  “Out with you now, you piece of filth.”
You trip over your feet as you rush out the doors. 

You’re hungry and tired and just want to rest. 
You’re broke and you’re homeless and quite smelly, too. 
But, you continue walking, slowly, because
Walking is the only hope you have left. 

Then, up ahead, you see the bright lights.
The vast parking lot, the grocery store sign. 
Maybe, just maybe, you think to yourself,
I can get a job and provide for myself again. 
You tuck in your shirt and straighten your hair.
“May I have an application?” you ask the manager. 
He stands there, staring at you. 
You begin to feel uncomfortable. 
Finally, he says, “No.  We aren’t hiring.”  He walks away. 
You slump out of the store, gloomy and sad,
And there you see it, hanging in the window. 
A “Now Hiring” sign in yellow and orange. 
Your stomach tightens as you realize what happened.
He doesn’t want you—it seems no one does. 

Broken, ashamed.  Weak and hopeless.
You sit on a park bench and begin to think.    
You know you made mistakes in the past—
If you could, you would change them.
But you know you can’t.  A tear
Begins to form and falls down your cheek. 
With no one to turn to and no one to love,
You look at the ground.  You blankly stare at the pavement. 

You don’t see it at first, or rather recognize it—
It’s been so long since you’ve seen that image,
That symbol, that perfect sign of hope. 
It forms on the ground from a shadow
Of the light post above.  It lays at your feet—
The shape of a cross.  More tears
Form as you think about the cross. 

You fall on the ground, coming to the feet of Jesus. 
Crying, you can’t speak, but you know Jesus hears. 
You lay down your sins, your guilt, your anger.
Your sadness, your hurt, your betrayal, and shame. 
“God,” you cry out.  “I have nothing.”  “I am nothing.”
And audibly, for the first time, you hear His voice.
“I love you.  You’re mine.  Accept my grace.” 





Monday, April 27, 2015

Wreath

"Ever" 
       Medium: Digital print, by Merritt Becknell 


You said we’d be together,
That we’d make it through,
        It never had an ending.
Because nothing on earth,
Could make you as happy as I did.
                                And was filled with lush green needles. 
Moving in together was only the beginning.
You brought home a wreath.
                                But without tender care, attention,
Hung it up on our door—
Said it was a symbol of our undying love. 
                                With time, the end reveals itself.  

She Did It

"She Did It"
      Medium = Thread on paper, by Emily Williams



All my life, I blended in. 
What you did, I did.
How you spoke, I spoke. 
What you wore, I wore. 
I conformed. It was comfort.
It was joy. It was easy. 
But it wasn't me.
It wasn't real.
I needed to be me,
Fully.
And so,
Here I am,
Not blending in with you. 
I stand out. 
I’m different. 

Will you join                                                                                                               me?





Action Required

I believe we all have them—
whether we want to or not. 
You do it on a regular basis.
Don’t even know you do it. 

You try to change it;
You’re tired of doing it.
But breaking a habit
doesn’t come easy.

It’s the biting of the nails
or watching of Netflix. 
It’s the late night snacking,
or impulse buys. 
It’s the gossip at work,
or procrastination. 

I have them,
You have them. 
Though we don’t want them,  
they are very present. 
And they won’t go away,
with the way things are.


It’s up to you.    

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Villanelle Poem Revision 1

This Moment

On bended knee, he gave himself to thee—
his heart, his promise, all disguised in gold.
And reality replaced fantasy. 

He knew that together their life would be
whole.  Whatever path that would soon unfold,
On bended knee, he gave himself to thee.

She stood there speechless.  She did not foresee.
This moment she would remember and hold—
And reality replaced fantasy. 

He reached for her hand, and in jubilee,
told how together they would grow old. 
On bended knee, he gave himself to thee. 

Flustered, tongue-tied, excited, and giddy,
With one last look in his eyes, she was sold.    
And reality replaced fantasy. 

We joined together on a new journey
Where we would write a story yet untold.
On bended knee, he gave himself to me,
And family replaced fantasy.       

The Hunt for Christ Revision 3

The Hunt for Christ

When I was young
It was about the sweets—
Gathering at the start line,
waiting for the signal.
Leaving everyone I knew
behind me, dashing off in pursuit.
The chocolate, the candy,
Chocolate bunnies, Easter eggs.
It was the thrill of the hunt
And the treasures inside.


As I grow older 
It’s a different day,
not a special day.
Sit through a church sermon,
go shopping, and cook.
Relatives, even unfavorable ones,
Make a special trip to my house,
Where we laugh our way through conversation.
When everyone leaves, the cleaning begins.
I hunt for a reason to even be excited. 


As I look toward my time of dying, 
I finally see the importance.
I peel back the way society
has portrayed Easter.  I look
beyond circumstances
and fabrications of this day.
I reflect back on the resurrection—
Salvation from the cross,
The love of my Savior.
I know there is life after death. 
My hunt for Christ has been satisfied.




Monday, March 30, 2015

The Hunt for Christ Revision 2

 The Hunt for Christ

When I'm young
It’s about the sweets—
Gathering at the start line,
waiting for the signal.
Leaving everyone I know
behind me, I dash off in pursuit.
The chocolate, the candy,
Chocolate bunnies, Easter eggs.
It's the thrill of the hunt
And the treasures inside.


When I'm older
It’s a different day, but not a special day.
Sit through a church sermon,
go shopping, and cook.
Relatives, even those unfavorable ones,
Make a special trip to the house,
Where we laugh our way through conversation.
When everyone leaves, the cleaning begins.
I hunt for a reason to even be excited. 


When I'm dying
I finally see the importance.
It's peeling back the layers that society
has covered Easter in—looking beyond circumstances
and fabrications of the day.
I reflect back on the resurrection.
Salvation from the cross,
The love of my Savior.
I know there is life after death. 
My hunt for Christ has been satisfied.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Sonnet Revision #1

Life without You

The first streaks of light peek through my curtains.
I lie in bed, despondent for the day ahead.
I choose to dream of times we spent together.
When will you return?  How long will you stay
This time? Our nights are getting briefer
As the days without you elongate.
I close my eyes and allow you to flood
Over my thoughts, till the world becomes still. 
  

I cannot wait for your presence anymore.  
I must move on and live this day without you. 
With reluctance, I open my eyes and rise
Out of bed, knowing our time was short-lived.
But throughout the day, I think of you
Please come back in my life, my precious sleep.

Villanelle Poem

This Moment

On bended knee, he gave himself to thee—
his heart, his promise, all disguised in gold.
And reality replaced fantasy. 

He knew that together their life would be
whole.  Whatever path that would soon unfold,
On bended knee, he gave himself to thee.

She stood, there speechless.  She did not foresee.
This moment she would remember and hold—
And reality replaced fantasy. 

He reached for her hand, and in jubilee,
told how together they would grow old. 
On bended knee, he gave himself to thee. 

Flustered, tongue-tied, excited, and giddy,
With one last look in his eyes, she was sold.    
And reality replaced fantasy. 


They joined together on a new journey
Where they would write a story yet untold.
On bended knee, he gave himself to thee,

And reality replaced fantasy.  

Thursday, March 19, 2015

The Hunt for Christ Revision 1

 The Hunt for Christ

When I'm young
It’s about the sweets—
Gathering at the start line,
waiting for the signal.
Leaving everyone I know
behind me, I dash off in pursuit.
The chocolate, the candy,
Chocolate bunnies, Easter eggs.
It's the thrill of the hunt
And the treasures inside.


When I'm older
It’s a different day, but not a special day.
Sit through a church sermon,
go shopping, and cook.
Relatives, even those unfavorable ones,
Make a special trip to the house,
Where we laugh our way through conversation.
When everyone leaves, the cleaning begins.
I hunt for a reason to even be excited. 


When I'm dying
I finally see the importance.
It's peeling back the layers that society
has covered Easter in—looking beyond circumstances
and fabrications of the day.
I reflect back on the resurrection.
Salvation from the cross,
The love of my Savior.
I know there is life after death. 
My hunt for Christ has been satisfied.


The Hunt for Christ (rough draft)

The Hunt for Christ

When you’re young:
It’s about the sweets—
The chocolate, the candy,
Easter eggs, chocolate bunnies.
The thrill of the hunt
And the treasures inside.

When you’re older:
It’s just another day
To sit and attend church.
Shopping for candy, visiting relatives,
Cleaning and cooking—it’s just a checklist.
You hunt for a reason to even be excited. 


When you’re dying:
You reflect back on the resurrection.
Salvation from the cross,
The love of our Savior.
You know there is life after death. 
The hunt for Christ has been satisfied.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Sonnet

How I miss the way you make me stable,
Always putting my mind and heart to ease.
Just the thought of you alone can make me
Melt with satisfaction, anticipation.
Why have you wandered astray from me?
And when reunited, you push me away?
A love suffocated from demands, work. 
I long for the love we had when I was young.

But no, I cannot take this any longer.
The past behind us, let us make a new future,
Where you and I are together each night,
Sharing in dreams, in hopes, in desires. 
I just may weep, for I have missed you dearly.

Please come back in my life, my precious sleep.  

Friday, March 6, 2015

Narrative Poems Revision 1

 —NBA Star

They said they was only gonna sign me for 20 million. 
That ain’t enough to feed my family.  I got four children. 
I gotta provide for them.  They deserve the best from their father. 
So if you want me, you gonna have to pay me more than that. 

I spend my weekends on my yacht—with a bunch of women.
For only one million, I couldn't pass it up.
I divide my time between my four houses.  Not evenly though—
I spend most of my time at my house on the east coast.


But my children, man, they mean everything to me. 
My family, they are my top priority. 
I don’t let my children on my yacht or go to the other houses—
I’m protecting them, having them stay on the west coast.    

I know that I’m not allowed to see them anymore. 
But I still send them money once a year—50 dollars each. 
I work to give them a good future.  I treasure them,
All three of them—um—I mean four.  




...



Professional Basketball Player 

Women are just an object. 
         I have been married five times.  But I was the one to file for divorce twice.   
         I have seven children.  But thankfully I don't have custody of them.  
         Monthly child support payments suck.  But I have enough money to cover it.

Money is everything. 
         I have a six car garage.  They are stocked with six cars, two motorcycles.
         I have two acres of land.  There is a regulation size basketball court in the back.
         I have money to buy whatever I want.  The newest iPhone, laptop, or TV—it's mine.  

Age is just a number. 
         They say I am too old for basketball.  I’m 37. 
         They say I can’t run as fast I used to.  I only had one knee surgery. 
         They say I can’t shoot layups as well anymore.  If everyone moved out of my way, I could. 

What am I worth?
         Only $150,000



...


Professional Boxer 

Upper cut, jab, hook, round kick—that was my move. 
Living in the rink, beating men to a pulp,
No police ever knocked on my door.    

The crazy thing?  I actually got paid
For something considered crime on the streets.
For a living, I knocked out men claimed stronger than me.    

With the money, I did what any other person would—
Spent it on new obsessions of cars and motorcycles. 
4.5 million was all that it cost,

Whatever I wanted, I bought for myself.   
And it brought me joy to brew jealousy in others,
Watching them drool at the life that I lived. 

But one night everything went down the drains.
I took my career to the streets and this time the police were there.
The drug bust didn’t help—got sent to prison for the next three years. 

Then my wife divorced me, married for six years. 
Said I changed since we first met in 2000—
Now a liar, a cheater, disgusting to be around. 

The IRS is constantly on my case,
Saying “Where is your payment?” and “Time is ticking.”
My money went fast—now 27 million in debt. 

I’ve got nothing left, but my houses and cars,
But soon the IRS will be after those too. 
I’ll cling to my possessions, that’s all I have left. 

Upper cut, jab, hook, round kick—that was my move. 
Ain’t nobody gonna fight me.  
I’ll give anybody a fight for my money.








Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Narrative Poems

 NBA Star

They said they was only gonna sign me for $20 million. 
That ain’t enough to feed my family.  I got four children. 
I gotta provide for them.  They deserve the best from their father. 
So if you want me, you gonna have to pay me more than that. 

I got my yacht to take care of—or rather pay someone else to. 
For only one million, I couldn’t pass it up. 
And with having four houses in four different states,
I’m constantly traveling from one to the other. 

But my children, man, they mean everything to me. 
My family, they are my top priority. 
I don’t let my children on my yacht or go to the other houses—
I’m protecting them, having them stay right where they are.    

I know that I’m not allowed to see them anymore. 
But I still send them money once a year—$50 dollars each. 
I work to give them a good future.  I treasure them,

All three of them, um, I mean four.  




...



NBA Star

Age is just a number. 
         They say I am too old for basketball.  I’m 37. 
         They say I can’t run as fast I used to.  I only had one knee surgery. 
         They say I can’t shoot layups as well anymore.  If everyone moved out of my way, I could. 

Women are just an object. 
         I have been married five times. 
         I have seven children.
         Monthly child support payments suck.

Money is everything. 
         My garage is stocked with eight cars.
         My house has a regulation size basketball court.
         I can always the afford the newest gadget.     

What am I worth?
         $150,000








Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Poem Set 1 Revision


Running Shoes

Tattered, rugged,
soles worn out.
Tossed in the corner
Soon, the trash.    

...


Behind a Glass Panel

One never feels
the glistening snowflakes on bare palms  
or the radiant heat of the sun
or the shrill gusts of wind
that numb from the inside out.  

Set 2 Revision

Winter

Bare trees clothed in snow—
Summer’s masquerade.

...


A Drop of Dew

On the deep green leaf
it sits,
waiting,
to be absorbed,
or left out to dry


...



As my eraser shrinks,
     my failure grows. 
          Writer’s block.    

Poem Set 3 Revision


Roses

layers upon layers rest
fanned out teardrops.
they tear so
easily.

...

Zebra

Intricate black streaks
painted on a white canvas--
Maybe the only place
with complete unity? 

...


Icicles

They hang,
Rooted in unity.
One by one,
They drop.
Freedom's short life.


Poem Set 4 Revision


Sun

The beauty that no one looks upon,
But always feels.
Faithful, each morning, 
The Son guides our daily path.  

...


Mountains

Oh, to have faith like a mustard seed,
I’ll see the mountains dance

...


Ant Hill

It’s as if heaven were stored up inside.
Many look at the narrow opening,
And crush it with their soles.

...


Offering Bowl

Wicker basket passed pew to pew.
Rubbing the twenty between his fingers,
he slips it back in his wallet.   

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Poems Set 4 -- Spiritual


Sun

It’s the beauty that no one looks upon,
But one always feels its Presence.
Faithful to rise each morning dawn
The Son guides our daily path.  

...



Mountains

Oh, to have faith like a mustard seed,
I’ll see the mountains dance

...


Ant Hill

It’s as if heaven were stored up inside,
With all its rich rewards.
Many look at the narrow opening,
And crush it with their soles.

...


Offering Bowl

Wicker basket passed pew to pew.
Sweaty palm grasps the $20.
Maybe next week.  

Poems Set 3 -- Love and Community


Roses

fanned out petals
with delicate design.
the symbol of love. 
they tear so
easily.

...

Zebra

Intricate black designs
woven on a white canvas--
beauty spawns from complete unity. 

...



Icicles

They hang, rooted in unity.
One by one,
They drop to break away.
Freedom is short lived.  

Poems Set 2 -- Riddle-like

Winter

Bare trees clothed in snow—
Summer’s masquerade.

...


A Drop of Dew

Patiently resting
on the deep green leaf.
Will it be absorbed or left out to dry?


...



As my eraser shrinks,
my failure grows. 
Writer’s block.    

Poems Set 1


Running Shoes

Sitting in silence
soles worn out, 
holding the secrets
of stories untold.  

...


Behind a Glass Panel

One never feels
the glistening snowflakes on bare palms  
or the radiant heat of the sun
or the shrill gusts of wind
that numb from the inside out.  

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Get Words on Paper, Fight Resistance

I want to write for 15 minutes, twice a day.  Once in the morning when I wake up.  Once in the evening before I go to bed.  I want to see the alertness of my mind through my morning work and the sleepiness of my mind through my evening work.  Maybe my alertness will cause me to be picky and a perfectionist of the words I write, thus writing in a more conservative manner, while my sleepiness will break down the filter in my head, allowing me to write about whatever comes to mind. 

Since I am writing in the morning and evening, I assume that I will be in my room for most of my writing, but I do also want to change up my location every once awhile.  While I like consistency, I do like change every once in a while.

To write, I will simply use my poetry notebook and my dark blue or purple pen.  I will use my phone to find images to describe and use headphones to listen to music. 

Staying in a secluded area will limit my distractions, yet I know that my greatest distraction is myself.  I hope to combat this by listening to music without words, mostly piano, but some flute.  Maybe I will go the movie soundtrack route?  Maybe the music will influence my writing. 


I will attempt to follow this, but who knows what the next week will hold.  My goal is to write and get my thoughts on paper.  My goal is to fight resistance.  A wise person once said, "Sometimes we get writer's block, because we set our standards too high."  Another humble soul once said, "Most of what I write, like most of what I say in casual conversation, will not amount to much...I am not writing for others."  


Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Answering the Call


Ceramic, beige tiles plaster the floor
connected to two types of walls, both sky-blue.
Number one, drywall—solid and strong. 
Number two, cinder blocks—chipped and cracked.

Two twin bowls rest atop the cold tiles,
Each glistening white, with porcelain pride.
Be wary of the power they hold within;
For sitting too long creates a bum leg. 

These bowls, they can flush any doubts one may have
‘bout the vortexing power of disappearing crap. 
With an aim to release any pressure one feels,
The bowls wipe discomfort from those who draw near. 

There are other bowls here, smaller, shorter,
Nestled within stalls of marble counter.
A silver canal extends over each bowl,
Where out flows the streams of pure, clear liquid.

One’s hands are immersed in the whirlpool of water,
To achieve the objective of Angel Soft hands. 
The antibacterial cleanser one squirts
Helps remove the curtains of accumulated germs.

One then grabs for the Ultra Soft cloth--
The one that is black, fuzzy, and wet. 
Collecting and storing the moisture within,
The cloth is rehung until needed again.

And then they will leave, just like that. 
They need to go, go, go,
back to their personal duties.
But they will return; they always do. 

For one always answers the bladder call.  

Monday, January 26, 2015

Descriptions Lead to Understanding

The narrow corridor leads to an open, yet small area.  This area is a room that is visited quite frequently by the people who dwell here.  The ice cold, beige, ceramic tiles line the floor in repeated twelve inch squares that demand you cover your feet before you dare step on them.  There are two type of walls in here: one regular drywall, the other cinder blocks—both are painted sky blue, both are chipped and cracked.  On the front wall, the one with the cinder blocks, two identical, brown frames hang, encircling sheer reflective panels.  These panels hold the power to replicate anything that stands in their way.  Directly below these frames, a counter space extends, composed of a cream marble laminate covering over smooth, light wood. 

Two gaping holes are cut out of the counter-top; this is where two matching porcelain bowls are nestled—they sit directly in front of the frames.  A silver, shiny canal rests atop the bowls, where pure, clear, liquid smoothly flows through and splashes into the bowl which catches its every drip.  The presence of this sight is initiated by pulling a knob on either side of the canal.  Depending on which one you turn, you have the power to control the temperature, speed, and duration of the liquid.  Next to each porcelain bowl sits a pump containing thirteen point five fluid ounces of an antibacterial, white cleanser that promotes healthier and softer skin, predominantly used on one’s hands. 

Next to the laminate counter-top, attached to the cinder block, sky blue wall, is a single, white, command-strip hook.  From it, hangs a one foot, fuzzy, black, tight-knit, cloth.  It collects the wet particles from one’s hands, leaving hands smooth and dry, while the cloth itself becomes damper and damper.  

The usefulness of this area, though, isn't solely for the cleansing of one’s hands; it’s what is done before the cleansing of the hands that titles this room for what it is.  Across from the porcelain bowls sit two larger porcelain bowls.  Each is bright white, rests nicely on the floor, and includes a lid to cover the bowl when not in use.  In each bowl sits the same clear liquid that the counter-top bowls produce, although this liquid is not for one’s hands.  These white, sturdy bowls are meant to sit on.  One would choose to sit on the bowl to relieve and release any inner pressures or discomfort that one may be feeling. 

Next to these large bowls sit a metal stand with a larger, circular base.  At the top of the metal stand, another piece of metal protrudes to the side, allowing something hollow to hang off of it.  On this stand, thin, white, flower embossed, square tissues hang, connected by perforated lines.  These tissues are wound around a dark brown, circular cardboard and hung on the metal stand.   

Directly in front of the grand bowl is a white curtain with twelve small holes at the top, spread evenly across the entire fabric.  In each of these holes, a plastic, circular clip loops through, joining the curtain and the metal bar above it, allowing the curtain to not only hang, but to open and close with external force.  This allows privacy for those using the large, white bowl. 

After one is finished, one precedes to push down a silver lever, placed on the white backboard of the deep bowl.  When this lever is pushed, the liquid and other containments circle round the bowl and then disappear through an opening in the back.  Accompanying this act is the rushing sound of a vortex approaching and then quickly fading. 

Then, one opens the curtain and walks four steps forward to the smaller porcelain bowls.  One would use the antibacterial, creamy substance to remove any germs that have accumulated over time, rub their hands against the black, fuzzy, cloth hanging on the sky blue, cinder block wall, precede down the narrow corridor, and go back to whatever they were doing before their bladder called. 


Life Behind the Words

Poetry is...

  • a song without the music 
  • saying more by writing less 
  • a means of expression/a way to express yourself
  • freedom 
  • writing that sounds musical 
  • a way to touch souls 
  • carefully selecting words and the way in which you present them  
  • hard work 
Everyone has heard the phrase, "they go together like peanut butter and jelly".  That can definitely be said about me with many things: guitar, sleep, zebras, green beans, and my fan to say a few.  But poetry?  We go together like sand paper and roses--not your top choice.  You see, I started writing songs this past summer, Christian songs that I wrote and played on my guitar.  I never viewed my lyrics or thought about them as poetry--I see them as just lyrics to my songs.  I believe this stems from the way that I approach composing songs: I start with the guitar, fiddling around with the verse and melody...then I add lyrics, going back and forth between the two.  Can I write poetry without the music?  

With God, there is a peace that surpasses all understanding.  Through this journey of writing poetry, I am relying completely on my Father and trusting in Him.  He is my Rock to stand on, my Refuge to take shelter, my Protection, my Guide, and my Life.  Poetry stems from within; it is the spoken words of the deep impressions of your heart.  I want God's Love, Grace, Beauty, Gentleness, and Faithfulness to be revealed in my poetry.