Time Is Just an Illusion

After much contemplation, I’ve come to the conclusion
that time is just an illusion.
For once my years marked ten, growing took twice as long,
and age turned all wrong.
So at fifteen, I felt but twelve.. And a half,
and the rest is just a laugh.
Because I didn’t turn fifteen until I was twenty,
and I won’t make twenty until I’m thirty.
Though age demands I take responsibilities,
my heart is still full of possibilities.
I may have a mortgage, insurance, and a loan—
all the proof I’m a woman grown—
I still feel as if I need adult supervision
and someone to give permission.
Perhaps I’ll have to wait until I’m fifty
to feel like an adult at thirty.
I must conclude that once I’m seventy and preparing for an ending,
I’ll be but forty and still beginning.


Clash of Worlds

This is not my world
on me it has no hold.
It shows me fear and madness,
mixed with anger and sadness.
This is not my world.
On me it has no hold.
The images that dance upon the screen
sprang from some nightmarish dream.
When credits roll, I’m very glad
this world that goes from bad
to worse does not belong to me.
They must stay, I may flee.
This is not my world,
on me it has no hold.

I wish I belonged here
with all I hold dear.
I see dreams of love and glory
mixed with endless possibility.
I wish I belonged here
with all I hold dear.
The dreams that dance before my eyes
can’t be filled with empty lies.
Don’t say goodbye, please don’t send
me away. After you say “The End,”
I’ll feel I’d just begun
to really see the sun.
I wish I belonged here
with all I hold dear.

What worlds are these?

What to say?

I think I’ve opened the “New Post” window about 100 times in the past few days. And then I stare at the screen, and the words don’t come. Well, words come, but not words I’d like to share with everyone. Something along the lines of, “I’m so busy I shouldn’t be blogging; why am I in grad school? I’m an idiot. Let’s just procrastinate a little more… I’m so tired. I just want to take a nap. Ooh.. puppies…”

That sentence got away from me.

Anyway, my baby blog won’t die so early in its beautiful little life. I am determined not to let it die just because I’m too tired to put words on a screen.

And to prove it, here’s a poem. A rough one, but it’s been bouncing around for a little while.

Step Out

Take a step,
take a chance.
A new life awaits.
Opportunities to learn
who you are,
and Who made you.

He Who made you
who you are
gives an opportunity
for a new life
if you take a chance
and take a step.

Step out.

For the past 5 or 6 years, I’ve been learning to step out of my comfort zone. Looking back on my life, I realize that much of the growth I’ve experienced would not have happened if I had not faced my fears. I probably wouldn’t have as many wonderful friends as I do now, or had so many wonderful experiences. My poem is a challenge. Look for an opportunity to do something that you’re scared of. Whether it’s talking to someone you’re too afraid to talk to, or trying something you think you’re bad at. Today, I went ice skating again. If you read my last post about ice skating, you know I’m not good at it. But today I really enjoyed it, more than I’ve ever done before, because the more I try it, the better I get. So try something new, and step out!

Why Music Speaks So Well….

Personally, in all the fields of literature, I prefer poetry. I find that poetry says what I want to say, only better. It’s not enough to say that I’m lonely. It’s not enough to say that watching the leaves fall makes me feel lonely. I have to compare my loneliness to the togetherness of the leaves. But saying it like that sounds stupid. So I put it in a poem. (And if you don’t like my poem, I’m sorry. I wasn’t entirely happy with it myself, that’s why I was wrestling with it.)

But what does that have to do with music? Music is poetry. Sometimes it’s feels like the song or the notes are singing directly to your soul. Just like the leaves, Kiss the Rain by Yiruma makes me feel.. lonely. Or longing. There aren’t any words, it’s just the notes that say, “I’m sad, come stay with me.”

That’s why the Psalms and hymns are so valuable; they speak our brokenness better than we can.

Why am I talking about this? Because there’s something on my heart that I can’t express with plain words. I want to share it, but how can I share something that’s so specific to me? If I simply said it, you wouldn’t feel it, because it would just be my story. I want to speak, not just the words of my soul, but words that your soul can understand. That is the power of poetry, to speak to another’s soul in words that everyone can understand. Isn’t that a language that everyone should want to speak in?

Roller Coaster Reality

Roller Coaster Reality

day after
day, moving
Towards the goal.
Heart beating faster
in anticipation, finally
reaching a lifelong goal.
Don’t worry, don’t be afraid.
I can’t back out of this anymore.
Everything I know is about to change,
and I can’t help but think,
it’s going too fast,
I’m going
to fall.
It’s getting
out of control;
I can’t stop; I’ll fail.
I’m not ready for this,
It can’t be time to change.
I can’t keep up with this reality.
And I can only think,
what if I fall?
What if
I fly?

Meet Dot and Spot

Because life is too tired to make any sense, how about a poem that is full of non-sense?

There once was a dot whose name was Spot
or perhaps it was a spot whose name was Dot –
or maybe there was once a dot and a spot
and the spot’s name was Dot
and the dot’s name was Spot,
or the spot was Spot
and the dot was Dot.

Now my tie is all tongued
and my twords are all wisted.
So we begin again, with
a spot named Dot and
a dot named Spot.

Spot, he was a handsome spot –
no, he was a handsome dot,
and Dot, she was a lovely dot –
no, she was a lovely spot.
One, a dot on a dish towel,
the other a spot on a shirt.
Or rather, one a spot on a dish towel
and a dot on a shirt.

Once, the towel was a shirt
and the shirt was once a towel,
but that’s beside the point –
or is it beside the dot?
No, the dot is beside the spot
because the dot and the spot
were both in the wash,
and soon they were no more,
that poor Spot and poorer Dot.

A little about myself

I wrote this poem a few years ago. I think it sums up the fundamental aspects of my childhood and background. Only those who grew up with me really know what it means (my brothers and my parents). The purpose isn’t to tell you my complete history, but to make you wonder, “what could the story behind these things be?”

Here I Am.

Bittersweet, chick weed, dandelion salads
and prickly vines.
Blackberries, honeysuckle, spotted berries
and sugared tomatoes.
Mints, quints, and oregano.
They say, “You are what you eat.”
this is me.

Snowmen, snowwomen, snow babies
and snowball fights.
Raking, leaf piles, leaf fights
and leaf sledding.
Cats, dogs, and hamster cages.
They say, “You are who you know,”
this is me.

War games, hide and seek, laser tag
and capture the flag.
Skip-bo, Way Sorry, Gruntz,
and dominoes.
Reading, writing, and thinking.
They say, “You are what you do,”
this is me.

This is me,
what I’m made of,
carved by habits, events
and a Divine Hand,
into a ruby of uncertain value,
this is me.