Time tells all her secrets
gradually.

Concerned

I'm worried that my tear ducts are broken.
I have not cried since I've been at Ball State, and so that means I haven't cried at least since August. That's 4 months. 
I just think it's only healthy to have a good cry now and then.  [And there have, most certainly, been things worth crying about.]
Looks like tonight will be another one of those nights
when I get up at 4 am to study
to try to make up for the time I wasted tonight
thinking
about silly things
like how I can't seem to cry.

Clutter

An accident.
I dropped my favorite tea cup
the shards went everywhere
I don't have time to clean up
any of them.

My lips are thin
from all the words I've spoken lately.
Believe a few of them,
like you believe a bird with broken wings.

Our never-conversations
take up space,
taking place in my head.
They clutter the corners. Letters
never sent, never read.

November Begins

Cold . cold is the branch where left
Autumn's captive kiss of death
blown into the trees. And thieves
paint the dying, drying leaves.

Wither, wither, they fall with her
flipping, gliding down together...
Autumn smiles, but then she sighs
she can't meet the sun's stark eyes.
Clouds cover to let her play
and keep the fiery fiend at bay.

Gentlemanly rain starts softly,
tips its hat to Autumn deftly;
they begin a graceful dance
fading to a solemn trance.
Soon the turns get faster, faster
thunder groans and spells disaster
conflict rises, lightening tears
sky in halves; clouds thread-bare...
just as all seems all-out war
with no sides to be fought for
sun, the angel, breaks the dark
calms the long and spidery spark;
makes amends with Autumn's ends
just as November begins.

A poem I didn't write, because I'm just not as cool as Carl Sandburg ...yet.

If you're like me, you have a short attention span, so I have highlighted the stanzas I find particularly fantastic.  this just... it's just... midwest. and I just ... like it.

"Haze"  by Carl Sandburg

Keep a red heart of memories

Under the great gray rain sheds of the sky,

Under the open sun and the yellow gloaming embers.

Remember all paydays of lilacs and songbirds;

All starlights of cool memories on storm paths.

 

Out of this prairie rise the faces of dead men.

They speak to me. I can not tell you what they say.

 

Other faces rise on the prairie.

They are unborn. The future.

 

Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline.

The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets. One waits.

 

In the yellow dust of sunsets, in the meadows of vermilion eight o'clock

June nights . . . the dead men and the unborn children speak to me . . . I can not tell you what they say . . . you listen and you know.

 

I don't care who you are, man:

I know a woman is looking for you

And her soul is a corn-tassel kissing a west wind.

 

(The farm-boy whose face is the color of brick-dust, is calling the cows; he will form the letter X with crossed streams of milk from the teats; he will beat a tattoo on the bottom of a tin pail with X's of milk.)

 

I don't care who you are, man:

I know sons and daughters looking for you

And they are gray dust working toward star paths

And you see them from a garret window when you laugh

At your luck and murmur, "I don't care."

 

I don't care who you are, woman:

I know a man is looking for you

And his soul is a south-west wind kissing a corn-tassel.

 

(The kitchen girl on the farm is throwing oats to the chickens and the buff of their feathers says hello to the sunset's late maroon.)

 

I don't care who you are, woman:

I know sons and daughters looking for you

And they are next year's wheat or the year after hidden in the dark and loam.

 

My love is a yellow hammer spinning circles in Ohio, Indiana. My love is a redbird shooting flights in straight lines in Kentucky and Tennessee. My love is an early robin flaming an ember of copper on her shoulders in March and April. My love is a graybird living in the eaves of a Michigan house all winter. Why is my love always a crying thing of wings?

 

On the Indiana dunes, in the Mississippi marshes, I have asked: Is it only a fishbone on the beach?

Is it only a dog's jaw or a horse's skull whitening in the sun? Is the red heart of man only ashes? Is the flame of it all a white light switched off and the power-house wires cut?

 

Why do the prairie roses answer every summer? Why do the changing repeating rains come back out of the salt sea wind-blown? Why do the stars keep their tracks? Why do the cradles of the sky rock new babies?

Off-course

(Wandering ships are we)
ready to find another set of sails?
I've been looking for land;
I found you instead.

Is the star you follow
the same as mine? And if
so or if not, I am in
(way over my head.)

My spyglass shifts its gaze (from stars)
from vertical. It gradually
levels out, and lingers
horizontally.

Chasing

Sending leaves crackling down,
Wind sweeps life through the dead
With a solemn repose
Like a sigh I misread.

Though we'd like to believe
we are lords of our parts,
we will always be chasing
somebody's heart.

Flying

First, eyes meet, hands grasp and then
Lending your energy, we begin.
Yes, I'm a fool, but dancing with you
Is not quite a choice; I am compelled to.
Now we ascend, (sky's no limit for us)
Gone, darling, gone: the stars, our witness.

Delay

Sorry I haven't written much in the last month...
but I promise

I have been cooking up some really neat stuff lately.
when they're finished, I hope you'll consider them worth the wait.
so, just think of this lack of quanitity
as an investment for future quality.

Written in June

God
You hold us in your hands
you hold us in your hands
and in that, we are free.

Our
Our hearts are hardened
to bear waves
crashing down
crushing hope
washing up
leaving us worn. war-torn.

Please
God, forgive
heal this place between our ribs
if we call
on your name
would you heal our land?
would you listen?

will we ever
leave this place?
ever see you face to face?
read your eyes just like a map?

I'm looking for the signs
trying to read
in-between the lines
but are we even on the same page yet?

Unlock our skin
show us beauty from within
and if our hearts are Throwing Stones,
soften them.

My heart has to move
before my feet have anything to prove.
And where I am
has nothing to do
with where I sit or stand
and everything to do
with who I am becoming.
(And I've stopped running.)

Bind
bind us near
because you are a God who hears
and sends fire
and sets fire
to wet, weary hearts.

God
You hold us in your hands
you hold us in your hands
and in that, we are free.

--

I'm glad I finally found this; it's been missing for months.  I wrote it pretty late one night, having just come back from talking with some friends at Coffee Grounds.

We Know Time

You're across the country
just
waiting to pick up and join me
darling,
you're the only one I've ever loved.
But we've reached
the end of the road, dear,
and while I'm digging this here
coastal air,
my tires itch
to go, go, go; yes yes:
(we've not e-
ven begun yet.)
Let's see if we
can catch a glipse
of some gone little town and since
we're in the joint,
oh, hear that cat just blow;
(and it's because he knows!)
it's God   crying jazz
into the streets
if we could only catch that beat
I'd
really like to stay, you know
but I'm afraid I've got to go
go, go find a place
to set free my cramped soul.
Look into my eyes
and see the
endless blurry skies I've seen, I've
tried to jump the mountains;
scale the clouds.
But every time,
I keep coming back down,
you see
we've got to leave this town
cause we know time,
yes, we know time.

---
In tribute to Jack Kerouac's On the Road

you've got to love
(like you've never got to leave)
the people that you know you have to leave
behind.

Jehovah Jireh

I tried to build my heart a home
so it didn't have to rent
but I only had enough funding
to finish the fence.

But the Lord provides.
the Lord provides.
The Lord provides,
the Lord provides.

Summer Stars

Everyone

eventually

will fall out of your life, sometime

whether they drop down,

or bow out gracefully;

leave you worn,

or help you form

who you are supposed to be.

Now, you can let that scare you

but be aware, you

need the stars to guide you home...

even if the seasons change

and leave you more alone.

All you can do 

is try to hold onto

the lessons that will last:

bricks that bridge

memory-paved

with every day that's passed.

The faces may fade,

but in their stead

are seeds that grow our bones...

even if the seasons change

and leave you more alone.

You can take your heart

and try to hide away

buried under every fear.

Although the stars fade from the sky

will you love them, while they're here? 

---
I wrote this last on the first day of summer last year.

Adventureless

There are many things about you
I never wish to be
but the one that makes me cringe the most,
the greatest travesty,
is something most don't know to miss
and what you've slowly lost is this:

Ability to leave behind
the reason-reigns of careful mind
in search of un-pathed ways
and in escape of schedule's maze,
let the soul discover
and lift imagination's cover;
to let your feet commit to wander,
leading your head forth to yonder
ordinary places;
your eyes to unfamiliar faces
made extraordinary
by simple discovery.

I know that you must bend and change;
I have no say in this.
But, tell me, when did you become
so adventureless?

Quoted

I found this in poem quoted in one of Ethan May's old fb notes.


"all heavy laden- acquainted with sorrow
may Christ in our marrow, carry us home
from alabaster come blessings of laughter
a fragrance of passion and joy from the truth

grant the unbroken tears ever flowing
from hearts of contrition only for You
may sin never hold true that love never broke through
for God's mercy holds us and we are His own

I love that third line. The thing that we think is too precious, that costs too much to let go of- that when we break it in an offering of love, it pours out the blessing of laughter and fragrance of joy."

Two stanzas can say so much. I thought I'd pass them along to you.

Double Cast

(A thousand mouths' sighs
[I carry on my back)
an airtight schedule
wide open to your lowest bid]

Hero or beauty, I'd like to stay
one.

Answer the Pepperoni

"Their eating habits are just the start of what you're gonna have to get used to. There's tons of stuff you should be aware of."

"Really?"


"Oh yeah. Like, don't ever use the last of the parmesan cheese. And never get into a heavy discussion late at night 'cause that's when they're at their crankiest. Oh, and uh, go with their bits."


"Their bits?"



"Yeah, like, if you're eating pizza with them and Lorelai decides that the pepperoni is angry at the mushrooms because the mushrooms have an attitude and then she holds up a pepperoni and the pepperoni asks for your opinion...don't just laugh. Answer the pepperoni."


---

The best advice I've come across thus far in regards to dealing with people like me.

Re-running

Keeping breathing even
because I know I'm
trespassing in your air
tip-toeing the oxygen
(like ants
taking whats too big for them
to hold)
dragging it down
Losing my place
you wipe your fingers across the trace
now at a loss
I am casting forth a line
hoping you might bite
but (no such luck)
we have heard this one before
and everything we are
comprised in this "exchange"
this salvaged re-run we rehearse
gets laugh-track applause
as I am running out of breath.

jotted this down on a napkin some weeks ago

You are one person I want at my funeral
[have you been balancing again?
been carrying war on your back and shoulders,
made them heavy with ill-fitting loads]
worthy of remembrance, guilty of perseverance
of anyone I know, you are the heart-iest
love. is blind [and you are blind]

Destination, beautiful

I had always imagined my senior year being like... the big cymbal crash. The resounding last note that I've been working up towards all this time. But, now that I'm here, it just doesn't seem that important anymore; that "last impression." It's just one of the 12 years. It may be the last note, but like the others, it's just a note. The whole progression is the finale. Or as I like to say, "There's a piece of destination in every step of the journey."

Let the season's change wash over me
(I know you feel it too.)
The beauty and the balance of
A chapter starting new.

Destination, beautiful
In its mystery.
I asked him, "Lord, where should I go?"
And he said "Follow Me."

(Through deserts turned into living springs
Through valleys of darkest death
And in the presence of enemies
Find places of peaceful rest.)

I angle toward the unknown.
My wingtips turn and bend
Circle round, slow and sound
(And downward I descend.)

Destination, beautiful
In its clarity:
I asked him, "Lord, where should I go?"
And he said "Follow Me."

You post me a poem.

This time, you post me a poem.
It doesn't have to be long, and it doesn't have to rhyme.

Timely Decrescendo

Concerned with the current crescendo
That we seem to be working towards
Not so much disturbed by the climb, but the cliff!
The descent that comes afterward.

We've more than dynamics enough
To watch over and keep track of.
Let's stay in a melodic whimsy
Let's keep it as plain as we can
For our notes are fragile and flimsy
And only so much can withstand.

If we pay close attention to timing
And keep with the Conductor's hand
We need not distress o'er undue dissonance
Only wait for the harmonic blend.

In Time

The girl in the red coat and the red car
Never goes very far
Wind whipping through her scarf now and then
It smells reminiscent of people she's loved
and places she's been

She carries home with her in her head
and leans her heart into step
Branches a little farther, farther...
Sometimes forgets to turn her head toward the sun
But friends come along and show her
The battle is already won
and carry her on. farther, farther

She asks for joy. and craves truth
Searches for it the whole night through
When the morning comes, she feels weak
The day wears on and at its peak,
the sun is setting,
but un-forgetting.
If only she'd look back she'd find
the days of search spell years of found, in time.

Patience is a virtue. Do virtues follow timelines?

A girl asks God for an answer, searches after it, and after a week she is given one.
Another girl asks God for an answer, searches after it for a year, and then gives up.

Which one exhibited patience?

Bless you!

It's true.
that we, and me, and you
have got some problems
we've got some issues
but I am all run out of tissues.

So listen up,
and listen close.
Cause I'm all through with chasing ghosts
because they seem to slip right through my nets
(and the ghost busters haven't
called me back yet.)

So for now
I'll resort
to what I know:
the clouds and the trees show me how the wind blows
and the Father's love
it manifests
in beating hearts
in human chests

But we're too scared,
and we're too frightened!
He loved us first,
but we've forgotten.
and substitute
for something safer
cause His liability won't add up on paper.

(but) After all those meaningless
"Gdblesyoo"s
we're still sniffling
and we're still oozing
but it's completely of our choosing.

Jesus took a walk in all of our shoes
but we're too busy
counting our bruis-
is this very wise?
for people in our position
to choose their own pride
over the Great Physician?

To win in this life,
you've got to try and lose
Jesus understands all your "boo"s and "hoo"s
....but I don't
so don't look to me for pity
when we could change this town
and we could thaw this city
but still, indecision is the choice you choose
So I am all run out of tissues.

To Whom Much Is Given, Much Is Required

Once, a long, long time ago, (in fact I'm fairly certain I was still in a stroller,) we were at some sort of fair, and mom and dad bought me this really great balloon. It was shaped like a bunny's head. It was that foil, expensive kind, and they let me hold it. Even at the young age I was, I could sense the value of this bunny balloon.
It looked something like this:
Except... yknow, less creepy.
Anyhow.
Somehow, in the excitement and wonder happening around me, the string slipped out of my hand and floated up toward the sky. It joined the other freed spirits making their way towards the clouds. It didn't belong there... with all those other less fantastic, boring, round balloons. I was so mad. I cried and cried and cried. I remember thinking, How could they just place something of that sort of value in my hand?
Fools! I'm a frekin toddler, what do you expect? Get me a replacement! I demand it.
But, my dad let out an annoyed sigh at the waste, and the stroller pushed on, with me weeping at my lost balloon. I knew another one was not to come.

There's times I feel as though I'm still that little girl, holding onto something that I know is of far greater worth than I'm qualified to carry.

After that incident, I always held balloon strings so tight it made little fingernail marks in my skin, even though the balloon I held then had much less comparative worth. Even the very young know what it is to live with regret.

"TPS"

Rocking back in a broken chair
The smell of the road
still in your hair
You told tales of what you'd been shown.

A cigarette perched like a bird in your hand
With smoke for its wings
and nowhere to land
You said it was good to be home.

Have Heart, My Dear

Take in all the imperfections.
throb out something,
something good.
Take a cup of oxygen
with you, like a good heart should
Keep it steady,
force it through the
passages and artfully
cycle, cycle
(never resting)
to every extremity.