Ode to 2009

Next year shine,
Drew the line,
Gained some spine,
From the True Vine, 
Saw the sign,
Did just fine,
Smelled some pine,
Drank no wine,
Forever mine, 
2009

Loving Me

(about 1997)

Remember
It was hard to love me in high school
I had so many quirks
so many pretensions
questions

The pieces of my puzzle
only began to drop
so I could place them
and I cried
like the baby
I was.
I was . . . hard to love
in high school.

Realize
It is hard to love me now
I still have quirks
and less pretensions
more questions

More pieces of my puzzle
are dropped
and daily I place them.
The Lord
hears how
it is.
It is . . . hard to love me
now.

Believe
You can always love me,
see through my quirks,
melt my pretensions,
answer my questions;

Help me place
the dropped pieces
of my puzzle.
And let me cry
on your shoulder,
and look up to wipe
your tears.
The Lord
will show us
you can.
I can . . . always love you
too.

My Sacred Grove

(2009)

I do not have a sacred grove,
there's children all around,
so when I kneel they pull my shirt
to get me to look down.

So young they do not understand
my heart has many needs;
to know just how to care for them,
these tiny little seeds.

To face my trials, real and rough,
to feel my Savior's love,
so I will know we'll be alright,
that there is help above.

We all go 'round here barefoot,
the chaos seems to reign
as tiny mouths just must be fed
and problems solved 'til I am drained.

To Moses said the Lord: "remove your shoes...
you stand on sacred ground."
That's why I go 'round barefoot--
there's children all around.

My home's my only sacred grove
for I cannot retreat
and leave these small ones to themselves,
their curiosity and bare feet.

So from my heart I pray, I cry
will God please understand?
I need him more now than ever--
will He please take  my hand?

And sanctify this time to me;
this season I must give
to little ones and little else,
these days are mine to live.

This is my work, my one great work,
this family I love,
so for now this home, this time
becomes my sacred grove.

This home is not a quiet place
except at quiet  hour,
and that's if things work out just right,
if attitudes aren't sour.

No sweet birds sing, or if they do,
they're difficult to hear
for arguments and whining tones
are ringing in my ear,

and if I try to be alone,
even on the pot,
the doorknob turns, and little eyes
tell me that I'm not!

Just let me know, my loving Lord,
my efforts are enough.
For what I actually accomplish
feels like little stuff.

I'm never all I'd like to be,
I barely can survive.
And most days I'd be glad
to get off work at five.

So let me know that if by chance
I ever get to be
alone with Thee on bended knee
you'll still be near to me.

Though I have failed in every way
to show to Thee my love,
because of what I do each day,
I've found this sacred grove.

I need a sacred grove.
Make my life . . .
a sacred grove.

Tonight

 (about 1994 ~ adapted from The Twelve Dancing Princesses tale)

It's all over the kingdom--
for some sir to solve;
in every hall mentioned,
yet nobody knows
where the princesses go.

Here now I rest
a pearl dancing slipper
all set to be worn
by a princess' foot.

Where'r she wears me
where'r we dance
from whence I'll return
no sir may e'er know;

Yet I who'll be trodden
and taken alightly--
insignificant one
set on a dusty shelf,

Yes I tonight
may come to know
where it may be
the princesses go.

Yes I tonight
may know whence they come;
yet that place which touches my sole
I may not reveal because you see,
I have no tongue.

Fire!

(about 1992)

The gray heater hummed under the table
where I sat.
The tall barstools, where I ate breakfast,
the glossy window, where I looked at the mountains.
The yellow dishwasher held its own secrets,
cycles of the past.
Washing dirt and grit off dishes;
never washing away memories,
rather, making them.

Starting on the top bunk
tucked in by gentle hands.
Alarm on a loving face,
smoke filling the hallway, the room.
A rush to get out, everyone.
We stood by the door.
Dad looked everywhere
but our big brown house
was not being consumed by flames,
only smoke.

The fire department had to come--
to be safe.
The worries of the unknown
forced us next door
to look out their window
as to not miss
the excitement of
the red fire truck.

Curious friends dared to approach it,
our big circle filling with familiar faces.
This was real.
Gossipy women busied over tomorrow's headlines,
undiscovered as of yet.
Help was automatically offered by kind women
and their concerned husbands.
But our big brown house
was not being consumed by flames,
or was it?

My sister cried.
I'm the oldest
so I didn't.
But I worried.
We even got the dogs out,
and the smoke wouldn't stop.

The firemen were searching.
Still next door
I looked out the window
dreaming about moving sooner
because the house burned down,
and we didn't have to sell it.

I could feel the tears burning.
How could I say goodbye
to our big brown house that way?
It would always have a place in my heart.

There was mom
crying?
I saw her bend over
laughing!
When I heard why
I laughed too.

The word, like a tidalwave
upset the neighbors,
only those gossipy women
brought the tide down
with their hint of disappointment
because there would be
no tomorrow's headlines.

Kind women turned and walked away
with their unconcerned husbands.
Some smiled
because a plastic spoon
burned in the
yellow dishwasher.

When I am in College

(about 1992)

I shall wear suit jackets
with the sleeves rolled twice and brown buckle shoes.
And I shall spend my money on pineapple juice
and a small trampoline, and silky pajamas
and say I've no money for hair coloring.

I shall study on the stairs of some important place
and inhale the smell of lilacs or rain on the pavement
and write my love life on the cement with dandelions
and do things to remind me that my spirit is young.

I shall go out in my tennis shoes and jump in puddles
and splash you, and learn to rappel.

You can wear jeans and Birkenstocks and impress me
and eat Froot Loops and Wheat Thins
or only carrots and yogurt for a week.
And look at picture albums and read old letters.

But now we must have seven classes and study at home
and clean our rooms and not lower our GPA
and stay away from puddles, or we'll get sick.
We will call each other sometimes and have fun together
(when we can, of course).

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

when suddenly I am in college and start to wear suit jackets.

To Throw A Strike

(about 1992)

Listen to the common sounds of the field:
the staccato clanging of the backstop,
blurred conversations of parents,
cheers of the opposing team.
"Way to go . . . way to go . . ."

Imagine they're saying that to you.
But because you know they're really not . . .
Make certain your hands are dusty.
Listen to your father shouting-
(the sound, not the words-
the words won't help now).

Cancel out the fact that you
walked the last batter.
make sure the ball doesn't shine;
if it does, twist it into the dirt.
Look at the mound and focus on the dust.
Take the toe of your cleated shoe
and wipe lines into the dust.

Don't keep track of balls or strikes . . .
what do they matter?
Think of the tough chic up to bat
trying to out-stare your glare
and let the sun in your eyes
make you angry
so the adrenaline will surge your arm.

Don't lose the adrenaline.
Make sure you push your hair back into the cap
which must be turned slightly to the right
so that your right eye and its edge
make a direct line to the catcher's mitt.

Take your time.
Position your fingers on the threads of the ball
so you feel the leather spin off the tips of your fingers--
like a miracle.
Take the excitement of roller-coasters,
the freedom of seagulls,
and the force of the mountains overtowering.
Breathe in the sweating hot grass.
And throw . . .

He Loves Me

(about 1992)

We don't believe them
and of course we don't live by them,
Still, we do them for fun;
all for fun?

We both say we have a love,
so we each pick a flower;
mine is red.
"He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me . . ."
So does he?

We continue down a dusty road,
jump the cracks
(or we'll break our mothers' backs)
while we still see
whether "he loves me not," or "he loves me . . ."
So does he?

Our path is split by an apple tree;
we each take a side
and vocally
serve our "bread and butter"
on a silver platter.

You spilled the salt
so throw it over you left shoulder
and pick two shiny apples--
one for you, one for me.
We'll twist the stem
A,B,C,D,E,F,G . . .
L,M,N,O,P,Q,R . . .
"He loves me not, he loves me!"

Jump over those train tracks,
kiss your hand,
and make a wish that he really does--
for fun.

The Sky is Orange

(about 1992)

I push the break pedal with my foot.
The car comes to a stop behind the white line.
I stare at the red light. Red means "stop."
I begin to imagine red means "go."
Maybe it could . . .
something changes in the atmosphere . . .
my brain doesn't care-- it just imagines.
Wavelengths bounce opposite, irregular,
whatever it would take--
twice as long, twice as tall.
Anyhow, I look at the sky-- it is orange.
The trees by  the road have red leaves.
Construction-worker signs are blue,
my apple is summer-green.
I remember the 'frootloops' in my bowl that morning--
how they were purple, blue, and green.
I look up at the light;
it is green.
Somewhere behind me, a driver honks a horn.
My brain kicks back to normal--
green still means "go."
I push on  the gas pedal and enter the intersection,
as a car swerves to miss me,
and the sky is orange.

Twist Cow

(about 1992)

Reminiscent are the times I remember
with some sort of excitement the mud-cloudy
chocolate-vanilla, fly-swattery cows
of Grandpa's field. The rainy day
I stared up at their sappy pink noses
and held my breath as their mammoth tongues
dropped heavily through their jaws busily
chewing their cud, and I looked up again
at the white-gray clouds painted on the sky.

Feeling the mud-puddles beneath my feet,
I realized the cows matched the day.
Their brown spots as sloshy and misformed
as the splattered mud covering the vast landscape
of the field. The white surrounding the brown spots
much like the clouds surrounding
the auburn blanket of smog from dusty chimneys.
I wished it weren't raining.

There had been bright summers of hot-grass aroma
and bare feet, when the cows stood apart from
a green field and azure skies. The only thing
that included them in hot summer days
were their tails: swiping away the buzzing flies,
like Grandma's brown fly-swatter with a white handle.
Swish, swish . . . but the rain still fell, and the only
swish, swish . . . was the sound of Grandpa's galoshes
as he walked down the path by the knotted fence
to the rickety barn . . . and the cows turned
with their guffaws and found their way also to the barn
so as to involve their brown and white
lives in some excitement
other than a small girl staring with caramel eyes
of rappelling thought, remembering again that summer
she stared at the cows for almost and hour
as her chocolate and vanilla twist cone dripped . . .
like the rain.

Overflow

(about 1992 ~ adapted from a poem "Refugees" by Beckian Goldberg)

There are too many buses in the world.
Let's ban them. There are too many
cigarette butts in the road, let's not accept
one more. And let the smokers fend
for themselves.

There are too many aluminum cans and televisions and
garbage dumps.
Wars have begun to be fought against drugs and disease.
And whatever our hearts are full of they
are full.

Go back.

We have Hardees, McDonalds, and 7-11.
We have enough leftover bricks.
Our toys are populous, and our worms
need to die. There are too many airlines
and phone companies . . .

There are too many buses.

Flies have begun to surround the trash.
And wherever a stop sign is posted, there's someone
to keep rolling.

We have too many commercials and appointments and beauty products.
We have the unemployed in town and don't need them to be homeless.
We have six-million celebrities--

And let coins find their own face,
there is too much through them in business--

There are too many brand names in the world.
Let's pass a law. Too many triangle ones
and square ones, tight ones, and plaid.
We have too much candy.
there are too many poppy-seeds.

Go home.