Thursday, May 31, 2007

Moonlight

Moon shining through the leafy lace,
sprinkling light on my darkened face.
Moon glowing through my window.
Softening shape and sharpening shadow.
We watched that moon rise together,
So many many moons ago
Slipping up over the skyline,
Taking it easy, gentle and slow.

You led me through the deep'ning night
With that new-dime moon our only light
You said it was a true love
That would last as long as that moon above
When waned that moon so did the new
So before it could be reborn
You left me for the rising sun
Alone with the dead moon and forlorn.

Moonsense

Moonchasing,
Laughing in our moonvan,
Singing our moon song.
(chunk to the tune of
Ghost busters,
Occasional
Mooncatchers,
we can't remember the words)
At last!!!! Eureka!!!
Flash out,
(what a project...camera abuse!!)
We take pictures of catching the moon.
(and squishing it, of course).
Hahahaaaa, chopsticks squishy the moooon!!!!!

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

In the corner

I long in the corner.
As I watch the others play.
Shy me in the corner,
Wishing what I cannot say.

So long ago that seems to me
When I was in the corner,
Yet I remember like yesterday,
So many times in the corner.

Sunday, May 27, 2007

Pirates of Penzance

Twining 'round the wrought iron bars,
White jasmine fraganced summer air,
And gently perched for all to see,
A single blossom graced her hair.

Brightly expressed her dark brown eye,
And parting her blooming red lips,
A smile unveiled her white teeth,
Like moons when the cloud softly slips.

He saw her there in the garden,
And Eros' arrow pierced him through,
For that such a maiden could dwell,
No thought had entered nor he knew.

Oh could she look on such as him?
Who was raised without moral guide,
Taught to pillage innocents gold
Then swiftly to flee on the tide?

He quails upon the brink of love
But gath'ring courage to his heart
He approaches gentle beauty,
"If you love me we ne'er will part!"

Saturday, May 26, 2007

I want

I want a fine upstanding man,
To call me his wife,
I want a lot of happy kids,
Full of light and life,

I want a tidy little house,
With a large backyard.
A kitchen to cook for them in,
I want to work hard!

I want a garden big and bright,
With good vegetables,
Fruit trees, flowers, and fresh herbs too,
To lade our tables.

I want bookshelves full of good books,
Comfy chairs to sit,
Where we can learn of the gospel,
Really study it.

I want a kind of largish dog,
A well-behaved mutt.
With perhaps a bit of collie,
For my kids to love.

Friday, May 25, 2007

Little boy

Little boy, smiling at me.
Those blue eyes so near to heaven.
Your six white teeth shining bright,
Sometime soon will be seven.

Little boy, laughing at me.
Raising your arms above your head,
Throwing your big ball at me.
With a star blue and a stripe red.

Little boy, giving me hugs,
Small arms vainly try to surround
Me and forehead to forehead
You shares your love so profound.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Something old and something new.

Studious

Drifting through the scriptures,
Picking up scattered snowflakes of wisdom.
Swirling through my mind,
Covering little imperfections
With a pure white shroud.


Snobbery?

Is it indeed snobbery?
To know and to love worthy books,
To seek knowledge and wisdom,
From the long-silenced halls of Alexandria?

Nay, not so, but robbery!
For unbidden we steal, like crooks,
Through the pages, and succumb,
Taking that which enriches our thought and idea.

And in doing so, we become greater,
Our learning doth increase,
How then is this Snobbery?
Do we not seek a Utopian land?
Yet the works of the Great Ones,
Are not found in every hand,
but simple rubbish,
That neither enriches,
Nor removes tarnish.


If I were her.

As I turn these pages, easter morn,
And read of the resurrection,
I stop and ponder Mary's thoughts,
Deep grief born of affection.
I wonder what, if I were her,
My heart and head would feel,
What is it like, to know Him gone,
And weeping by his tomb, to kneel.


Pain

softly cloaking my shoulder,
gently draping itself,
Arranging itself.
Making itself at home.
Settling deeply into the fabric of me.
Slowly, delicately unraveling me.
Tenderly unweaving the threads of my being.
Changing tactics,
Lancng through me.
Brutal, blustering,
Assaulting my senses.
Dropping me to my knees
And wearing down my walls
With sheer force.
Ebbing now,
Thankfully ebbing,
Throbbing away into nothingness.
Blissful numbingness.


Stood up

Standing here,
In the cold.
Looking up at the cherry blossoms.
And down at the beauty bark.
Waiting here,
In the cold.
Over there is a roadkill Possum.
To my right is City Park.
Twiddling thumbs,
In the cold
Pointless games drawn into the soil.
Two, a man and woman, look.
Fidgeting thumbs.
In the cold.
Reading a little Conan Doyle.
Thirteenth time I've read this book.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Without my glasses on.

The world reduced to blocks of color,
Soft edged and indistinct,
Gently textured with blurry shadows,
Wet paper loosely inked.


Impressionistic swirls the world,
With pastel or vivid hue,
Each tree leaf melts into the others,
Van Gogh-ing in my view.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

I'm over there.

Fifteen miles from myself,
I see the me I was.
Do I want to go back that way,
Or forge on with my cause?
Do I even have a Cause?
I thought I did.
But now I'm not so sure.
I remember what my reason was...
And at the time it was pure.
I think that time has clouded me.
And now my diamond's glass.
And things I thought were good to be,
Are vulgar somehow, crass.
I'm turning now, and reaching back.
I'm cleaning off this grime.
I'm casting off this foolish road,
and turning back the time.
I travel back to purer me
Before I found the world.
I saw it, and I wanted it.
I loosed my sails, unfurled.
I saw not what winds would be.
I was driven forth and tossed.
Until I knew not where I was,
And Hopeless felt what I had lost.
I have set my sight on the rising sun,
And phoenix like, new born,
I rise from the ashes of my journey,
And face the dawning morn.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Eve

He is gone.
So many times she hears is said.
It echoes cruelly in her aged head.
He is gone.
And no longer will he place his hand in thine.

He is gone.
She knows not how to understand.
And mutely turning appeals her husband.
He is gone?
His slow reply staggers her like strongest wine.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

My Dad

Walking over the spiny carpet
Of carmel colored needles,
He beckons me to silent footsteps,
And, oh so softly, wheedles


Wheedles it into thinking something,
So remarkably untrue,
That we simply do not, CAN'T, exist,
As sure as the moon is blue.


He teaches me to walk in silence, seeing things I never saw. Hearing the language of animals, listening to them, learning of this place. Following their trails and pathways to the secret hollows of the woods. Stopping to feel the beauty of a racing brook, tumbling down a stony hill. Sometimes though, we're not so quiet! Man-made thunder rolls sharp through the trees. Little holes pepper a yellow baloney lid. Afterwards we scour the ground, searching for each .22 shell. We pick up the disrespectful litter of beer cans and burger bags. Left by those who do not care. So many times we've covered camp sites, trailing a plastic grocery bag. Picking up each little piece. "Anything larger than a dime" he says. He's teaching me to steward the land, and in doing so I learn so much. I learn to love and give my all, to care for all I meet. I find out who I am, and I know my Heavenly Father loves me. He's given me the tools I need to build my testimony. When I am in doubt, or troubled, I retreat to the place he has shown me, and I know that I am safe. He teaches me how to think. I see things in new perspectives. I would not be the person I am today without him. I wish he knew how much he has shaped me, that I respect him. I admire him. He is my hero.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Sold

My beautiful! My beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed;
I may not mount on thee again, - thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof,-snuff not the breezy wind,-
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind:
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,-thy master hath his gold,-
Fleet-limb'd and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread prepare,
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care!
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's home, -from all of these my exiled one must fly;
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shall thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet,
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright;-
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed;
Then must I, starting, wake to feel-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah! rudely, then unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy pantin side:
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be,-
Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd; so gentle, yet so free;
And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,-
Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?

Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanish'd from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears;
Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,
Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,
"It was here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!"

When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fever'd dream is o'er,-
I could not liva a day, and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful!-for hunger's power is strong,-
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast sold?
'Tis false-'tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour distant plains;
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

"The Arab's Farewell To His Horse~Caroline Norton"


In poetry, my beautiful, you bear the mark of greatness. Reviled as a thing to scorn, and exalted as the jewel of kings. Full of grace and fire and pride, so fragile looking, so strong. Your slender, frail legs have raced the sands of history and won us fame and fortune. Your broad backs have borne our burdens, enabling us to build our dreams. You've stood between us and death, thunder pealing o'er your kneeling form. You've dragged the world out of obscurity, and into our view. You have upheld the very center of chivalry and honor. You have evaded our grasping greed and run with wild abandon. You symbolise the pinnacle of freedom and spirit and the abject depths of humility and enslavement. You have suffered such cruelty at our hands, and given us your everything. We owe you so much. You are the horse.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Poppies

Glowing with the sunset,
Vivid fiery light.
Ruby embers fill its cup,
Brimming over, bright.

In Flanders Fields they blew,
Making promise shine,
China abbhors thought of it,
Filthy wicked, grime.

Purest, sweet red flowers,
Holding venom near,
Are you right gone wrong, or,
muddled, turning clear?

Monday, May 14, 2007

Wind movement

Sitting in the grass,
Dew is dampening my jeans,
Gently seeping through the fibers.
The wind moves the grass across my feet,
My arms, my hands.
Soft, rustly caresses.
I sway with the grass.

Sitting in the tree,
My book forgotten aside,
Lying open in the branches.
The wind bends the tree into a grace,
It sighs to ground,
Great, humbling magnitude.
I bow with the tree.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

dancing

They flow with the music,
Like exoticly colored kelp beds,
Their sequined dresses flashing in the sun.
Young men weave through,
Hungry fish,
Wary of each other.
The music is exuberant,
It's rhythm flows through their feet,
Pounding into the dry ground.
Beating their essence into the earth.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Her eyes are the eyes of a woman in love.

My Mom smiles, and looks off into the distant past. I asked her to tell me again how she and Dad met. Her voice ebbs and flows, halting occasionally as she remembers people and conversations from her college days, then spilling out again with a laugh. The story is a very wandering path, twisting, turning back on itself, reiterating. Her hands are mostly quite in her lap. Sometimes she lifts them up to illustrate a point. She flicks her wrist, as if playing frisbee with her beret and him. They are elegant hands, slender and refined, I've always envied them. Her ring sparkles in the lamplight. Her eyes mirror it with brilliant flashes of their own. She closes them from time to time, recalling faces long filed away. Sometimes she frowns, thinking of things she regrets, or wishes she had done differently. But mostly her words are full of love. I listen, and I yearn for the joy she has.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

picnic lunch

I am walking to Haggens to buy my lunch. The spring sunlight shines on me with a blessing. It would be too hot, but there's a cooling wind rippling through the valley. It's so lovely I've decided I'm going to have a picnic lunch at the park. As I walk into the store, a display of strawberries and raspberries catches my eye, and my nose. The strawberries are too much for me, but the raspberries are a good price. They're in a smaller package too, so they'll be easier to carry. I grab my usual egg-salad sandwich from the lunch bar and check out. The walk to the park is noisy and full of cars. I don't like it! As I arrive though, the roaring and the smoke, and the heat and bright lights fade away. I enter a glowing green and gold paradise of dappled sunlight and birdsong. I walk along, looking for a good place. I don't have to go far. The ground slopes away into a little hollow, where the creek slows and widens into a little pond. A mother duck shepherds her four little ones through the water, and tall grass sways in the cooling breeze. I find a dip in the hill, perfect to sit in, and spread out my lunch. A couple of fat frogs jump into the water, their awkward bulk making big plops. Their eyes peep out of the water and watch me warily. The raspberries are good, I'm glad I got them. They're sweet and flavorful, and they squish pleasently in my mouth. A family walks by, and the mother comes down to take a picture of the ducks with her cellphone. She has an insrument case on her back, it looks like it's probably a guitar. Her small son follows her haltingly down the hill and looks at the ducks. His brothers call him back, but he says plaintively, "I want to walk down into the water and touch them." His mother, seeing his desire to be involved with the ducks, opens a bag of dried apples and gives him a few. He tosses them to the ducks. They grab at the apple pieces, but don't seem impressed. The little boy is satisfied though. He turns to go back up the hill, and sees my raspberries. He looks at me shyly. "May I please have one?" He asks. His mother, mortified, tries to shush him. I tell her it's fine and offer him some. He takes only one, and popping it in his little mouth, he gives me the sweetest smile. I am glad that I can make him happy. He thanks me, and then runs off with his family. Unfortunately I must go too now, but my picnic has made me happy.

Tuesday, May 8, 2007

Aimless

Can't think,
Brain numb.
Inspiration
Won't come.
Poor Ink.
Bad pen.
That's all,
Amen.

Old american poem

My brain is a great big nothing. Vast and blank. I can find nothing interesting to say. If you want to be entertained, I am not your person. I am as flavorful as a bowl of flour right now. Booooooooriiiiiiiiiing. I have no witticisms for you, no snippets of poetry, no anything. I am the great white paper.

Sunday, May 6, 2007

Sooty glass

Sinking into the darkening gloom,
Grasping for a ray of hope.
Fleeing away from impending doom.
Anything to help me cope

I feel myself being bogged down into my depression. It snatches at little pieces of me, slowly mastering me until I'm helpless. I throw all of the coping mechanisms I know in it's face, cheerfulness, happy thoughts, doing things, work, excersize, friendships, being outside, gardening. I am spending more and more of my time staring at the wall, reading worthless books I've already read, avoiding doing things I'm supposed to do. When I eat, I eat to much and badly. I stay in bed til one, waking up occasionally to check the time. (unless I have to work. I can get out of bed for that). I try to talk to people, but I stumble over myself. My brilliance is dimmed under the sooty glass I see through. I am bright, the world is bright. I know it is so, but that sooty glass keeps me from it, and it from me. Oh well. I chip away piece at a time and I will be good. Someday.

Thursday, May 3, 2007

Strawberries

Past the new leaf

Turning over the jagged new leaf,
So dangerous looking,
So soft and green.
Changes giving my soul relief.
And hidden underneath
That dangerous leaf
I find a single precious truth.
Beautiful, and sweet to my soul.


Theivery

I'm sorry Mom, I couldn't help it,
They were such lovely shade of red,
They glistened in the summer sunlight,
Their scent quite litr'ly went to my head.

I thought perhaps I'd taste their sweetness,
Just one to see if they were good,
I thought that it would be a service,
Surely Jam mustn't taste like wood!

That one quite overpowered me.
It's juciness, it's delicate taste,
Were so wonderfully ripe and fresh,
Surely one more wouldn't be a waste?

Well, to make a long story short Mom,
One became a very great many.
Unfortunately, to my surprise,
When I looked again there weren't any.

And so Mother dear I must admit,
I ate your lovely sweet strawberries,
I hope you aren't terribly mad,
Because I also ate your cherries.

Wednesday, May 2, 2007

Siblings

He thinks he's turning japanese,
At least that's what he says on the radio.
I turn my thoughts from my weary feet
To listen to the confused man on the radio.
I'm home from work, and taking my ease.
And listening to that japan man on the radio.
My shoes are where I kicked them off, un-neat.
And that man on the radio thinks to much.


I just got home from my work. It wasn't terribly difficult today, but it was mind numbing. Connor and Elina are trying to get our baby brother to go to sleep. As Elina's shout of "OW! He threw the bottle at me" evinces, it's not working well. Perhaps they shouldn't be listening to I think I'm turning Japanese. But I won't say anything about it because Gage's chuckles make me happy, and I like this song. Now Gage is pulling papers out of a file, and Connor is rethinking his tactics. Elina has left because of her hair. Gage pulls it, and Connor complains about it getting into his face. I think her hair is lovely though. Connor is explaining to Gage that he cannot play with his nose, because it always ends up with Connor having a bloody nose, and muttering, "that's my ear you grabbed. That hurts. What's wrong with you??? Go to sleep!" I think soon I will have to step in. But not just yet. I'm still tired. Never mind, I think Gage just gave Connor a black eye.

Tuesday, May 1, 2007

Valentina Kireeva

She is from Russia,
Petite, and full of fire.
She calls me "Good girl"
And says I'm like a daughter.

We are coworkers,
Her english is pretty good,
But I still asked her
"Teach me russian, if you would."

I feel like a child.
She is teaching me so much.
How to do better.
Giving my work that neat touch.

She is nice to me.
On my birthday she gave me
Some russian candy.
It was pear flavored, and sweet.

I work with an older lady from Russia. She is maybe fifty. She is so vital, and alive. When I first met her, she scared me. I thought she was wierd, and old, and Russian. I remember the lecture she gave me. So many times she told me about the hangers. How I mustn't use the childrens hangers, but the adult hangers. "It is simple." she said. I didn't think it was. I thought it was very complicated. I decided though, that I could either be scared of her, and confused, or I could challenge myself to GET THOSE HANGERS RIGHT!!!!! So I did. And I found out that it was simple. And I found out that I liked Valentina. I listened to the things she said, and I learned that what the others saw as picky old wierd russian lady, were ways to make work better. Ways to stop thieves, ways to sell more clothes, ways to do more work in less time, ways to think. My work changed, and as I started trying to better, I enjoyed myself more. It was a challenge, a puzzle. Every day was a chance to do better. Now, we are fairly close, in a sense. We don't tell each other much about our lives outside work. Well, except Valentina has told me on no uncertaint terms that "Snow is cold. Russia is cold. She hates cold. She hates Russia." I dectect a wistfulness in her though. For all Russia was bitter, and cold, and impoverished, it is her homeland. I think she misses being normal. She spoke to me, rather out of the blue actually, about Anna Nicole Smith of all things. Well, to be specific her baby. "There is no question in Russia" she says. "The baby always goes to the woman. The baby should go to her Grandmother." And she is teaching me russian, slowly, a little at a time. Our friendship is still new. It will grow. So often she says, "You are good girl, I am glad you work here." Because I took the challenge.