|“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson Here I am.|
And as I drown on this river of broken hopes and dreams,
I’ll smile and play a song;
They’ll only stand on the banks of my oblivion,
As they smile and clap along.
Once upon a time I had a very snarky English teacher. While looking down her nose at us she would carry on about how her students were always below average and couldn’t grasp concepts.
No one was able to surmount the Everest that was her intellect. In short, we all despised her.
One week, we were studying haikus - structure, subjects, 5-7-5, etc. She had us write out our own- I saw an opportunity and I seized it.
Mine read as follows-
“Five syllables here,
And seven more for this line,
And this class still bites.”
That made her crack up and the haiku went up on her whiteboard for the week.
Childhood memories, names and stages
I turned around, lost touch, lost years, lost ages
Now my compatriots in childish fantasy
Have become nothing more than strangers to me.
Names so familiar and memories that stay
But lost connections in the land of long ago and far away.
Still in my heart, the images remain,
In the pages of my mind, forever stained.
And in the spaces of eternity,
I’ll hold dear all the moments of you and me.
A joke, a smile, fun phraseology-
Living freely without apology;
Warm hands and hearts and cups of tea- all of this is home to me.
Soft curls in her hair, callouses in his hands;
The touch of a woman,
The strength of her man-
Mixed together in placid serenity- this hallowed place is home to me.
Nights filled with stars and fire-glow,
With breezes and whispers and songs we know;
Where honeysuckle blossoms bloom fragrantly-
Here with you is home to me.
Here it is built - in quiet spaces,
First shared between friends in passing phrases.
Slowly on the current flows,
It deepens, it moves,
and the feelings grow.
Somewhere between vernacular and infatuations
Love was born from our conversations.
I had no dam to turn the tides,
This feeling flooded in and now resides -
Robbing the meanings of words I once knew:
“Stay safe” & “Have fun” now all say
“I love you.”
Beauty, dear Beauty
What a funny fowl is she-
makes her home in quiet, gnarled, hollow tree.
Attraction, her sister, dwells in the light-
Causing riotous awe for her every flight!
But Beauty is different, her feathers don’t fade.
She is far more desired, though she hide in the shade.
Her companions are quiet and often thought strange:
The painter, the dancer,
Bell ringer of Notre Dame.
Who can find her but those who know
The hollow tree she lives in called Sorrow?
Siting here beside the silence
Feelings are deep and scream with violence-
who to tell if you’re
Like a melancholy song,
It sings when the night draws near.
No one comes to sing along
-it’s just the darkness, quiet and clear.
This is the verse of poets and painters,
Of tales of sweeter days
of lovers and strangers,
It’s the writer with an empty page
O what soft danger it is to be!
To be quiet...
To be set still...
There she goes again,
Dancing on the wind.
The wispy, sweet refrain
Stirs for her to begin.
With dark, tangled tresses that reach to her back
She floats and is angled to a rhythmless track.
Free as the breezes she dances upon
And oh so dear to me,
Long after breezy days have gone,
The Wind-Dancer still she will be.
O the confidence of your silence
O the soft strength behind your smile.
Simplistic in the words you don’t mince,
Standing cool, here in your comforting style.
So gentle in your words, so sweet in your expression,
Yet passionately you mentor those who ask for your attention.
You’ve held me now a hundred times without even touching my hand.
Oh how do I explain what I feel for this quiet man?
What is a letter?
I am always interested in writing a letter. I love writing and getting to know people - what they think, what they know, what they like, what they hope for, etc.
A letter is always a better way to do that.
It takes time to think and craft a letter. It’s more than a text message or a phone call. It’s a shared diary of your days with a friend.
I can remember being a little girl and sending letters to my family who lived far away. Something about getting a letter in the mail always made my day better. Even to this day, I have a large box full of cards, postcards, letters, and notes.
One of my aunts bought me stationary. It’s just so much more personal and tangible. You ar...
This is my letter to the void-
My call, a solitary shout.
To every loved memory of the past. Nostalgia this letter belongs to you.
This letter belongs to every past frame of myself- every smile, every tear, every peaceful and stormy day, for each daydream and hopeful “what if..?”
I want to say thank you. Our time together has been beautiful, but I am letting you go.
You left me long ago, and I have ached for you for far too long. I reached back to you and found nothing there to hold me close.
I have finally realized that I cannot live for you and thrive anymore.
As I sit out on this cool, clear night looking into a Star-starved sky, I realize that I want so much more. I want to wander al...
Vice or virtue:
I love to live inside of my own head- to daydream and hope for tomorrow.
Is this vice or virtue?
I look at people and find qualities to love- and in the loving, I alone fall and fall easily.
Is this vice or virtue?
I love without end; without encouragement; without requite. In my head I paint simple dreams of holding hands and dancing - even though nothing of the sort has ever happened to me.
So tell me, is this vice or virtue?
What is Hope?
Emily Dickinson called it a thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the song without words.
While many artists paint this quote with birds, I don’t see it as something so fragile.
In my mind, Hope is different.
Hope is a strong, tall, beastly, battle hardened angel that sits in a corner of the heart folding paper swans.
He is a guardian. He smiles quietly, wordlessly.
Whenever he walks, things change. He valiantly fights off sadness, and is a good partner to The Will.
He nudges softly in quiet moments. He whispers like the breeze, and is stronger than the whirlwind.
Hope makes the discouraged try again.
Hope is there when the broken-hearted start listening ...
John Steinbeck, the author of my Home county, once wrote, “You can’t go home again because Home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.”
As I sit here and reminisce of my childhood in Bakersfield, I must say that he is right.
I was born and raised in the dust bowl of Kern county. Rain was a rarity, and snow was a myth. The world always smelled faintly of dust, alfalfa hay, and livestock. I went to a school that was older than the Second World War, and was parked out in the styx - even though I lived in the suburbs.
We were two hours from every other kind of landscape- mountains to the north, desert to the east, and the beach to the west. My mother would feed my sense of ad...
Across from me she sits to tea,
Breathing in the morning sun.
Upon her lips a smile I see,
A quiet and simple one.
What a familiar companion of mine,
Near more often than any other.
A muted tone in spoke lines,
Yet vibrant in living color!
Present in griefs and the gaze of lovers;
There when no one else is about.
She sets the stage amidst night’s covers,
Where moonlight’s sleepy ideas sprout.
Never in crowded spaces is she;
No conversations or blasts of violence.
But here alone, how close she’ll be,
This rare lady known as
Fort Worth, TX
Men on hilltops criticize,
And they themselves lose little.
Youths browbeat innocence in the streets, call him guilty without an acquittal.
Wise mouths say nothing while wise minds are second-guessing,
And the foolish scream the pungent screams, breaking silence with poisoning sonance, transgressing.
Fly me away to silent hills where the flowers abound without measure.
Where smiles bear no hidden intentions, and each sunny as is a treasure.
Let peace restore innocence to her freest state,
And give me again, the blessed day of disagreement without such hate.
Fort Worth, TX
Snapdragon, gardenia, pansy, viola neatly in their pots.
Soaking in sunshine, they release sweet incense upon the gusty breezes that float by.
freshly are they planted in my garden lot.
I watch the misty clouds sail across an endless sea of blue sky.
In unruly curls about my face, dance the chestnut strands.
I sit and soak the daylight in,
What beauty of dirtied hands,
My handiwork flitters in the breeze,
And for me an oasis makes.
Here neath the pillared concrete trees,
A paradise of dreams awake.
With Joy and Springtime,
Dear No One in Particular,
It has been months since I have written. The world seems to be turning slower as the summer slowly dances with the coming autumn. The dust they kick up stirs with memories of these past few years gone by, and as I gather them together in the cooling breeze, I wonder what lies ahead.
How lucky God is to stand outside of time and know all that is to be known. What a joyous tragedy it must be to see all that lies before; each trial and victory man has left.
In the end, all we mortals here below have is a future; that in itself is a mercy more than we deserve.
As you go about your day, remember the words penned by
L. M. Montgomery:
"Tomorrow is always fresh... No mi...
Fort Worth, Texas
There are a lot of days in this life where I want to be a lot more than I am. So many resolutions that I could say:
I want to be braver. I want to be stronger. I want to be prettier. I want to be real.
As we going to the new year, I am reminded of the song called "the motions" by Matthew West (I will include a link to a video of it). It reminds me of just about everything I want in this new year. Being only 20 years old going into 2016, I guess what I'm saying is that I finally want to grow up this year and be who I ought to be.
Happy new year!
In the mind of every man, there is a book. In the beginning, it is empty and the first few entries are given to us: our name, our age, when, where, and to whom we all belong. We grow a bit more, and the book fills with answers to the question of how: how do we walk? How do we stand? How do we speak? How do we fill our pages?
Older still, and we fill those pages with whys. Why am I here? Why am I speaking? Why did I give this and keep that?
All of this amounts to answer one question that lives within the hearts and minds of all:
Who am I?
The answer can always be changed, rewritten, reinvented. Each new day adds a new page, a new illustration. We call them our memories. In truth, they are o...
Fort Worth, Texas
Did you know?
Did you know that you are unique? And I don't mean rare. I mean unique. You are a matchless, unparalleled, extraordinary, solitary, incomparable masterpiece. You are timeless. You are stunning. You are powerful. You are a gift that this world could never pay for. You are a singular, divine invention hatched within the mind of the God of all creation. Your value is incomprehensible; how can anyone price something so priceless?
Can anyone do what you do? Can someone else ever be who you are and fully stand in your shoes and fill them? Everything about you from your DNA to your fingerprint, to the glorious flecks of color in your eyes make you externally ori...
"Welcome to the dark side... No seriously, this is the actual dark side."
There are three men standing on the top of a mountain. One man looks up at the sky and says, "That was quite a climb, wasn't it? Can you believe we finished that?" He turned and looked at the expanse that they had just crossed.
The second, older man looks out toward the west with a shrug and says, "We still have a long way to go. There's still more out there for us to climb and conquer. Just gotta keep your head down and watch where you're going."
"Shhh. Hush! Just look!" Said the third. A young man on his first climb, still holding his bag on his shoulders. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cool, crisp breeze that gently tousled his hair.
As if renewed he looked about him. He smiled...
Fort Worth, Texas
When I was four, my grandmother made Christmas special. She was ailing, fighting, and really wanted to make it. I remember we put up our tree with her in mid October that year. She made candy bags with all of her grandchildren, read to us from the gospels, sang every carol know to man, and went on to meet her maker December 3, 1999. Her love made each memory I have of her so vivid; memories that I still hold dear to this day, sixteen years later.
This year, with us just moving to Texas, not knowing anyone, and trying hard to keep the Christmas spirit alive above all the busy, I like to think about all of my memories of her. Her love and selflessness still pushed on in her...
All dressed up and no place to go, what would I do?
Hmmm... I'd probably start by baking. For some odd reason when I bake bread and cookies and pretzels, it is almost therapeutic. I would put on some swing music and sing along to every single song that played, and I would sit, read, listen, and think. I'd smile and remember old Christmas traditions I have had with my family. I'd imagine the nostalgia of doing it all over again and reliving the joy.
I'd light the fireplace, make some mint tea, and sit in my socks as j gaze at my neighbors lights from my front window... They become magical in the snow and the reflections dance... Gotta go now though. The timer just went off for my baking!
"Oh, to be alive in such an age, when miracles are everywhere, and every inch of common air throbs a tremendous prophecy, of greater marvels yet to be."
To see reality of former visions,
An age where hope comes to fruition.
Mortals now view the ecstasy
Of miracles and prophecy-
Oh what an age in which to be!
Common air made magic then,
Now made wonder; Elysian!
Dreams and wonders , great renown
All the world pulses, not slowing down!
Oh what such an age could be
If helped along by one like me?
By the dreamer for the dreamers.
It's hard to believe that Thanksgiving is already here again. It seems like just yesterday we celebrated, and here we are again. Just one more day of preparation before our Festive Feeding Frenzy is underway! One more day until everyone arrives. Even now, my retired-cop father is bustling about the kitchen, all set to bake is famous pumpkin cakes.
Soon they will all be here:
My aunts -who are closer than aunts; more like two beautiful, quirky surrogate mothers. With them, my three silly younger cousins who are growing so quickly , yet still bring in that youthful element full of curiosity and giggles that every family needs.
After them will come my most beloved enemy, my brother. He and my ...
I graduated in May of 2013. I was seventeen and though that the world was mine to change. As though there was some universal spot for me to fill and the world around me would just start turning in my favor... Two years, a failed attempt at nursing school, a move, and two jobs later, I realized that that was pretty far from the truth.
I started to consider myself a failure. I had no education, no job experience to speak of, and no real idea of how to get what I wanted. I knew what I really wanted to do was sing and write songs. I confided in one of my friends who told me that I was wrong. I was no failure. I was what she wished she could be. She wished that she had taken her time and figured...