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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

We’re all waiting for something.
Sit with a coffee at the airport and guess who will stand up when someone walks through the door.

We are all lazy in something.
Wait in the frozen food section and see who picks out the pizzas and frozen alfredo.

We all have something that makes us happy.
See the girl sitting on the top suitcase of an airport cart,
the joy on her face as her father pushes her. The Simplicity.

Live while you’re waiting, even in the small things,
otherwise you are simply waiting to die.

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I saw his white hair before anything else.
Maybe it was his trembling legs
as he took the steps one by one off the plane.
Though his suitcase small
he struggled to hold it as if it was stone.
Those behind him remained silent
but their tapping fingers along the rail
brought a frown to my eyes…
Yet I have been one of them.

His wife waited at the bottom
like a mother at the end of a slide.
He seemed to learn a little too far forward
and I bit my lip.
A few steps can feel like you’re falling down a mountain.
Broken bones could occur.

Maybe he does it to prove that dozens of lines on his face
does not define his strength.
Maybe he faces the stairs because he wanted to see his granddaughter
walk down the aisle.
Maybe retirement was the only time he had money
to see the world.

Or perhaps stubbornness simply multiplies with wrinkles. 

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I finally feel certain of where I want my writing to lead.

I’m sure you have all heard by now of the Sandy Hook Elementary school shooting that happened this morning. First and foremost, i offer my condolences, my prayers, my heart, my hugs, my respects to the children that have found their place in heaven and for their families that were left down here. I smile as I imagine Jesus taking their hands and showing them His kingdom, but I bow my head for the families that have to mourn their children. No parent should have to go through something like that. For some, it may have been their first child and maybe even their only child.

I have thought a lot about the idea of suicides and school shootings for the past couple years, and have a feeling that I need to use my writing to reach the people that may take their own lives or do more shootings in the future. There will be bullying in the future, there will be rejection, there will be depression, but I want to be someone who can bring some peace to their frustrations or pent up issues and grudges that are sometimes the reasons that lead to these tragedies. I was an outcast throughout high school, though I have two very dear friends I owe my sanity to.

An old classmate of mine and I were talking about how there needs to be more life lessons taught in schools. Most of our speakers only talked about drinking and driving, which is very important too, but it’s not the only issue. We have people that try to get people to stop bullying, but very few people who talk about how to deal with bullying and whatever else. All through high school, I held grudges on people in my class, and I am still dealing with those grudges now. They fester and build when you don’t deal with them, when you don’t talk to someone about your frustrations  when you don’t know how to forgive someone you hate.

Though many hate the man that killed the children, I yearn to understand what led him to do such a thing. I assume there may have been family problems since he shot his mother, but to continue to kill children…it shocks me, as much as other school shootings have. For a couple kids, they aren’t getting any love at home, some get too much love, and then they don’t know how to handle rejection.  Rejection shapes us, teaches us. If this happens to our kids, we need to help them through it, not shield them from the evils of the world. If we do, then once they are out on their own, they won’t know what to do.

I want to help them through my writing. I want to bring them stories with people who may be in their position, with people who find that they are stronger than the struggles that they go through, people who choose to be better than the people that put them down. I want them to read my blog, my books, my poetry, my short stories, listen to my songs…anything that may begin to change their minds just enough to put the gun down for one more day, to loosen the rope from their necks. We need to lead them away from plans of death and destruction.

This is my mission. This is what I will strive for until my own death.

If you know of anyone that may need a friend to talk to, please have them email me. I would love to talk, I would love to guide in whatever way I can.

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My chocolate lab
howls at early risers, claws
grinding against bark.
I whistle from my tent
stepping alone
into a circle of tall pines,
brush thick, black.
Rain had become more
than rain. I swim through fog
heavy as steam, whistle again.
Silence deeper than a grave
buckles my knees.
The heart’s enemy
tugs tender stitching
till nearby twigs crack,
the familiar swish of a tail.

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It takes a little faith.
Doesn’t matter how many you plant,
you need to sustain it
put in the elbow dirt
and nurture it to get a blossom.
Over time rejections will come
mistakes will happen
but spray some Round Up and press on.
Rain will attempt to drown it
Sun will strive to bake it
but only after it’s tested can it bloom.

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Walking around Wal Mart
not planning to buy anything,
You pause at the mirrors,
a familiar face in the midst of aliens
while your friends continue to stagger forward,
drained and disoriented.
You live in the house whose dictionary
has no word for home
with frozen peace, dehydrated love,
and parents who seal care with worn tape.
You drunk minors woke,
surprised like injured bandits
as this morning’s pain wades in your pools
of Captain Morgan,
your stomach chanting stop, stop.
The mirror won’t ignore dwindling eyes
or vomit missed on the corner of your lips.
You stare at the reflection like a scrawny cat
waiting for scraps even dogs won’t eat.

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You were right on time
but you wait on the leather couch
as she fixes her hair.
Your foot taps like a metronome,
a smile, short “hey”
to the Quiet One.
I scan your sagging jeans
and lopsided hat.
Just like her last boyfriend.
You may know her name
but not her story.

I know the page number
of the book she’s reading
and the TV show she watches
every Tuesday night.
I know she hides her face with makeup
until she knows you won’t run
and hates tomatoes
on chicken sandwiches.
I did not buy that stack of Tae-bo videos
nor bake the chocolate cake in the kitchen.
You don’t know she’s wearing my earrings
or how she got the scar on her forhead.

But you wil see my face beside hers
in the picture on her desk.
For I am her sister,
you will never know her
as much as Me.

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