I wrote this poem after a party one day where when asked, “What are you going to do after school?” I answered, “Follow Jesus.” I got many reactions.

I do not know
how what will come.
I hope I do not miss it the first time
though I know I will not miss it forever.
He’ll press it to me
soak me in it
till I notice His instruction
that surrounds me.
I’ll think ‘I should have been listening’.
Or I could find it directly
despite my human tendency to be ignorant.
I could hit it in the air with my prayer
and spectacular fireworks would emit
from the collision between earth and heaven.
I admit, I hope I am hearing
but more I hope more for fireworks.

I spend too little attention
to know what a “dreamer”‘s definition
is – I just see the clouds and know
I have to ability to go.

The oppurtunists sit on top the trees
deserving the peaches they eat.
With an idea and the will,
this way will give me thrill
and I’ll be happier than everyone else.

My poetry writing has been lagging lately, but I’m excited about some new creations!

This is another poem in my favorite form, the triolet. I wrote it for a local poetry contest, describing our community.

This is the kind of fierce battle I imagined for this poem.

mais les spectateurs l’aimeraient aussi.
They have found you.
Tu as inspiré during the unintentional debut.
Ils courent et vous le piétiner-
Ils vous aiment pour tout ce que vous êtes, sur et hors de la scène,
though isn’t it all the same for them?
Run! Get away, quick, before they consume you!

Find the sky.
Find a star that is alone.
Sit. Relax until you can bear
being a star again.

Translations for French

Ils vous aiment pour tout ce que vous êtes, sur et hors scène,
They love you for all that you are, on and off stage,

Oh, I think I recognize
that jacket and your face.

Yes, you are the man from down the street
that I see each Monday
except for some weeks.

You say you like to travel?
Still, I hear you volunteer
at the local soup kitchen
someplace I’ve never been.

It’s you I’ve seen in the pews on Sunday
first or second row
which are the first to take
communion from the ushers.
Why thank you, I do enjoy the choir

and thank you, I bought it to celebrate the spring.
You’re welcome; the coffee is a special brew.
Wow, your hands are warm
and yes,
I love you too.
Yes, I will marry you.

This poem is not about anyone specific. I just wanted to write about how quickly relationships seem to progress.

Actually, a small dip in the well would do.

Alas. I am no Rebekah. I am only dead grass in winter
and I need your flowers and violin music to revive me.
I need the doves and the orange trees and sun to remind me
what summer is
for this citrus-less winter consumes me.

This poem form is called a triolet and I’ve been testing it out a little for practice with form. The rhyme pattern is ABaAabAB, that is the first, the forth and the seventh line is repeated, the third and fifth lines rhyme with the first, the second and eighth lines are repeated and the sixth line rhymes with the second. It is an exciting step in my work with poetry!

We have learned how to grow and how to live young
though we are on the bottom wrung.
I love the scars on which we cannot place a date,
love the ironies this world creates.
We forgive the cuts and scrapes of past mistakes
and have learned to swim through tides of joy and pain.
Just like we swam on Swim Day in kindergarten,
we go with friends whose love is never meek.

Your back is to me. The tips of your hair flutter
with the chilly wind blowing down Sunset Drive
toward those who freeze under their meager houses, tents,
and donated sweaters. They have tried
to amount to better, but lucky circumstances fail them.
They need your warmth to be inspired.
Your hand is stretched down that road,

but where does your heart lie?

Your right hand reaches down Daybreak Street
where I see the family home.
Your essence is sentimental.
Brown-yellow leaves in clustered aspen trees
are found only in the backyard.
Confidence is built into the walkway.
I see a place to find life: a husband, a child, a mantra,
and a set of personal cookware.

While you daydream of possibilities,
I find you still standing on the corner.
You turn around and together we sit on the curb
next to the absence of passerby to wait for a sign.

This poem was hard for me to write. I’ve never tried writing a “portrait” of myself before.