Thursday, March 27, 2008

I've been reading Diary of an Old Soul by George Macdonald lately, and I've found it very encouraging. It is a collection of 366 sonnets, but as they are so short, I have a feeling I'll be finishing the book in less than a year.

Sonnet #1

Lord, what I once had done with youthful might,
Had I been from the first true to the truth,
Grant me, now old, to do - with better sight,
And humbler heart, if not the brain of youth;
So wilt thou, in thy gentleness and ruth,
Lead back thy old soul, by the path of pain,
Round to his best - young eyes and heart and brain.

Sonnet #2

A dim aurora rises in my east,
Beyond the line of jagged questions hoar,
As if the head of our intombed High Priest
Began to glow behind the unopened door:
Sure the gold wings will soon rise from the gray!
THey rise not. Up I rise, press on the more,
To meet the slow coming of the Master's day.

Sonnet #3

Sometimes I wake, and, lo, I have forgot,
And drifted out upon an ebbing sea!
My soul that was at rest now resteth not,
For I am with myself and not with thee;
Truth seems a blind moon in a glaring morn,
Where nothing is but sick-heart vanity:
Oh, thou who knowest, save thy child forlorn.

The honesty in these sonnets, particulary the ones which subject is of knowledge and emotions less agreeable, remind me so much of the Psalms. It is a good reminder of the necessity of being honest with oneself. This is something very hard to do I know, as we don't like being faced with our faults. However, if one can keep in mind how much our Father loves us, and remember that we are completely accepted in Him, this honest perusal within His comforting arms is much easier to bear. He is our God, and He knows all of our faults, they are no secret to Him. However He is also our Father, and because of how much He loves us our faults do nothing to change His opinion of us or of how He views us. When He looks at us, He sees Christ! And Christ's provision of eternal life has made it possible for the Spirit to come and live in us, giving us HIS power, so that we might actually become more like the Son, as we moment by moment trust His love.

Thursday, March 6, 2008


I wrote this poem almost two years ago, and I was hoping to get a new poem written tonight, but I thought this one was fitting to post as I went swing dancing last weekend for the first time in about 9 months. (And I am once again addictively hooked.)


One, two, triple step,
rockstep, spin, turn
he-goes she-goes beltloop
Tomahawk triplestep
and "pop!"

"Go look sexy," hips
swivel, do things naturally
trained to make him come
closer, sugar push close, but
then swing out again.

It's all a game, one two
rockstep, one two triplestep
triplestep. Push off both
turn, get close, apart, closer
catches my back but doesn't
let go, closed position, ok I know
how to do this, this sensual imitation
of how every man should know how to
love to a woman. And maybe in
a way it is, this game of dominance
and submission of holding and letting go,
control, tension, posture, "Shoulders back, pulled
down, chest out, butt out, back straight, feet apart,
arms bent, tension! Basketball stance, ready? Jump!"

And then we're ready,
he's off taking me with him,
me doing my best to keep up,
To concentrate on what I'm supposed to do,
without thinking too much about that dream,
where we were doing that dance,
without the music. Where he was
holding my hand and putting his
arm around me and pulling me
closer, and telling me that he
wanted me to stay with him, that
he needed me close, and these
feelings suddenly coming up from me
toward him, and then waking up
and them not going away along
with the false reality of those
unrealistic, mystifying, cheating, unproductive, purposeless
visions of night, but I can't forget
him, not being able to wait the time until
I'm in his arms again, in the real dance.

One, two, triple step,
rockstep, spin, turn
he-goes she-goes beltloop
Tomahawk triplestep
and "pop!"

Feet pounding, sliding, rotating
around each other, hands touching,
only letting go to bring me closer.
His eyes, his arms, his hand on my
back, my arm on his shoulder, and
then he dips me, my body across his,
my arms around his neck, my face, nose,
eyes, lips inches from his own.
One two three four - Lifts me up
and spins me out, away, the dance over,
our fantasies stalled again,
with no promises of ever becoming true.

Monday, December 31, 2007

The Choice and Daisy Trysts

The Choice

How often it comes to this pain,
this stopping of will, an ache that
will not cease.
How often His leading is something
that I cannot see and it fills me with
fear for I can't seem to trust, though I know
He is worthy.

He stops me right here, with the pain
in my chest, and I open the Psalms and read of
David's unrest where his soul cleaved, and
his sorrow grew, but still -
He chose You.

LORD, I cannot fathom You
will, and I'm still afraid, and I'm still
blind, but You still stay.
I know You will teach me and lead
me to where I will relish Your joy
and bask in Your glory and laugh with
relief from the testing,
but until that time, I will choose
Your way, for Yours is the hope of the
hopeless and grieving.

Daisy Trysts

It's very fashionable today to sing about
disappointment in love, or anger against one who should
have cared.

I prefer simplicity. He did this, she said that,
boys eyes gleam, girl says yes, that kind of story.
It might not ever happen, but one really can't know.

You never know when something magical might happen.
A chance meeting, a common desire, similarities not even considered
to be important, but you might be exactly
what they've been looking for.

The songs that should be written, the ones that some
beggar could write if he had paper, they're as sad as
someone without hope or dream.

The ones already written, the ones I listen to whenever I can
because I'm a silly sentimentalist who can't get her head out of the clouds,
they're the ones that seem like they are all written for me,
or for him,
or for anyone who's day has been made by something they'd forgotten
to dream about.

It's as if every word I could write, regardless the subject matter
or the vulgarity, would be dripping with honey made from daisies.

It is assumed that the rose is the ultimate flower of romance,
but the daisy has such a hopeful face, always looking for and
mimicking the sun, how can one deny the imagery of something
so happy and bred for sonnets?

The wildflowers tell it best, for their trysts with the bees
mock every artificial attempt we make to convey their happiness.
When we fail, we eat their nectar, on white bread, toasted to a golden brown,
eaten in the shapes of triangles.