Scribblings

Washington D.C. is a city brimful of unspoken words; the whole place dances to the rhythmic humming of the wind and the water, the paintings and the sculptures, the statues and the museums all whispering verses. To the composer it speaks themes and cadences, to the choreographer pirouettes and port de bras. To the creative, do not all persons, places, and things breathe life?

For this writer, at least, the metropolis I find myself living above never fails to proffer the stuff that creative dreams are made of. So enjoy a couple of virgin lines, hastily pinned to paper whilst walking from one monument or one painting to another.

The Adoration of the Shepherds,  by Giovanni Girolamo Savoldo,
housed in the National Gallery of Art; photograph credit to Katie

The Adoration of the Shepherds

April 27, 2012

Come, warm your hands

'round the Refining Fire.

Come, worship Him with

thy shepherd's lyre.

Behold, He comes,

God and Man as One.

Behold His face with 

hearts undone.

Wonder at the myst'ry

with aged mind.

Wonder, for the Lost

this Babe can find.

The World War II Memorial in Washington; photograph credit to Katie

World War II Memorial

April 27, 2012

Words engraved forever in stone.

Faces frozen forever in bronze.

Wreaths undying,

Eagles unflying

Only the water now whispers their names.

Thousands of stars shine night and day.

Thousands of bombs overpower their grace.

Oceans are battlefields

Islands are forts

But only the water remembers their names.

In Search of Spring

In Search of Spring

A poem in honor of a childhood slipping onto the pages of history and a womanhood waiting to be written.

I come out in search of Spring today,
That ever bonny nymph,
The carefree sprite
Of color and life,
The dear companion of my youth.

She ever was my faithful friend,
Regardless of year or season,
Whatever they say,
Even winter days,
For spring lives in lands beyond reason.

For Spring, to me, was not bound by time,
As a wand'ring gypsy lives unconfined.
March until June,
And she must be through?
A more unthinkable thought was not harbored.

So dear, laughing, lovely Spring,
Imaginative, mischievous, playful Spring,
A bringer of life,
A killer of strife,
Wove round my heart like Irene's string.

But time must pass and youths must grow
And labor over words and sums,
So playtime wanes
And the heart does pang
For the sunny days of eternal Spring.

But today, I come to play again
And have a jolly springtime.
Yet though I call
And call and call
My childhood chum stays away.

Where has she turned her brilliant eyes?
And where are her tawny curls?
And her ivory hands?
And her ruby lips?
And her voice, the envy of birds?

Can it be that I -- I? even I? --
The eternal, hopeless elf-friend
Could have grown
Enough to be alone,
Forsaken by the elves and fairy dust?

"It cannot be," is my resolution,
So harder I resume my search.
And, lo, I see
Faint as can be
The evidence of my darling Spring.

She is not gone forever, no,
But eternally she is changed.
Or perhaps it is
I who lives
In a different way than before.

Perhaps children do grow and learn
And some forget the fairy folk.
But those like I,
Who'd rather die,
Remember them always when grown.

For Spring did return today,
Though she lives beyond my call.
She lives in the breeze,
In the waves of the sea;
Her dress virgin moss, grass, and flower.

Her voice echoes through my womanhood now
In the song of the bird and the shore.
Her body still warms,
In the sun's golden arms,
And the stars are still her jewels.

So I, like Wendy, now leave Neverland
To make room for my own dear child.
She will play
With Spring someday,
And I will bask in memories wild.

January 14, 2012

My meditation for the day has been Psalm 121: "I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The LORD is your keeper; the LORD is your shade on your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. The LORD will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life. The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore."

A somber passage to be my January soul-song, my driving anthem for a new year. Yet this year of all years I am reminded that sin is present, that suffering is rampant, that hurt is acute. I am reminded that sadness, loneliness, bitterness, and tears are part of the package of a sojourner in this land. I am reminded that our plans, ideals, and desires really mean nothing in light of eternity. The fact of the matter is that we are a people who have wrecked havoc on this land through our selfishness and pride but that there is a God, and He reigns over all with a omnipotent, sovereign, yet merciful and loving hand.

So while sacrifice and pain and ridicule and fear will always be a way of life on Earth, while dreams dashed and plans gone awry will always be mingled with joy, while feelings and relationships will always be hurt, we have a promise of comfort.

In the midst of conflict, even I, with nothing to resent nor complain about, will shed tears and fear the future. Yet in this moment of darkest night, I have felt more comfort and un-alone than I have felt in months. For indeed, I realize now that trials are not necessarily to test our faith or to ensure the depth of it. This trial, at least, is giving me sight of the fruit of my faith. This evening as I sat on my bed, eyes dry and a-burning from tears and body exhausted from a day-like-eternity, I felt the presence of my God. I felt Him, I saw Him, I spoke to Him. He saw me, He embraced me, He spoke back.

Faith is a struggle, dear ones. Never will we sojourners come to a point in this foreign land when faith will be easy or constant. Faith is a fight, a fight 'gainst great beasts of the Enemy. But faith is a fight well worth the taking. For -- listen and believe, friends -- in times of need, our faith will be rewarded with peace, comfort, hope, and sight.

I do not understand everything;

I do not welcome every piece of my life.

But there is hope beyond understanding,

And there is peace to be found in strife.

Take heart, O downcast soul,

Take heart, again I say.

For tomorrow the dawn will come,

Tomorrow will be a new day.

There will be time for tears,

But there will be time for laughter.

If not in this life and world at present,

Then in the Promised Land ever after.

A Medley

the sleigh bells and silver bells

are ringing ding-a-dong,

so merrily on high,

and all the children are snuggling up in bed

dreaming of sugar plum fairies

and tannenbaums and white Christmases,

and the merry gentlemen are resting

in the hope of the babe, the son of Mary,

and thoughts are a-turning

to the little town of Bethlehem,

to that (not so) silent night,

to the the child away in a manger,

and the the herald angels are heard on high,

singing gloria! gloria! in excelsis deo! hark!

and the faithful, joyful, triumphant are gathering

on this night divine to sing hallelujah,

for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.

An Accident

after the game

tug of war

push and pull

like a fat man

in a small door

they squeeze

and call and cry

with effusive faces

and merry hearts

leaving the field

and littered stadium

popcorn and potato chips

trodden on concrete

to inch home in traffic

cause it's great to be

a blank.

Sometimes I feel like an archaeologist as I sift through various pages of my scribblings and sketches; I feel as if my younger self, even if only a few weeks younger, was more a distant ancestor than my same self. Sometimes I shake my head with amused shame at my naivete or my fleshly attitudes. Other times I wonder at the wisdom I had in that moment -- the wisdom I seem to have discarded over a lapse of time.

I unearthed this poem a few pages back in my poetry journal from September. Written to complete a school assignment, I faintly remember slapping the words onto paper and then laughing out loud at its ending. The "blank" at the end was intended to pose for an unspecified sports team, but upon re-reading I realized how philosophical and morbid it sounded! :) I can see students poring over, attempting to unearth my hidden meaning, probably something along the lines of the anonymity of modern society. And all I was doing was writing a poem with similes in it.

It would fit very well in the pages of my English Composition II anthology. (And that is not a compliment...)

From An Afternoon Walk

The Leaves
Maryland, September 7, 2011

Who dares to pluck the feathers from the trees so strong and high
And choose to treat as poultry God's great pillars of delight?
Who shears the bushy wool from verdant, pasture-dwelling folk
To leave so bare and naked trees like wheels with spindle-y spokes?

'Tis autumn, cruel and cold, who rips leafy plumage from the sky
And clips all warmth and color from tall oak, beech and pine.
Like death, he whispers and down she comes, gone with but a stroke;
Summer's destined time to fall, her jewels choked in gard'ner's smoke.

Just so you know, I have nothing 'gainst autumnal cheer and season; indeed, I've longed for a relished this moment, when I could see the transition coming! I love fall -- it is my favorite season -- but this is what flowed from mind to pen today... Just so you know.

Loving God with Our Minds

God made our minds to love Him. We do this by first coming to the cross of Christ for salvation, where, as the hymn says, "sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains." We love God with our minds by being renewed through His Word and thinking about excellent, lovely, wholesome things. Did you know that when you study birds (ornithology), bugs (entomology), words (etymology), the human body (anatomy), and just about any "-ology" you can think of, you are loving Him? "The works of the Lord are great, studied by all who have pleasure in them," wrote the psalmist. We love God with our mind when we admire smoothness, strangeness, structure, inticacy, fragrance, complexion, motion. "Glory be to God for dappled things," exclaimed the poet-priest Gerard Manley Hopkins. - Suzanne U. Rhodes, The Roar on the Other Side

A Jane Poem

Because every girl gets a little thrill when she sees her name. ;-)

Besides, I love this poem. (And the indentation is incorrect because blogger is not cooperating.)

To Jane: The Keen Stars Were Twinkling

Percy Bysshe Shelley

The keen stars were twinkling,

And the fair moon was rising among them,

Dear Jane!

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till you sung them

Again.

As the moon's soft splendour

O'er the faint cold starlight of Heaven

Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given

Its own.

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later,

Tonight;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter

Delight.

Though the sound overpowers,

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

For those of you waiting for an update on MJ, surgery, though long, went remarkably well. Furthermore, recovery was swift and smooth -- she was out of the hospital only four days after surgery. The doctors confirmed that her tumor was cancerous, but not highly aggressive nor out of control. Though her body is healing swiftly, MJ and her family still struggle with the frustrations of temporary, unfamiliar handicaps and the long-term repercussions of cancer. Continue to keep MJ, her family, and all of us who know her in your prayers. God is good and so, so sovereign.

Home

Isn't it wonderful? Katie and Chloe designed it for me, with a little help from Mr. Ossian Popham.

And chalkboard paint on our dresser was the best decision we ever made. ;-)

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowned,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them dance; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

~ William Wordsworth

An Untitled Poem

Sterile:

Nothing but sterling bars

and pearly tile

gleaming in stringent light.

Looking down,

my eyes stare back at me.

Clear:

No more cigarette smoke

or dusty air

choking my lungs and

dirtying my

face. No cloud of smog.

Silent:

No moan for help,

plea for food,

giggle for joy,

just dozens of Chinese baby eyes

stare back at me.

Orphan:

Nothing, no one to love,

but busy nannies

and the hope for American

mommies.

So their eyes stare over

the ocean at us.

An Eulogy and Update

Between the season's festivities and approaching deadlines, this dear blog has been neglected of late. Hopefully I'll be able to carve out some time for posting in the coming weeks. For now, however, enjoy a little poem that my darling sister, Katie, penned:

The Eulogy

Bunbury, my fellow, once so jolly,

Your death makes me melancholy.

You were to me a fantastic mate.

I'm sorry combustion was your fate.

Whenever I needed an excuse,

No matter the matter you I could use.

You had once pneumonia, twice depression,

But thrice my sympathy made a fine impression.

And now, what shall your chap Algy do,

Since you can be no longer my impromptu?

No friend could ever have been as faithful.

Your timing always proved impeccable.

Here I stand at your graveside,

Shamefully and remarkably teary-eyed,

For now what, oh what, will I do,

When I'm faced with things I don't want to do?

Ode to Bunbury, now deceased,

May you forever rest in peace!

If you aren't familiar with the inspiration for this poem, you need to pick up a copy of Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest from your library. The play is absolutely hysterical and thoroughly British -- a perfect combination! ;)

By the way, Katie did have surgery. Her cyst is gone, and she's now a bionic woman! ;) This past week, two weeks after surgery, my bling-loving girl has begun walking on only two legs rather than three... The crutches strangely resembling flamingo legs have been stored in the attic!

The only thought that comes to mind in all these circumstances is this:

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Him all creatures here below. Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Forever and ever, Amen!

Perfect One

Though nothing, nothing, nothing am I,

in nothingness, even I can glorify,

my Holy Savior, the Perfect One.

Inconsistent logic, a contradiction,

says the world. But a crucifixion

makes me like the Perfect One.

That death so filthy and scandalous

is making me blameless and righteous,

all thanks to the Perfect One.

In this life, I won't see, I know,

my heart melted completely like snow,

but one day I'll see the Perfect One.

And then, oh best of days, I'll be

pure like Him. I, hell-bound me,

will be like the Perfect One.

I'll still be nothing, only one called,

except to the Man who paid it all,

to my Redeemer, the Perfect One.

To Him, I'm beautiful, precious, worthy,

no longer a slave to sin so urging.

One day I'll be like the Perfect One.

Another poem... This one isn't as recent as The Dance, but I re-discovered the document I wrote it on. So, here it is for your enjoyment! :)

The Dance

Take my hand,

Eternal partner,

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

Let’s join the dance,

For forever and ever.

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

As she reels with the sun,

Let’s dance with the moon.

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

When the dream seems done,

It’s only just begun.

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

After whispered vows

And hoops of gold,

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

We’ll twirl and spin

As we grow old.

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

Your ivory dress

So spotless and new,

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

Swishes rhythmically

Across my shoe.

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

Though coarse and ragged

Both may soon become,

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

Never forget this starlit night

When we two became one.

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

People around us

Chatter and drink.

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

Yet one song only

As anthem we’ll sing:

tra-la-la de-da-de-da

Inspired by Pierre-Auguste Renoir's Dance at Bougival, 1883

Wishes

Wishes

Kate Greenaway

Oh, if you were a little boy,

And I was little girl --

Why you would have some whiskers grow

And then my hair would curl.

Ah! if I could have whiskers grow,

I'd let you have my curls;

But what's the use of wishing it --

Boys never can be girls.

One can't help loving the whimsy of Kate Greenaway's sketches -- so breezy and bright! And to top it all off, we can relish in this charming little nursery rhyme. Are there any other non-toddlers as in love with nursery rhymes as I?

Simple Pleasures...

Of the last twenty four hours:

~ staying up late with Mama and Daddy (even if it was biology homework...)

~ leaving the doors open and hearing all those lovely "night noises"

~ slipping on fuzzy socks for bed (Did you notice that I *love* fuzzy socks?)

~ waking up because I was cold in bed

~ wandering about early in the morning with a beloved friend

~ greetings from others with amiable cheerfulness

~ munching a pear (One day I hope to own this.)

~ opening the windows and doors of the house

~ identifying an elusive flower

~ watching leaves fall off a tree (Yes! I have found a tree that sheds leaves in FL!)

I also stumbled across this poem:

Out in the Fields with God

The little cares that fretted me,

I lost them yesterday,

Among the fields above the sea,

Among the winds at play,

Among the lowing of the herds,

The rustling of the trees,

Among the singing of the birds,

The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might pass,

I cast them all away,

Among he clover-scented grass,

Among the new-mown hay,

Among the hushing of the corn

Where drowsy poppies nod,

Where ill thoughts die and good are born --

Out in the fields with God.

-Unknown

And, of course, I'm glorying in that oft spoken, yet simply glorious psalm:

The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.

~ Psalm 19:1 ~

I'm one blessed girl. :)

Autumn

Nature XXVII, Autumn

Emily Dickinson

The morns are meeker than they were,

The nuts are getting brown;

The berry's cheek is plumper,

The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,

The field a scarlet gown.

Lest I should be old-fashioned,

I'll put a trinket on.

Autumn is here in name, if not in deed. Perhaps soon I can join Miss Dickinson and add a few trinkets into my wardrobe -- sweaters, coats, scarves, fuzzy socks, etc. -- and perhaps even special food into my diet (Oh the apples, the pumpkins, the cranberries!). Happy fall to those of you who are already enjoying is gorgeousness. And for the rest, let's pray that she scurries her way on over. I'm keeping watch at the window, waiting for the trees to don their harvest gaiety!

In case none of you guessed, fall is my favorite season. *wink*

A Day

As dawn casts its morning rays

onto the world, into my eyes,

pictures and dreams come as I lay,

and on the wind tosses a cry.

With groaning, pain, and tears of joy,

I see a child slip onto this earth.

Mother's eyes often watch the boy

and moisten still, knowing his worth.

The golden sphere rises higher

as the day travels slowly by,

and I see the boy growing taller

and hear Mama's and Papa's sighs.

They train and pray and pray and train,

teaching and molding steadily.

They know he will not long remain,

so on they press in word and deed.

As the sun casts its evening light

upon the leafy trees beyond,

I dream I see a touching sight:

a parting, the tearing of a bond.

Husband and wife tenderly watch

as son, now man, to battle goes.

Their arrow, sharpened, has been launched

into a world of joys and woes.

"Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one's youth. Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them! He shall not be put to shame when he speaks with his enemies in the gate." Psalm 127:3-5

Written while I avoid a pre-calculus quiz.

Born of Inspiration:

Waves crash

over my chest,

pang after

pang of aching

indecision.

Questions, ideas,

murmurings, thoughts.

No peace from

longing and

toil.

The sea inside

tosses and turns

swells and falls

with each

wind.

I maneuver

my ship, my heart

to the shore

where I fly up

the hill.

At the crown

there stands erect

a wooden staff,

a rod with arms,

a cross.

I throw myself

and all my cares

at its foot,

at His feet,

at Him.

Then I know

all is well.

Peace, like a flood,

rushes in.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time He may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on Him, because He cares for you. 1 Peter 5:6-7

Poetry

Confession: I love poetry, and I envy poets. Occasionally, during small God-inspired moments, I can craft a rhyme or two. More often than not, though, I am not very poetic. Therefore, I cannot help but break into a wide smile every time I see poetic brilliance. I'm in awe of the talent God gives.

Today, this poem by Wendell Berry nourished my hungry soul and encouraged my weary heart. No, it doesn't rhyme. And, no, it is not my favorite style. Nonetheless, it imparts simple truths in a smooth, sophisticated way; the words dance across the page (or screen, in this case).

"To My Mother"

Wendell Berry

And this, then,

is the vision of that

Heaven of which

we have heard, where those who love

each other have

forgiven each other,

where, for that, the leaves are green,

the light a music in the air,

and all is unentangled,

and all is undismayed.