This was a bit of an exercise – my sister sent me a topic, and this is the first draft

The water holds me
lulls me
enwrapped in frothy motion
stretched across

my miles
pulled by the sway of the moon

from horizons
to the sights beyond my eyes

Bond of life
surrounds my islands
floods my stories
overwhelming
healing years
it pounds; it swirls
waves and glimmers
across the journeys

the fluid thread of
all that belongs to me

Liquid rhythm of life

Spring! The daffodils I planted in November have sprung up – bright yellow.  Seriously super excited.  There’s just something about the warming of the weather…  (and I’m trying some new techniques)

I found a dollar
in my pocket
while
the smell of fresh
cut grass
sang music

to my ears
the painting
of the cat stalking
sunshine

sounds a harp string
somewhere just far off
“Hello Kitty
How much for a dollar?”

Every Easter, I try to reflect a little bit and write a poem.  A little over a month ago, a post on a friend’s blog got me to thinking about 2 Cor 4:17, and as Easter drew closer, it provided a certain amount of context… but really, how do you capture such an event like this one?

The eternal weight of glory
Balances on the cross
Silence envelopes time
Right before the cry
Of “It is finished!”
Rips the sky

Eternal weight of glory
Falls dangerously on the soul
Forgiveness at this cross
“For we know not what we do”
Grace on wretched man
Creation.
Fallen.
Made new.

The eternal weight of glory
Heavy as the stone
Once sealed over life
Now freed of death, of fear
Measured words at the tomb
“You. – will. – not. – find. – Him. – here.”

Eternal glory far outweighs
Present troubles, momentary
We wait for it, unseen
Sin’s weight absorbed on Messiah Christ

“I am the resurrection
And the Life”

Perhaps this is less creativity, more tirade? As Wordsworth wrote, poetry is the spontaneous overflow of feeling – so here is the overflow of feelings when I step into a bookstore. I’m still tweaking the ending though.  And my semi-sincere apologies for those who do like Nicholas Sparks.

I have a love-hate relationship with that bookstore

First
I have to watch out for the anger stewing inside me –

Of course I keep my composure
Like every good book browser
Like every cool book cover tourist
Holding their cocoa cappuccino – so cute – in their hands
Checking the time on their cell phone because there is somewhere better to be.
But where?

So yes, I am angry.
Angry at the mediocrity
Simplicity
The ease of which it was  –

For Hilary Duff to publish a novel
For Britney Spears to write her memoirs
For Jewel to show off her poetry

Sometimes I want to take Joel Osteen’s book, where the cover is his full-page smile, and I want to rip his paper-face in half –
– some kind of punishment for the fluff he is fibbing

Or sue Nicholas Sparks for his emoticon-writing,
drool that drivels and imagined as moving.

And I hate that Sophie Kinsella, John Grisham,
Nora Roberts, Mary Higgins Clark can
churn out,
spit out,
write out,
cop out
one thousand books a year.

Ah.
Exaggeration, I know.

If the “book rage” subsides, which I admit, part of it has to do with the melancholic sense (that I try to ignore) of overwhelming…

jealousy:

What new authors will there be
that have published a book before me?
Eee.

How did he think this up?
How did she put this down?

Juxtaposed with:

And so many more, many more, many more
books I want to – have to – read

Piles and pages of paper
And words and wisdom, wise-cracks and wit, woes and whims…
…that I still need to read, absorb, interpret, criticize, love, pass on
The lives I could live, become part of, hate, consider

Oh.

Yet sometimes
I can ignore all this
and pick up a book off the shelf
And I read it. And love it.
And am surprised yet not surprised.
And it is good.

When I lived in Taiwan, I used to go to this tiny park to observe and write.  Every afternoon, an elderly couple would come out and walk laps…  Following is one of the many, many poems that came out of that park.

In a world where
man is right
in all he does and says

And women
are merely spaces in their sentences

It must be strange
for that wife leading her blind husband,
and strange for him to trust his eyes and life to her.

Over the last several years of working with refugees, I’ve really tried to capture (in poetry of course) their story – especially their story in arriving in the US. I’ve tried several different poems. Here is the most recent one, which I wrote in January.   I’m not sure if I’ll be able to ever fully give this gift.

If only one word stood out
As understandable
If only I knew the switch
Turned on the light
And the knob turned down the heat.
If only I couldn’t read in the eyes of my neighbor
Hesitation, uncertainty, even fear.

If only I knew the tone you used
Was friendly
That here a handshake wasn’t rude
Or a left hand wasn’t dirty
That if a door says ‘pull’
You have to turn the handle first,
And if the light is green
That it’s okay to move.

If only the yellow paper in my hand
Could mean something
If only I could connect
The picture to the symbol.
Sometimes I’m afraid to answer the door
Or just can’t sign my name to something
though you tell me it’s okay.

If only, I didn’t stand tongue-tied
Longing to help you understand
As I used to long for:
now.
If only I could lift the weight of inability
To express my relief, my sadness
To help you understand why it’s important to remember
And why I’m afraid that I’ll forget

If only – then maybe I wouldn’t want to leave for…home?
Whatever home the camp could be to me
At least I know the rules and the life
At least there was familiarity and family
If only
here –
then I think I could try to stand to stay.

Here’s hoping the winter will soon go away.  I should be thankful though, Baltimore winters are not so bad as Calgary ones which is where I wrote this…

Biting wind
Sweeps my gaze to my feet
Shoulders hunched
I feel frightened
That I am going to turn into
A frozen wife of Lot
Covered in white
Found later in mid-stride

Around July.

If you haven’t read the book The Picture of Dorian Gray, I recommend it! Oscar Wilde probably wouldn’t approve of this poem, but I couldn’t help but see the analogy.  I believe there is truth in most forms of art –  nothing is secular.

Our horror of our own sin
Wanting it to reflect on nothing
Reputation’s purity hides
the sinister portrait of Dorian Gray
If we stab the evidence, we’ll kill ourselves
We realize our own wickedness
would become our death.
I hide in opium smoke
disguising the fact that
my dress is dingy,
Yet Christ is my portrait
Taking my soul’s sins upon Himself
quickly aging on the cross
grotesque disease upon His soul
The Father turns away in sad disgust

In wonder and fear,
The words I hear:
“It is finished”.

In sacrifice’s forgiveness, my soul reflects His.

While my desire has been to hide the evidence,
His is to rid the evidence.
Graced with final youthfulness,
In His death,
I live forever.

Just my impressions of a small city in the middle of Asia

Szechuan – Nanchong
Numbing spices permeates all flavors
Wafts out in breath
Over the bitter cold.
Down jackets, Uggs walk the streets
Hoods nodding up and down
Haggling over kumquats and Asian pears.
The Jialing River winds unobtrusively
Past buses, noodles shops, construction, mud
Bao zus, split pants, and KTV
A hot pot of country and modernity
Of patriotism and ‘leave us be out here’.