5.26.2009

a thought.

i think i would like to be an eccentric poet when i grow up
only understood by three others
my husband one of them
if this were so, i wouldn't mind that all the rest stared at me
and said
what a queer one she is

5.23.2009

Hannah has found a deep dissatisfaction with the comfortable and the known.

Is it naive?
Is it merely restlessness?
Is it rebellion against everything familiar?
Is it part of a search for something deeper, something stronger?

5.19.2009

avalanche

crushed under a thousand rocks
ice and snow and mud and the dead and dying
bones broken and splintered
can this framework be repaired?

bandages and salves
weeks and months and a psychiatrist too
bruises and disfigurement
linger
on

looking up at a wall of destruction
a cacophony of debris raining down
what is there to feel
except despair?

5.13.2009

"I feel like a pancake,"

said the girl with the yellow Taylor shirt sitting in the Union, alone among 39 people.

She had been cracked open, sifted, stirred, beaten, poured out. And after it all she lay in a frying pan, sizzling with anxiety, flattened by cares, prepared for consumption.

5.08.2009

Metamorphosis in May

Cast down by the wiles of some capricious goddess
He lay just beyond the glass. I could not touch him.
Only watch as he struggled
writhing
spindly appendages stretching for the windowsill.

Even when he could reach it, his levers were inadequate
Just allowing the other legs to have a go.
The ball's in your court now.

A sparrow played behind him.
A young thing, I imagined
flitting.
I focused again on him in front of me, whose name will be so common next month
Whose movements now seemed so lethargic
rhythmic.

I looked away for several minutes
And when I returned he had grown even slower.
His limbs now moved in apathy, forgetting all desperation.
I urged his efforts on
But the glass deleted my efforts of hope.

A minute later you had died
You had stopped
You had ceased
to strive
to live
to be.

I walked outside
to make you right
But I had failed
and so had you.

5.07.2009

slow.w..w...w....w.....w......w.......w........w.........w..........w

characteristics of a good weekend...

...climbing a quilted rock...

...trampolining...

...riding an Amish buggy through farmland...

...hearing three-year-old Wilma speak only German to her Amish mother...

...making bunny rabbits and wicked old ladies out of harmless clouds...

...petting three dogs, two miniature horses, and an attack kitty...

...driving to Ohio and back in a living room full of your best friends...

5.01.2009

Jesus with Mud On

I asked God a year and a half ago to teach me to depend on him, and I've found out he's not through. In Ireland I learned what it is like to not depend on people, and this past week I learned what it is like to not depend on things.

Before Social Justice Week even began, I lost my wallet. I found myself without money, without an abundance of food or sleep, without dry clothes, and stressed.

But I also found something outside myself. I found Jesus. He was worshiping in a cold morning rain after a bad night's lack of sleep, he was slogging through a muddy field to clean up after others. He was Danielle, he was Shane, he was Stephen, he was Jessie. He was Jesus with mud on.