Category Archives: Poetry

Only

I do not ask for tearless nights

Only the hope of the glimmer of dawn;

I do not plead for cloudless ways

Only a light as the way winds on;

I do not hunger for the glory of fame

Only a shoulder when the day is long;

I do not cry for the fervor of thousands

Only one love beating true and strong.

Only a light, a shade, a song

Only a shoulder when the day is long.

Live

Tonight, as I walked under the starlit sky, praying and thinking, I had one of those moments that rarely come these days. One of those moments where you feel like you are holding one of the most tremendous gifts in your hand, and all the joy and inspiration of the ages and the Bible and all the good poetry you ever read comes welling up in you and all you want to do is hold that gift and breathe over it and use it.

Live. Just live.

Reach

Could I but reach the pain–

Could I but touch the spot–

Could I but speak the aching word–

Could I but see through a clear glass, smudgeless of stain curling over the edges of reality, that burns the senses into dumbness, numbness, darkness and bleeds its bitterness into the currents of humanity—

Then, oh God, I would.

(It’s been a long day. I feel like I’ve seen a little bit of everything– innocence, laughter, pain, fear, kindness laced with subterfuge, depression, sincerity, deception, honesty. Hence the poem. From teaching 2 and 4 year-olds in the morning, to attending a college class at noon, translating for a sticky, depressing case at the station, and debating the principles of Christianity with a lawyer from another belief system, I guess I can see why I am little bit discouraged. I also don’t know if that last sentence is grammatically correct or not. Blame my PR teacher for making me doubt.)

Books on my Kindle

I love it when other people give me book recommendations. Perhaps love is too mild a word, but I don’t know what other word to use. Kindle is great, but one of the problems with it is that often I get a book that looks like a good one, only to disgustedly toss it aside (or in reality delete it) because of the content. So, I am always grateful for any recommendations of Kindle books.

Here is a list of some of the books that are on my Kindle. I hesitate to recommend anything because what may be good reading material for me may not reach other people’s standards, but I still love browsing through other people’s bookshelves, so I guess in a way this lets you browse my bookshelves. This is also in no way an exhaustive list of the books on my Kindle since right now I have about 270 books altogether. Below I have included a few of them with links to the Amazon page and a short description. Enjoy!

Daddy Long Legs by Jean Webster. The story of an orphan girl who is sent to college and writes letters to her mysterious benefactor, known to her as Daddy Long Legs.

Saving my Assassin Virginia Prodan. The story of a Christian in the Soviet Union.

The Gospel Comes with a House Key Rosaria Butterfield. Interesting insights on hospitality from a former atheist.

The Circle Maker Mark Batterson. A book on prayer.

Flame and Shadow by Sara Teasdale. Poetry.

The Case is Closed by Patricia Wentworth. A mystery case by one of my favorite authors.

The War that Saved my Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley. Young adult story of a girl during World War 2.

Swift Water by Emilie Loring. An old-fashioned romance.

Mere Christianity C.S Lewis. Everybody should already know C.S Lewis.

Intended for Evil by Les Sillars. A story of a Christian’s survival during the Khmer Rouge.

The Places in Between Rory Stewart. A book I had for one of my lit classes at school about a man walking across Afghanistan.

Sold by Patricia McCormick. A powerfully written story of a Nepali girl trafficked in India. Another book I had for a class focusing on social issues.

The Insanity of God by Nik Ripken. The story of a missionary couple in one of the most dangerous countries in the world.

Emma by Jane Austen. Badly done, Emma. Badly done.

My People, the Amish by Joe Keim. Intriguing story of a boy from a conservative Amish setting.

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. The oddly moving story of a poverty-stricken family living in an old castle.

Human Trafficking Around the World: Hidden in Plain Sight by Stephanie Hepburn and Rita Simon. The title basically says it all.

A Tangled Web by L.M Montgomery. One of Montgomery’s lesser known books.

The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy. Is he in heaven, is he in hell, that elusive Scarlet Pimpernel?

Spark John J Ratey, MD. A book I had for my health class.

The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom. Most of us are familiar with this one. Do you know its free on Kindle?

The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson. One of my favorite poems.

When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi. The musings of a doctor facing death.

Beginnings: How We Experience the New Birth by Stephen Smallman. Exploring the new birth.

Love at the Speed of Email by Lisa McKay. Dating done via email. Different. Interesting.

Oh and some of these, I can lend out to others. Let me know if you want to borrow one for free!

We Wear the Mask (a parody)

Paul Lawrence Dunbar wrote a poem called “We Wear the Mask” long before Covid restrictions forced us to wear masks. Here is a parody on his poem. Here is a link to the original.

We wear the mask we so despise,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human health;

But in secret strip with mastered stealth

Only when they watch, we wear the mask.

****************************************

Why should the world be over-wise,

That it itches so as we smother sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

       We wear the mask.

*************************************

We smile, but show only squinty eyes

We talk in tones of garbled cries

We sing, but how our glasses steam

How hot our face; how long the dream—

But let the world think otherwise,

       We wear the mask!

*photo credit: Pixabay

The Stuff of Dreams

Maps are the stuff of dreams-

The remains of journeys past

The visions of journeys to come;

Whispering of woodfire smoke in early morning mist,

Of roosters crowing in crisp mountain air,

Of smiles flashing in dark faces.

They speak of vistas that lie beyond, beyond

Of mountains where unknown fires burn,

And roads that run like veins in twisted valleys.

Maps, they are the stuff of dreams.

Tiny

The grasshoppers have come now

Gold, green, brown and bronze they fleck the barn walls

Every evening as I wash down.

Tonight, a grasshopper perches precariously beside the drain

One little nudge and he would be gone,

Washed away in a torrent of water.

 

This is my favorite part

When the cows have gone

And I wield the hose in vengeance

Scourging the dirt from the walls and concrete floors;

Giving way to some kind of rage that has built up from regulations

And uncertainties and helplessness at the way

Turmoil sweeps around me and I am tossed

From one phone call to the next,

Email after email,

Document after document.

 

The rush of water sweeps the dirt to the drain,

This is my kingdom.

This is my victory.

 

The grasshopper sits by the drain.

Only a nudge and—

I move the hose away.

 

I too am a grasshopper.

Shorn

When waves of wheat lap in the deepening glory of harvest,

I wonder if the fields that gather their ripening wheat in their embrace

Fear the coming shearing when the whisper of heavy heads

Becomes lost in the roar of teeth tearing kernels from each stalk.

 

Do these fields fear the nakedness, lying shorn under the sickle moon

Robbed of their glory, the loss of their fruit, their fruit

Or do they release with quiet hands the life they nurtured and bore

Rejoicing with the reapers come to bring home their own?

June 2020

Souvenirs

Do not tell me, please,

That I have memories left to be my souvenirs

These are not souvenirs.

Souvenirs you put in a box on the top shelf of the closet behind the winter blankets

Where ten years later you pull them out and dust them off

To laugh over and touch and remember

And perhaps

Shed a tear or two.

 

Do not tell me, please,

To be glad for the memories.

Memories are good, but these, these!

These are not just leftover scraps of life,

But pulsing, moving, breathing

Faces and names and lives and places

Woven into the fabric of my being.

No, they cannot be boxed up

Or fitted into photos,

Slotted into albums,

And then stored away and lost

Like the postcards in the greeting card boxes

Buried behind the 4th grade A Beka math book.

 

Do not tell me, please,

To forget the past

And simply move on.

Five and a one-half years of life

Lived unstopped and unfettered

Are not just old scribbled journals

Or letters from some forgotten lover

To be conveniently shelved in the attics of memory,

Put out of harm’s way and where they can do no harm

Not even for only 5 months on this side of the Pacific.

 

No, that would be shelving me

And I am not a souvenir

Child Bride

I asked her if she loved him. She said yes,

Her nut-brown hands clasped in her lap

Hands that instead of scratching sums and wiping

Chalkboards of the second-grade classroom

Would soon be cradling sons and daughters and

Threading flowers to sell at the intersection

On smoggy March days

 

She asked me if I had someone. I said no,

But I didn’t tell her of the cloud of pain that

Hovered over me or the knife that still pricked my heart

She wouldn’t understand why anyone would put

A knife into their own heart

 

I wondered if she knew what love was. But I didn’t ask,

She felt sorry for me that at 29, more than twice as old as her

I did not yet know love as she did

(What she did not know was that I knew love,

But only the kind you let go

Even if it meant turning the point of the knife)

 

We wondered what the other was thinking. But we didn’t ask,

The table and a world between us,

The dirt floor swept clean

Open windows, a motorbike droning somewhere,

Smoke from a fire wafting through the room

Time frozen

Only a smudge caught in the air

 

January 28, 2020