Studying Syllable Count

Instead of studying, my brain is writing poetry now. So, here is a quick outlet of poetic thought, straight from finals week in my brain to you.

Trees are not graceful
though some seem to think they are.
They live as old souls

creaking and groaning
and whining and moaning and
woodenly doing

whatever they like.
Trees are angry ancient men
and women who miss

the Garden just as
much as we do and yet they
will never return

to its sweet fruits or
warm sunshine on branches- an
eternity cold.

Dark

My mind is restless, wakeful at a dark and lonely hour. 

Its cars run over a track well-worn, used many times before, until it runs it raw and my thoughts bleed. 

I cannot stop the thinking, the emotions chasing after each other in my head, round and round and round. 

Breathing hard, I steady myself. I am afraid of insomnia. I always have been. When I cannot sleep, I panic. I get scared, and I cry. 

Sometimes, instead of facing this, instead of looking into the darkness, I cry out for help. The next morning, it does not pay off well. 

The bags under my eyes are full of the baggage of dreams never dreamt, and they are dark and bruised with rubbing them when I tried to make myself tired. 

Sleep is a blessing that sometimes escapes me, and I know not why. I'm thoroughly and honestly exhausted, and yet... 

Here I am, awake. No one to run to, no one to call... No one but You, Abba. 

Help me, be with me, stay with me, rock me back to sleep. Lord, my future terrifies me, the darkness terrifies me, and I am in a panic, a tiny ship on a never ending sea of consciousness. The storms of life seem conquerable in the light, but the darkness is overwhelming. 

Jesus, it always has been, if I am alone. I know I am never alone, but I also know that your presence in my mind is optional, and the choice is mine. I may kick you out, for you are a perfect gentleman and will not stay where you are unwanted. 

Sometimes though I wish you'd be louder. Your comfort is so quiet that I have to choose over and over again to hear it over the drumming of my heart and the cymbals of my thoughts. 

I am still afraid of the dark

But not when you are here. 

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray (dear abba) my soul to keep. 

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take. 

C.S. Lewis

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."


-C.S. Lewis

Insanity

Loud noises at night
induce some rather sleepy
floormates to the edge.

Humorous Villanelle

How doth one write a villanelle,
with words rich in power and might?
Be patient my dear, time will tell.

How can one write in Rivendell,
the elves always get into fights!
How doth one write a villanelle?

How should I write from a prison cell,
my mind is dark with the starkness of light!
Be patient my dear, time will tell.

How ought you to write of that dreadful smell,
what poetry form should you write?
How doth one write a villanelle?

How can I write when in love I fell
with poetry of form so tight?
Be patient my dear, time will tell.

How can I use poetry to expel
my thoughts on the moon so bright?

How doth one write a villanelle?
Be patient my dear, time will tell.

Hai-Five (or five linked haikus)

Sky is vast and whole
Steady as it moves on as
We wake or slumber

Rain cares not for us
Falls on the just and unjust
Indiscriminate torrent

Sun heeds not man's word
Wild and free, for God alone
Is he broken in

Clouds move like the sea
Looking up at them is like
Dwelling in the deep

Superb and brightly
Colored, the world above is
Not like the dirt here.

Moving on is alright,

but forgetting, my darling... that is unforgivable.

Sweetest

Summer is sweet
sugary salty swinging extremes
summertime is melancholy and cheerful lemonade

blissful caramelized days
heat dripping and melting on my skin

but it isn’t the sweetest.

Winter is sweet

frozen shards of peppermint
winter is my breath in spiced clouds
chilled gingerbread worlds
waterfalls of chocolate lazily in motion

but it isn’t the sweetest.

Spring is sweet
flavorful cream icing
spring is my heart as a lollipop
lightly sweetened tea
delicious streams of consciousness

but it isn’t the sweetest.

Fall is sweet
breezy vanilla hopes
fall is cinnamon smiles and apple daydreams
pumpkin override
leaf piles completing piquant days

but it isn’t the sweetest.


The sweetest season
savory whimsical sincerity
the season of exquisitely crafted wit
tasting love in all her honeyed glory
aromatic laughter of youth

the sweetest season
is the season of you.

Biopoem

Emily
alive nondescript smiling and true
daughter of Eve
lover of the feel of autumn between her toes, and the sound of rushing water
one who feels cautiousness followed by regret and confusion
one who fears heartbreak, loneliness and dinosaurs
who wrote a not-so-great American novel
who holds the hope of true love close and the hope of heaven closer
from tiny Waynesburg
Benco

Portions of a Heart

I am only part of a heart. 

A beginning. 

Because I know that the pieces of my heart that belong not to the Lord 

Are not really heart at all 

But stone, and twisted dark metal. 

It is rusted and hardened and chipped. 

And it does not care, because it cannot. 

It is not heart matter. 

Jesus, give me the rest of my heart 

And teach it to be as Yours. 

On Today's Nine-Hour Seminar

One
two
three
this is hard for me
four
five
six
am I still breathing
seven
eight
nine
maybe not
ten

Ten more
and I'm still here
help.

Poetry is....

Writing prompt for today:

"Poetry is..."

Poetry is being out in the woods on a perfectly delicious day. You fall off of a log, and it doesn't hurt. And you laugh.

Memoir

So, our assignment for Creative Writing this week is to write a creative non-fiction piece.

This is mine, it's a memoir.

If you read it all, props to you. It's long.

When I was a child, I didn’t think much about being beautiful. My parents always told me that I was. God told me I was lovely. I was satisfied, filled, and it showed. I excelled in numerous areas of my life, and had the opportunity to develop as a person. I began to play soccer. A decent soccer player, though not the best, I was content with my abilities, and believed that I would improve further given the proper time. I flowed into that season quite naturally, and I feel as if it marked a starting point. When I first took an interest in soccer was when I first took an interest (albeit subconsciously) in making myself into the beautiful person I wanted to be.

I had always been competent in school, but at that point I became more interested in being a learner, not simply a student of passing grades. Homeschool gave me the opportunity, to some extent, to choose what I studied. My mother helped me to decide on British and American literature studies, grammar studies, and splendid classical literature to peruse. Frequently, I absorbed the same book multiple times, allowing it to become a cherished and well-worn part of me. I took classes and wrote short stories that eventually evolved into an interest in writing a novel of my own. Without encouragement from anyone, I found a website that told me that I could write a fifty thousand word novel in thirty days. Seeing as this seemed like a reasonable goal, I set out after it. In due time, the tiny mountain goat in my heart achieved the crest of his mountain. I finished my novel in the thirty days of November. The advice given by the program was, I’m sure, highly reliable.  They recommended that one wait for a few months, and afterwards submit his or her writing to their staunch inner editor for processing. I had no such patience. I edited my work, indeed, but only for grammar and punctuation mistakes. When I had finished, I sent the final product to an online publisher and received in return a physical copy of my book. I remember holding it, almost dizzy with success, and looking at the fragile paper cover, and wondering what my next novel would look like.

During the same period of time, my ever-expanding mind demanded that I become a crafter, as adamantly as the mind of a dog desires to chase cars or his own tail. Not only did I learn to crochet, but I also became violently interested in the art of yarn. I attempted to knit, and tried rather hard to embroider, but they only served to draw me back into my first love, crochet. Countless trinkets and bits of fabric littered my room, colorful yarn made a plush and many-textured bed in every corner. Walking through certain areas became difficult, as one could hardly avoid dramatically impaling his or her feet on a needle of the sewing, crochet, knitting or plastic kind. There remain, in a box under my bed, several dozen crochet stuffed dogs, a few odd granny squares, a misshapen hat or two, and a couple pouches or purses that are nearly unrecognizable- my early attempts. My later pieces are easier to understand, consisting of blankets and wearable pieces of clothing, such as a striped sweater and the hat that I wore yesterday.

As a child, I lived well. Adding to the talents mentioned above, I began to play piano. Despite some struggle with a lack of interest, I became accustomed to playing, and I grew to deeply enjoy the experience. My afternoon schedule varied, but I do remember that a large part of that midday time was often spent in the woods surrounding my house, doing something that I now like to call ‘pretending’. I say that it was pretending because that is what it was, and yet it seemed to be much more. My siblings and I built cities, complete with museums of animal bones, fortresses of brick and straw, and swings of vine with holes dug underneath as we grew taller, so that our feet wouldn’t hit the ground quite so hard. Those days are tinted hazel in my memory, and they have a smell of warm sunshine on dried leaves, that fills my heart as I remember them.

All good things must come to an end, and the end of my creative struggle did come. At some point, somehow, I became aware that there was a world outside my little glass sphere. There was a world that did not consist of admiring friends and parents. This unforgiving world did not believe that crocheting, playing the piano, ‘pretending’, and being interested in the finer points of English grammar were skills to be thought well of. In fact, these were things to be mocked. Never did I stop being interested in those things. However, I think I tried to be. I became discontent, and stopped viewing myself as beautiful or accomplished. On occasion I believed I wasn’t worth much at all. It didn’t happen all at once. It was like sitting in a room, busily occupied, around late afternoon into evening time, and with no artificial lights. The darkness comes on you so carefully and then all at once, and you wonder how long it has been there. My identity was like the light, and it slowly fell from me. I suddenly wondered who I was, and why I was important. Sometimes I think that maybe it was my sense of accomplishment that made me feel like I was someone beautiful. Perhaps I needed it to slip away to discover how truly beautiful I was. To discover how truly beautiful I am, for I still inhabit that wandering soul. I am beautiful, and yet everyday I am told in a different way that I am not, because there is someone else more so. I have talents, and yet I am told everyday that I have them not, because someone else is better more so. The world that lies outside my doorstep would steal my beauty, and see it fade unused. I desire to unleash it. I only want to know how. 

Blind

I have never seen the thing they call "yellow"

but I have felt it in the warmth from the sun.

I have never seen the majesty of a wooded hillside

but I have felt the scratches of thorns on my skin

I have never and will never see the wind

as it dances across plains and mountains alike. 

But I know its feel better than anyone

for its chill echoes the cry of my heart. 

This comes from me wondering in Pentateuch what it would be like to be blind.

Happy Awkward Existentialism Day!

Pentateuch

These are my notes from the last two Pentateuch classes.

Don't worry, these didn't take alllll the class time.

Isn't it odd- imagination? 

We have the power to see things that never existed and never will exist and share them with others. 

Things that could never happen in the laws of nature exist inside our heads. 

If humans are only natural beings, made from soup and stones and chimps, where did we get imagination? 

How can our minds feel things that aren't there to be felt, or see things that aren't there to be seen? 

Superpowers and perfect relationships- where did these originate?

In this, God is almost a simple answer. 

He makes perfect sense- or rather, He is perfect sense.


Every word you've ever read

every beautiful sentence of song that brings you to tears

every "I love you" 

or "I care" 

every "I hate you" 

or "go away" 

they are all just combinations of

26 different letters

given meaning by

your wayward heart

and soul

B L U E

How did four letters come to represent the grandeur of the sky, to encompass the chill of the ocean and the feeling of deepest depression?

G R E E N

A small word to fill the void left by the thought of grassy acres and vast forests.

R E D

Anger told in the simplest way, communism, hatred, and sunset covered in a triplet format.

E M I L Y 

A being of depth yet unmeasured, a soul. 

How do you describe a soul? 

Five simple letters, and a soul is constrained. 

Life is wondrous. 

Well, I guess those weren't really Pentateuch notes, but rather existentialism. 

Happy Awkward Existentialism Day, friend. 

Moonwalk

Sometimes I wish I could walk indefinitely toward the moon. 

I would walk on and on

Never stopping until 

I found the moon's home on earth or

I fell off the edge of nowhere 

Hope is the Thing With Feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

-Emily Dickinson

Psalm 34

I will extol the Lord at all times (even six AM); his praise will always be on my lips (even when I'm hurting). I will glory in the Lord; let the afflicted hear and rejoice. Glorify the Lord with me; let us exalt his name together. I sought the Lord, and he answered me (even when I did not hear); he delivered me from all my fears (making me stronger in the process). Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame (but you have to keep looking). This poor man called, and the Lord heard him; he saved him out of all his troubles. The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them (always in His timing). Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him. Fear the Lord, you his holy people, for those who fear him lack nothing (that they need). The lions may grow weak and hungry, but those who seek the Lord lack no good thing. Come, my children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of the Lord. Whoever of you loves life and desires to see many good days, keep your tongue from evil and your lips from telling lies. Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it (pursuing is a constant, minute-to-minute lifestyle). The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and his ears are attentive to their cry; but the face of the Lord is against those who do evil, to blot out their name from the earth. The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles. The Lord is close (so close) to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (because of His great love for them). The righteous person may have many troubles, but the Lord delivers him from them all; he protects all his bones, not one of them will be broken. Evil will slay the wicked (their own lifelong friend turned against them); the foes of the righteous will be condemned. The Lord will rescue his servants; no one who takes refuge in him will be condemned. (Amen) (Psalm 34:1-22 NIV)

(Italics are mine) 

The sky

The sky is still blue, dear. 

The sky is still blue. 

God is still good. 

You will still smile.

The ocean is still full. 

Whatever happens 

You will still be okay. 

God will still keep you. 

Relax. 

Earth

This place, this earth... It is growing old and tired. Weighed down with thousands of years of sin, death, destruction, and madness. 

It is sad. The earth is a sad place. 

But.... 

When glimpses of heaven show through, it has bursts of unexpected joy. Sunrises, sunsets, birth, weddings, animals playing, God's people singing... 

But if we fall quiet, the sadness pervades. And it is growing. 

God, come for us soon. 

Rest in Peace

"What is that word? It's so big and complicated, yet so sad. What is it?- oh yes! Alive."

"That word isn't sad..."

"It is when it's over."

In memoriam. 

My grandmother passed away last night. 

Discontent

I was watching a jumping spider.

He was jumping.

If I could jump that high, I would be a superhero.

Then I thought to myself,

"But I bet he wishes he could fly..."

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.

Sometimes there are things I want to say

that honestly just shouldn't be said.

And I know that.

But they sit on my heart and look out the window...

And it rains.

No

it pours.

Portrait of....

Deceitful, he's an evil little machine.

Pure darkness resides within, black is the color of the output.

A liquid, dark as night and darker still pours from his center.

His thoughts are of murder, of slain thousands, his thoughts are gruesome.

He thinks of others like himself, with bites taken from them, bites in the shape of his own mouth.

He imagines eating others alive, hurting them as they hurt him.

He is disgusting, filled with sickness and death.

He was born this way, and so were all others like him.

He is my heart, and he is desperately wicked.

But

A drop of clear liquid falls into his input valve

and turns

a small part of him

to gold.

There is hope for my evil heart.

There is always hope.

Sky

This is
          The kind of
   Sky

         That I want
To take hold of
                With both hands
                                                      And

    Shove in
                            My pockets
To save

                       Forever

A compliment.....

Someone told me today, that when they look at me, they see


"A well-mannered and sweet girl with her feet on the ground and her head in the clouds. And it's awesome."

^.^