Tuesday, August 11, 2015

famine & feast





Is it always famine or feast with you,
fickle faithful Father?
when I was flooded floundering with words
and not one to write,
only burning bitter question marks
in my mouth and mind—
that was famine time.

When I was set spinning
sent searching certainties
suddenly lost I had words then
overflowing abundant
confusion loss and fear in feast.

now again I am empty
and quiet
seen but not heard some days

a fickle child learning love

of unfathomable Father.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

the sort of quiet I'm longing for

The week before finals is appropriately titled "hell week" in the college world. With at least one major final, project, or presentation due every day this week, I'm looking forward to a quiet week at home before work starts for the summer, a room of my own and no homework to keep me up late and wake me early. I find myself just wanting to sit still and do nothing, not even read a fun book or anything, just be. I wrote this poem at the end of April, and have returned to it this week as a sort of promise of rest that I know is just around the corner, as alien as it may feel right now.



Sit still, bird-song soaked
drenched in quiet-enough
to watch shadows shift
on golden spring grass.
And be alone and no
sweet paper voice either
just you
   and no words on your tongue.


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