Poetry

For me, poetry is a way to express the millions of ideas and emotions that swirl around in my heart and mind. An avenue to portray perhaps a new perspective on life in a way that will serve to capture the soul, spin it on its heels, and illuminate the truth and beauty of this life. Please enjoy:


Broken Box, Opened Gift:

she handled it ever so carefully, the fragile box clutched tightly in her arms. Carrying this tiny handmade box with her everywhere, made long ago, she treasured the box more so than it's contents.  Curious onlookers, friends, even family often inquired about the contents of this seemingly valuable package. For the package was handcrafted with quite elaborate stitching, glittering thread woven intricately through and through, the corners of the box precisley measured and every side equal in length to one another. beneath the stitching, sparkling glass enveloped the contents. It was perfect. 

such a delicately crafted package, kept safe in the arms of its maker.  This young lady i approached, to learn of her creation that she carried everywhere with her, for curiousity had overtaken me as well.  But disappointment flooded my heart upon hearing her answer.  "I'm not really familiar with the inside, but i know it is said to hold such treasures of: comfort, a beautiful and just love, something about grace and freedom?" Those sound like lovely things, I replied, but left wondering why she was so devoted to a box in which these miracles she knew nothing of. Oh, she wasn't the only one who held so tighly to one of these handmade intricacies. left and right, I passed others with very similar looking boxes, every one of them decorated with such perfection, and every owner offered the same confusion about the value of such a creation.  I was getting the idea that it was more of a burden to carry such a box around, and worry so much of keeping it intact.  Losing my intrigue of this mystery, i turned away to walk home, trying to shrug off the sense of hopelessness threatening to overtake me.

Just as I was beginning my walk home, I heard a loud crash coupling with a pain-stricken cry.  I looked to see one of the glass-made boxes...completely shattered on the ground, its owner hovering over it in tears of panic. I watched as the scene evolved right before my eyes.  With a crowd of onlookers now circling around her, a silent horror filling the audience, a miracle! (one of which you who will read this most likely will not be able to believe).  As she carefully started picking up the broken pieces of glass, she began to see the pieces as they were meant to be seen. Each piece, a different yet complimenting fit to the other, radiantly exposing the meaning and purpose for the contents held ever so rigidly within her box. And for the first time---ever---this girl knew Comfort. She experienced Love. And Freedom was staring her in the face. She leaped for joy, encouraging the crowd to break their own boxes!! 

For what was truly inside, was never meant to be boxed!! It was never made to be safely tucked away. Never meant to be hidden by the beautiful yet constricting cage of its outside box.  So how did it come to be so neatly packaged away like this? In this girl's case, it was a family tradition to pass down to each new generation. But upon the breaking of this box, an opened gift emerged. One that will change the generations to follow. One that is called, I Am. Do you know him?? Have you met him?? If you have yet to truly know him, consider breaking your box.

The Cost of Love:

they say she's different, and her soul is too damaged to be worth trying to salvage...just leave this one in God's hands, throw up a prayer here or there but stay on the sidelines. because it would be messy, a job that'd take up way too much of your free time. no empathy displayed, she goes about her own way throwin round blows and settling scores, on her own, everything discovered, everything done.  then she glances in your direction and your stares meet.  but you can't get a good read because life is hidden behind those eyes. her life tells a story of broken lullabies. she never cries. never laughs. you wonder if she would feel at all if she were to die right in front of you. truth is, she wouldn't. she is dead already. robotic gestures at a life lived in daily existence. the price of survival. you search her expressionless face for a faint heartbeat, to no avail. leaving her stare, you rewind time to walk inside her memories. and as the daily atrocities soak up your own confidence of hope, you suddenly realize what it took for her to cope. jumpstarting your heart back into existence, you see the price you'll have to pay to give her life of her own.  and as you pull your beating heart from your own body and place it tenderly within hers, her eyes finally wake to find the first felt ransom of love. a soul worth dying for. a love worth living for.

Her Secret:

She's a terrible liar, you can tell she has a secret by the size of her grin.  Trying to grasp her treasure, trying to understand, he follows her every footstep, trying to map the way to the answers.  He follows as she hurries and makes her way to start her day, barely keeping up, he almost crashes into her as she halts her steps abruptly.  Pausing the rush of life she makes it a point to say good morning to a passerby.  and as she waves good day her smile emerges as the rays of the sunrise start to spread over the brilliant display of colors.  He catches a glimpse of her stare as she captures a snapshot of the rare scenery, her inquisitive awe matches his as he studies her every move, wondering what it is that may cause this kind of joy.  He becomes confused at the normalcy of the details embedding her day.  She doesn't do anything different than any other, her secret does not lie with what she does, her secret evades him as he tilts his head questioningly, peering for the answers, desperate to find the difference.  He continues his search, frustration marking his footsteps as he traces her movements. 

He records when she pauses her own steps to crunch the leaves beneath her feet, when she goes backwards to let someone know she sees them, when she takes a deep breath then keeps breathing, life in and life out. He remains puzzled as he calculates the efficiency of her route, what all she gets accomplished, the productivity on the paper.  It doesn't add up, the numbers don't even come out on top. What can she be grinning about...what is the secret behind this smile?  As he follows her home, his entire theories crumble to nothing as he watches her make her way through a maze of dirty needles, thugs laying claim to the corners and bars lining the venue.  What is this life that she could smile finding her way to a home such as this? He scowls to himself. And As if he had said it out loud, as if she had heard his confusion, she stopped under the light of the street lamp. And as he shook his head in contempt frustration, he turned to leave and out of the corner of his eye, it happened. He caught the answer that he was so earnestly searching for. For she was not alone, and under the illumination of the street lamp, it was made clear.  She had no fear because her hand was tightly held securely in the hand of another.  And with this revelation came a whole new search for the existence of this companion, an eloquent protector that illuminated her day with the beauty amidst the pain.  And he continues his search as he continues to learn, and he surprises himself as he breaks out in his own grin, unable to be contained.  He dances in the rain, and he is no longer alone.

A World of Her Own:

As though having just painted the picture herself, she steps into a world all her own.  She glances back to make sure the door shuts tightly behind her as she transcends space, a secret place where normal is erased. Hope embraced, her tiny footsteps march proudly forward as if she found something worth knowing. Eyes glowing, and face lit with the brightest smile, she spots what she was looking for, hidden amidst vile waters and mud piles.  The most jagged rock one could imagine finding, her excitement bursts out into a run as she scoops up her treasure and holds it closely to hear heart.  Grip tender, for fear that it may break apart, she continues on her treasure hunt for prizes unclaimed.  Spirit, untamed, and still propelling her forward in a skip and a dance, here and there, she twirls in her joyous trance. As she spins round and round effortlessly, she lifts her head to catch a songwriting bird perched in his tree of dark red.   she directs her pupil in a symphony of sonnets, as she lifts her wand, arms thrashing to and fro, her eyes close shut to a beat of which, expels all despair. A breath of fresh air as you, the reader, find yourself fixated in your stare. Listening to the peace that flows with such an innocent release, of confidence of self. Not even attuned to who surrounds her, to potential listening ears, her world keeps out all and any fears. Fears, in which, the normal world holds with bars from floor to ceiling.  Halting your believing, in a living worth continued breathing...living alive...not just a another day to survive. She dances through her world in a dreamlike state. While others stand on the sidelines shaking their fists and caged in their boxes, irate. They have already conceded to their deemed label, and in step they will continue their days from behind bars. Allowing the pain. Covering the scars. A script of mediocrity encrypted on their memory. And the days float by, seeing oceans and landscapes but not feeling the waves crash around their feet. heart depleted. dreams defeated. They give up, turn over and wake themselves up. Stand up and move forward but not another moment of breath will compare to that dream. And every time, the eyes are closed to the same scene...the feeling of being alive, the feeling of breathing free.

The Gift:

Skipping mightily along, blond curls bouncing in unison, she finds a place to pause

and as she plops down upon the generous shade of a bench

she smooths her polka dotted skirt out and her feet dangle without cause

Begruntled, her shaded company is that of an old man, and his eyes find her,

looking inquisitively up at his shadows

he returns the look and replies in a frown at his unannounced visitor

"What is it that causes such darkness to invade your soul?",  The girl asks with ease,

and as he slowly inhales then breathes...he lets her in our his world of lost gifts,

one year took this gift and another gave but it was just a tease, and the rest of the years were void of life indefinitely. For I lost something that was inevitably everything.

And as she sits, legs still dangling, her eyes peer in to the pain behind his words.

He depicts time after time where brightness was shattered, and bruises and scars that left him bitter and edges tattered. And she doesn’t shift her gaze off of his tear-filled eyes, even when he blinks and one tear falls from it’s cage of broken lullabies. And he goes on to tell of dreams that never came to pass, of love that he let in and then without warning, crumbled, like broken glass.

The little girl’s feet stop swinging and she sits fervently still as he tells of his grandchildren that live too far away and the flowers that he tried to grow but died all in the same day. Story after story this man lets out, not even minding that his audience was but one, a little girl with a polka dotted dress. And hurt after hurt he pours his heart out in his distress, and all the while she doesn't say one word but her attention is fixed on each heartfelt submission and year after year of broken dreams and visions.

And after all his pain is told, after he is through with each story, he leaps up to stand as if to leave in a hurry. But she interjects a plea to wait, her heart racing in excitement as she remembers her gift. "I have something I wish you to have, something you lost and everything that you need."  He stops to look at her with eyes doubting her genuine heart because all his was left to do was bleed. But she proceeds to pull from her pocket, a gesture of kindness held within the tiniest locket.  It holds a picture inside the brass-filled lines and the old man runs his weary fingers over the couple held tightly within, as he asks the girl, "why?", and with what value this was to him. She smiles as she replies, simply, that it is her hope. Her hope that her real parents will come back for her, and that she could go back and sleep in her own bed, and have her world put back together, again.

And as her words sink in, the old man clutches the locket tightly within his palm, reveling in the still small voice of hope that begged for him, in the girl that was still standing in front of him. Innocence that should have been lost but is kept sound, by anger and bitterness it was not bound. And as he walked away from that day and went through the remainder of his years, he kept that locket close, and smiled through the tears. Because he did receive a gift that day, a gift that you cannot buy, he received love stemmed from a hope that refused to die.

Beautiful Pain:

Lillies, smiles, and nods, but pull back the mask to reveal different memories with deafening sobs, corroding a soul dying young. walking the streets with robotic movement, feeling dead, trying to feel her heartbeat, but there's no heartbeat at all.  nothing about that is strange, though, for on the day she was born, she had one foot in life and the other in the grave. it was paved out, destiny in route, and she went through life fighting every beat of that note. And within the fight she gained eyes. eyes to see that she wasn't fighting alone, and her destiny was one of hope given free. And eventually, she let the blades drop to the ground, and with the sound of victory--the enemies--they drowned and set her free to grab on to the hand that let it all be. and with every inch, she fought looking back, as this newly paved road is unknown yet intact. and sometimes it feels so strange to be free, and the fear of the safety brings the bars back completely. yet she grabs his hand tighter and pushes through, and she finds what's always been, what he's always wanted to be found, that of Love. Its harder than you think to accept the gift you've always dreampt of, yet the Fighter fights on and breaks her soul open; and in the place of wounds he places his gift, his beauty within the broken. taking her hand in his he stretches them over her heart, and the beat that pounds so steadily breathes life for a new start. and the wounds turn to scars, and yet the scars tell of beauty, a beauty that reveals the Giver of Life, a beauty found, when dark was turned to light...when she entered the fight that he already fought. For the glory of the Author of this beautiful love story.