Mary

I lay in the straw, overwhelmed, afraid, peaceful.
In my arms lies the Child I have been waiting for.
The Child the entire world has been waiting for.
He could have chosen anyone.
He chose me.
Insignificant little me.
As I shift my position to get more comfy against the stone floor,
I can see a star through the window.
That is, one specific star.
There are lots of stars up there, but one shines brighter than the rest.
Like this Child, I suppose, among the prophets.
He stirs as I stir, and I wonder why He would chose to put Himself under the direction of my heart and mind.
But deep inside, I already know the answer.
I wonder if I trust myself to love Him too deeply.
Will I be brave enough to give Him up when the time comes?
I have delivered Him into this world, but He is yet to deliver me.
I have sustained Him and given Him life.
In time - when His time comes - He will do likewise for me.
Messiah.
To think I hold the Chosen One - the Saviour - in my arms!
And look at His bedroom!
I had always assumed that the birth of the Messiah would be sort of special somehow.
Glamorous.
It wasn't.
It was dirty.
It was smelly.
It was so painful.
My body aches yet from the exertion.
But when I look down at His little face - the face of my powerful awesome God -
My heart melts, and, holing Him closer, I close my eyes to sleep.

Seasons

If life were a summer of waving grass
And sunny, riverside days
We'd laugh a lot and dream a lot
Under the warming rays.

If Life were winter, long and dreary
Wet outside and cold within
We would never get the respite we get
With the coming of the spring.

But Life keeps always moving forward
From season to season, height to height.
And we move from strength to strength
In seasons of rest to those of fight.

Some seasons are long and dark and grey
Like winter's ever ending night
But spring will always come again
And there will come a tie of light.

If Life were a Summer of waving grass
And sunny riverside days,
We'd never learn to fight and pray
And through God's hope our spirits raise.

There's a time for everything under the sun
A time to laugh and a time to mourn,
A time to plant and a time to plough,
A time to die and a time to be born.
There's a time to hug and a time to withhold
A time to search and a time to cease,
A time to love, a time to hate;
A time to hold captive, a time to release.

New Poem For Review - My Poppies

So, just under an hour ago, I posted a poem (which you can read HERE, if you feel so inspired) because I didn't like it and wanted some critique for it.  Guess what??  I still don't like it, so I wrote another one that I like so much better!  If anyone can come up with a good name for it, let me know.  :)  Here it is... oh!  And thank you for being so patient with me.  :)



With the ring upon my finger
And a kiss pressed to my lips,
My Tommy went away to war
Upon those ugly ships.
He promised he’d return to me
We’d share all we possessed
And his last gift that he gave to me
Were poppies for my bedroom chest.

I keep the flowers fresh for him
He’ll me as he left
His bright eyed girl, just seventeen
His love none can bereft.
The letters come in regularly
His love for me professed
I read them o’re and o’re again
With the vase of poppies on the chest.

Then I hear nothing for a while,
And then some news arrives
That he’s been sent to Gallipoli
Where only one in two men survives.
He tells me that he loves me –
I crush the letter to my breast
Oh God! send my Tommy back to me
I see the wilting poppies on the chest.

This cursed war!  The mail is slow
I leave no newspaper unread
Until the black edged telegram comes
And tells me that my love is dead.
Tis cruel to think of my Tommy bright
Without me to be put to rest.
If only I could kiss him once
And lay some poppies on his chest.

I wander listless to the bay
My tears down my cheeks find course.
I sit and read Tommy’s words again:
His new found mates, his military horse.
And there come his words of love
Full of passion, ne’er suppressed.
I rise and scatter on the waves
The dried, dead poppies off my bedroom chest.

Help With Poem - Please!!!

Here's a poem I was intending to enter in the eisteddfod this weekend... there's one problem - I don't like it, and I don't know why!  Maybe it's the rhyme scheme, or maybe because I didn't write it from emotion (which is how I usually write).  Anyway, I would very much appreciate some constructive criticism, so please tell me the brutal truth or reassure me if it really ok.  Thanks everyone!




The stage is a bubble where things always go wrong,
But all is resolved by a speech or a song.
Time and real life are put at a stand still
As all pass into a separate world.
Where nothing foreign can penetrate until
Back to reality one finds himself hurled.

The set is a doorway to a fantasy land
Where speech is a song, and one’s wish a command.
The rocks, or the towers, whatever it be
Are the windows into that realm so distant
Though you’re so close you can hear and see
The land that’s so real and yet non-existent.

The actors are puppets that live, breathe and speak
They are shadows that carry an air of mystique.
Who are the people behind the layers of paint?
Are they anything like the figures they play?
Is he really laughing?  Is she really faint?
Or do they find sweet relief in their playact display?

The curtains are a cruel jolt back to reality.
They kill all the characters with one foul sweep of finality.
And with empty seats, empty stage, empty hall
We leave until we can do it again.
And so we return to life, quiet and small
Until we come once more to entertain.

For if the stage is a bubble with no link to real life
Why do we go through the stress and the strife
Of every show? There’s one link, you know,
That all of us stage-show people can claim:
We’re entertainers, and so for every show
People’s laughter or tears is to our gain.

Pirates, More Pirates, Camps, and Eisteddfods

I am long overdue for a general post to tell y'all about how life is going.  So here it is now.  :)

As a lot of you would have known, Mum and Dad were involved in the local production of The Pirates of Penzance this year.  It was all rather exciting, as none of us have been involved with our theatrical society since Beauty and the Beast six years ago, and Mum and Dad have never done one together.  There is a consequence that must be realized when you commit yourself to being in a musical show, and that is that - while everyone involved is a volunteer - everyone must pay by being semi-tortured with the same songs going around and around your head day and night for months on end.  Thankfully, torture is only torture if you don't enjoy, and I think that, on the whole (in our family at least) we enjoyed the show and the music so much that we are only now beginning to wish we could forget it.  For those of you who do not know the story of The Pirates of Penzance here is a synopsis from The Utah Shakespeare Festival website:

On the coast of Cornwall, a gang of pirates play and party as Frederic (a pirate apprentice) reminds the pirate king that his obligation to the gang is soon over. He was apprenticed to the pirates only until his twenty-first birthday, which is that day, and he is leaving them. Ruth (Frederic’s nursery maid when he was younger) explains that Frederic should never have been a pirate except for her mistake: She was told to apprentice Frederic to a pilot, but she misunderstood and placed him with a pirate instead.

Frederic tells the pirates that, after he leaves the gang, he intends to destroy them, not because he doesn’t love them, but because he loathes what they do. He is a slave of duty and, when no longer a pirate, it will be his duty to destroy them. The pirates understand, and also complain that they cannot seem to make money. Because Frederic is a slave-of-duty to the pirates until noon, he tells them why: Because they are all orphans, the pirates will not rob another orphan; and since all their potential victims are aware of this, they all claim to be orphans!

Because Frederic has spent his entire life with the pirates, he has never seen another woman; thus he thinks he may want to take Ruth with him as his wife. He asks Ruth if she is beautiful, and she responds that she is. Frederic, a very trusting young man, says that he believes Ruth and he will not let her age come between them.

At this point, however, Frederic hears a chorus of girls in the vicinity. He sees a group of beautiful young women, realizes he was betrayed by Ruth, and rejects her. Frederic informs the girls that he is a pirate, but not for long. He asks if any of the girls will marry him, and the youngest, Mabel, agrees.

The pirates enter the scene, and each grabs a girl. Major-General Stanley enters and identifies himself as the girls’ father, demanding to know what is taking place. When the pirates tell Major-General Stanley that they intend to marry his daughters, he objects, saying he has an aversion to having pirates for sons-in-law; the pirates respond that they are opposed to having major-generals as fathers-in-law, but that they will put aside the objection.

Knowing about the pirates’ weakness, Major-General Stanley tells them he is an orphan and, thus, disarms the pirates and takes his daughters, along with Frederic, away to his family chapel and estate. The major-general, who actually is not an orphan, soon feels guilty about the lie he told the pirates. Frederic, however, has a plan to lead a squad of zany policemen against the his old gang.

Before he can act, however, the pirate king and Ruth arrive to tell him that he is still obligated to the pirates. Because Frederic was born on February 29 of a leap year, he has served only five birthdays, not the twenty-one required by his contract. A strong sense of duty forces Frederic to relent, and, because he is a member of the pirate band again, to reveal the truth that Major-General Stanley is not an orphan. The pirate king vows that he will have revenge on the major-general.

Mabel enters and begs Frederic not to go back to the pirates, but bound by duty, he leaves. The police ready their attack on the pirates, while the pirates creep in to take revenge on the major-general.

The pirates defeat the police. However, when Ruth divulges that the pirates are really noblemen and they swear their allegiance to the queen, the tables are turned--and the police take the pirates prisoner.

However, because the pirates have never really hurt anyone, they are soon forgiven. The ex-pirates win the girls, Frederic wins Mabel, and everyone lives happily ever after.

Quite frankly, I don't get tired of it - it has become one of my favourite musicals.  In fact, I went to see it five out of the ten shows that were playing here in town!  XDD  It is a very funny show.  Below are a few videos starring Jon English and Simon Gallagher that make up my favourite sequence in the whole thing (although, now that I think about it, it probably won't make a whole lot of sense if you don't know what's going on. XD)  Oh, and as an extra note... *giggles and whispers it* ....  I think our show was better!!!  XDD  But don't tell Jon English or Simon Gallagher that!  If you want to see photos of some of the characters in our show click HERE.  A lot of of these photos seem to be of the senior patrons who support the shows each year, but you can kind of get an idea from some of the pictures.  Oh, and if you look at photo number 10, that's my dad in the foreground with the parrot on his shoulder.  (He played bass.)  =D

Other than Pirates, I have been doing a few different things.  This weekend coming, Jess and I are going to a leaders training camp in preparation for Tahlee kids camp in September.  (It's the same camp I wrote about here.)  We are really looking forward to it.  I have been hanging out for kids camp since I had to say goodbye to my six little girls last year and send them home.  

This week is also the closing date for the region writing eisteddfod that I discovered we have last year.  I only entered two sections last year, but this year I am entering all three - short story, poetry, and a letter to the editor.  I did not enter the short story category last year as fictional prose is not my strong point when it comes to writing.  However I decided to do it this year and I am happy with the results.  Oddly enough, it is the poetry that is eluding me this time.  I kind of know what I am going for, but the right words are evading me at present.  Hopefully they come before the closing date.  We shall see, we shall see!!

Guess what??!  I am (attempting) to learn the violin!  I have sort have been interested for a while, but did not really want to start right at the start with Twinkle Twinkle.  My sister Joy offered to give me a lesson, and so I agreed, provided I could start with the second song.  She agreed.  Actually I don't think she particularly agreed with me, but she decided to humour me anyway.  So now, I have struck up a race with James.  I asked him who would reach performance level of the last song in Suzuki book 1.  He - of course! - is convinced it will be him.  At the risk of sounding like a broken record, we shall see, we shall see!  XDD

Talking about music lessons, I now have three piano students and am meeting with a potential fourth this week.  (Wow!  It's all happening this week!  O.o)  I so much enjoying teaching.  My three students are all ten years old, but apparently the little girl I am meeting on Thursday is only seven and has no musical training so I will be starting from scratch, so to speak.  I am rather looking forward to it.  :)

I think that is all I have to report for now... So long, farewell!  

A Late Night Poem

It happens sometimes... just as I am going to do something - in this case sleep! - a poem hits me and I have to write it down.  :)




To my princess:

As you go about life, I hear you hum,
As you wonder, “When is my prince going to come?
All my friends and relations, my sister, my brother
Seem to have found their significant other.
Ok not all of them – that’s not quite true
But the singles around me do seem to be getting quite few.
I wonder when my turn is going to come.”
I listen as you continue to hum.

“He is coming I’m sure on a dashing white steed
That has only ever known the very best feed.
His hair will be shining, on his feet there’ll be boots,
And his robe will out-spledorize all other suits.
Then he will look right at me, and right back I’ll gaze
And all the love in the world in his eyes seem to blaze.
Them as we gallop away towards the sky, full of hue,
He leans in and whispers, ‘Oh, my darling!  How I love you!’”

Oh my child, I listen as you continue to hum,
Waiting and wondering when your prince will come.
If only you knew how I desperately long
To capture your heart with my passionate song.
True, I didn’t come here on a dashing white steed –
I was born in a manger where the animals feed.
My hair was tossed by the wind, my feet chapped and oft bare
And my simple course robe was all I had to wear.
But I looked forward and saw you, years before you were born
And my love for the world meant that my body was torn.
But if you’ll come with me to the sky golden in hue,
I’ll keep you forever.  Oh my child!  How I love you!!

Poem - Unravelling the Handmade Blanket

This is a poem that only scratches some emotions that I have dealt with over the last few months - Praise God He is always good and will never leave us completely hopeless.  Congratulations to my lovely, lovely friends who are expecting their first baby!!!  So excited for you guys!!!  xxx

Unravelling the handmade blanket

Is like watching my dreams slowly die.

The love and the hope that went into each stitch

Come undone and away they fly.

But the pattern of life is like that in the wool – 

Consistent but intricate with turns and twists

One thread on its own is not very important

But without it the pattern would cease to exist.

And so this I ponder as I continue to wind 

Up in a ball the dreams of my heart

Perhaps I will use this wool again one day

And knit it into a blanket for a brand new start.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I pulled out a ball of wool the other day

That still bears the stains of many a tear

But today instead of weeping I smile with joy

As stitch by stitch I prepare for the arrival of a baby dear.

Each row is woven in with love

And hope is sewn between the lines

Of peace and joy and happiness

That now around my heart entwines. 

Poem - We forgot to Dance: An Old Woman's Lament

I was twenty when we met

And you were three years more.

We got married among our friends

On September twenty-four.

From that point forward our motto was

To work hard and receive

The benefits that came from work – 

To endeavour and achieve. 

You worked from dawn to dusk, and I

Keeping house, of course, saw

To the balance and the checks

That come in through our door.

You were exhausted when you got home

Each night was later still

We ne’er complained but worked to earn

The cash to pay each bill.

The balance rose and o’er the years

Five babies were our joy

We welcomed our four giggling girls

And one squirming baby boy.

Soon they were of age to help around

The house and in the store.

You trained our girls to mind the books

And our son to sweep the floor.

Day in day out, we did our bit

And fell in bed at night.

There were some times you would be so tired

You would scarce take one small bite.

As the girls got older they would beg

You to take them to the dance.

We had no time for that there or at home

We forgot our own romance.

I stand here now – a woman old

It’s been thirty years since you went

And every day I come to your grave 

With my soul all in torment

What was our mistake, my darling?

What did we do wrong?  

Our children all live happy lives

And now I scarce belong.

Maybe in securing goods to

Keep them safe and sound,

We missed the things that really matter

In between the cents and pounds.

It would not have hurt to give a little 

To, in life, take a chance…

I’m off to tell the children now – 

It’s important to work hard now-

And to give it all you’ve got now – 

But don’t forget to dance.

The Little Everyday Thrills :)

Some of the little things that give me a delight thrill from day to day are:



Playing Chopin's Prelude in C minor.  The chords are chilling and in my opinion, it is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written.  I think (in my own delightful fancy!) that Chopin never sat down with the intention of writing that piece... I think he was improvising just for his own pleasure and then went back later and wrote down what he played.  :)


Receiving letters.  I don't know what it is about snail mail, but getting a letter in the post never fails to bring a smile to my face.  Maybe it's knowing the effort that person went to...


Ticket to Ride.  If you haven't played this board game, you need to.  It is so cool!  I have the European version.  I love how the train tracks wind around a vintage, Victorian style board... the strategy of it makes it different every time.


Mushrooms.  I know a lot of you will not relate here, but I love mushroom.  Especially the little marinated button mushrooms in the Chinese noodles we buy occasionally.  Yum!  ^_^


My piano students.  They are really such delightful little girls - they make me laugh and I am so proud of how they practise and learn so quickly!


Poetry.  Both in reading and in writing it, poetry gives me the words to describe a thing, an emotion, or an event that I could not otherwise describe in straight prose.  It's almost as though words elude me in they aren't in rhythm... I often go groping for a word when just talking to someone, but I'll think of the write words as soon as I'm writing a stanza of a poem... that always thrills me somewhat.  :)


The Piano Guys.  I need say no more.  When did those guys get so good???!!!  What is their secret???!!!  (And don't tell me it's practise - I already know that!  :P )


Babies.  We don't have any more babies in our house (Annie is three now!) but whenever I do get to hold one, I am amazed at how such a beautiful, full life can be held and sustained in such a tiny, fragile little body.  And to think that our God came down and dwelt in such a body!  Amazing!


Musicals.  I love them!  The Sound of Music and Singing in the Rain are my favourites... the stories and the songs are so funny and sweet.  :)


And last that I can think of right now - but far from being least! - is one of my favourite scriptures:

Behold what manner of love the Father has bestowed on us, that we should be called children of God! Therefore the world does not know us, because it did not know Him.  Beloved, now we are children of God; and it has not yet been revealed what we shall be, but we know that when He is revealed, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.  And everyone who has this hope in Him purifies himself, just as He is pure.

(1 John 3:1-3)

It's Not About Potential - Shannen's Poem

Here's to Shannen: the girl of that beautiful smile; the awkward but heart felt hugs;  the trademark floral jeans and sleeveless blouses (you're the only person I know who could actually pull that off and make it look good!); the bass and guitar; the passion to serve and minister to others; the peaceful, peace-making countenance; your hilarious (and sometimes blonde!) sense of humour; your ability to light up a whole room... Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.  (Matthew 5:8)





It’s not about potential, it’s the lives
That were touched by the one life now deprived.
It’s the mission and conviction that she brought
And the love that guided and drove her every thought.

It’s not could have been, but what is
How she was and forever more will be His:
How her every hope and passion was to see
All her friends and family live for eternity.

It’s not what she missed out on, but what she did
To ensure heaven was not missed by a single kid.
She loved them all, each and every one
And go out of her way so they could meet God’s Son.

It’s not the future that she doesn’t have that counts
It the eternal minute she’s living that amounts
To all she ever wanted – all she ever wanted
Was to give glory to God, so she lived undaunted.

Yes, she could have had more, said more, seen more,
But I think that inside, she couldn’t have been more…
What a beautiful, gentle, passionate soul

Forever more her Lord to extol.

Too Late

Just a piece of my heart that I needed to put out there...




I cry
         as my heart once again yearns to know
Why
        you were taken away so soon.

I’m lost
as I grope for the words I am looking for
Tossed
are my thoughts as I try and think.

Something
    Is haunting me as I remember your smile
Nothing
will give me rest until I say what I’ve learned.


Love is a thing that should never be wasted
Kept to oneself it is useless and vain
It ought to be showered on all who we meet with
For we just never know when we’ll meet them again.


I ought
To have told you, sweet girl, that you’re precious
I thought
 You would always be here to tell it to…

Sigh
        Why is it we say ‘I love you’ the most when saying
‘Goodbye?’

Wait!
          But you’re gone like the flower that blooms
And I’m too late…

A New Favourite Word and a New Favourite Poem

I have a new favourite word:

Tintinnabulation

Isn't that delicious?  I have been muttering it to myself as I walk around the house just to hear it again and again.  Yeah... I'm weird like that!  ^_^

I came across the word in my New Favourite Poem and it means the sound of bells.  I just love it.  :D

Anyway, you are probably curious as to what my New Favourite Poem is.

*Drum roll*

It is Edgar Allen Poe's The Bells.  If you have not read any poetry by Poe, then you are sadly missing out.  He had such a way with words, rhythm and rhyme and The Bells in particular is a work of pure brilliance.  I have posted it below, but before you read it, you have to promise not to just read it - you have to say it aloud.  The reason is that the way Poe wrote the poem is that as more and more bells are added to the description, the rhythm gets faster and more repetitive, just like the clamour of dozens of bells all ringing at the same time.   The last stanza is where I get really excited.  (Once again... I'm weird like that!  :P)

I hope you enjoy it  as much as I do.  :)

The Bells by Edgar Allen Poe

I.

   Hear the sledges with the bells--

             Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

       How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

           In the icy air of night!

       While the stars that oversprinkle

       All the heavens, seem to twinkle

           With a crystalline delight;

         Keeping time, time, time,

         In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

    From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

               Bells, bells, bells--

  From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II.

         Hear the mellow wedding bells

             Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

       Through the balmy air of night

       How they ring out their delight!

           From the molten-golden notes,

               And all in tune,

           What a liquid ditty floats

    To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

               On the moon!

         Oh, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

               How it swells!

               How it dwells

           On the Future! how it tells

           Of the rapture that impels

         To the swinging and the ringing

           Of the bells, bells, bells,

    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

               Bells, bells, bells--

  To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III.

         Hear the loud alarum bells--

                  Brazen bells!

What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!

       In the startled ear of night

       How they scream out their affright!

         Too much horrified to speak,

         They can only shriek, shriek,

                  Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,

            Leaping higher, higher, higher,

            With a desperate desire,

         And a resolute endeavor

         Now--now to sit or never,

       By the side of the pale-faced moon.

            Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

            What a tale their terror tells

                  Of Despair!

       How they clang, and clash, and roar!

       What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!

       Yet the ear, it fully knows,

            By the twanging,

            And the clanging,

         How the danger ebbs and flows ;

       Yet, the ear distinctly tells,

         In the jangling,

         And the wrangling,

       How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--

             Of the bells--

     Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

         Bells, bells, bells--

  In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!

IV.

          Hear the tolling of the bells--

               Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

       In the silence of the night,

       How we shiver with affright

  At the melancholy meaning of their tone!

         For every sound that floats

         From the rust within their throats

              Is a groan.

         And the people--ah, the people--

         They that dwell up in the steeple,

              All alone,

         And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

            In that muffled monotone,

         Feel a glory in so rolling

            On the human heart a stone--

       They are neither man nor woman--

       They are neither brute nor human--

              They are Ghouls:--

         And their king it is who tolls ;

         And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,

              Rolls

            A pæan from the bells!

         And his merry bosom swells

            With the pæan of the bells!

         And he dances, and he yells ;

       Keeping time, time, time,

       In a sort of Runic rhyme,

            To the pæan of the bells--

               Of the bells :

       Keeping time, time, time,

       In a sort of Runic rhyme,

            To the throbbing of the bells--

            Of the bells, bells, bells--

            To the sobbing of the bells ;

       Keeping time, time, time,

            As he knells, knells, knells,

       In a happy Runic rhyme,

            To the rolling of the bells--

         Of the bells, bells, bells--

            To the tolling of the bells,

      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells--

               Bells, bells, bells--

  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Little Girl - A Poem.

This poem is about a girl I know - and it is all real.  I barely made anything up for the drama of the poem.  I didn't have to: the little girl that was under bondage was set free and changed by the love and the blood of Jesus.  I know because I was there and had the privilege of helping her to pray for the first time.  I have called her Angel in the poem... please pray for her as I don't know what kind of home environment she has or if there are other Christians she can go to.


Little girl – she’s so afraid:
It’s dark and the stories she’s just heard
Are echoing and repeating
Around and around… and around…
The panic builds and the masquerade
Of the sassy girl crumbles with every word.
Her confidence flees, ever retreating
And the darkness closes in…

Little girl – she doesn’t know
What to think or do: she’s on her own.
If she could only push away
But it keeps her awake… and awake…
The pressure builds and the tears flow
If only she weren’t quite so alone
She screams from the chaos and the fray
Wrought by the darkness that closes in…

Little girl – she sobs out pain
Then answers come when she least expected.
She keeps on asking, “Why, God, why?”
He replies, “Because of sin…. Because of sin…
But I made a way so you can obtain
My righteousness. You’re my elected –
I love you, little girl, and my love is high
As the clouds. Darkness can’t close in…

Little girl – I’ve a house for you
I’ve been building for two thousand years!
Now I’m waiting for you to come
But I have a job for you… yes, just for you…
There are others that need to hear of me too
Come now, my Angel, enough of your tears
I paid for you, now you can become
Bright.  The darkness need never close in.

Little girl – the fear is gone
As for the first time she prays
And is changed as she bows her head.
It is a miracle… truly a miracle…
She smiles as she is reborn
Those around her are amazed
She quietly goes back to bed
The darkness cannot close in.

Un-named Poem

Yep: another one.  ;)  This poem was inspired by a conversation on Google plus about make up and how girls today seem to use make up to completely do themselves over - almost like a daily mini plastic surgery procedure.  As I was thinking about it, I realized that the over use of make up goes so much deeper than wanting to look nice... it comes from insecurities inside, and as I mused on this, my heart just went to the girls trapped in such a mindset.

So here's a poem about it, because that is the way I best express myself.  :)  I kinda thought it would be nice in a song, but I can't compose for the life of me, so if anyone gets some inspiration, you're welcome to it.  ;)



I stand in front of the mirror
And examine myself at length
Can they all see the guilt I read
Beneath my phony strengths?
I reach and grab my bathroom bag
That contains my mask inside
With a little work I’m finished
I can show the fake me outside

So dress me up so they don’t know
Who I really am, who I really am…
If they could see the ugliness, the plainness, the decay
I’m certain they would all turn and walk away.

I smile as I walk the street,
But it’s painted on my face
The pain inside is screaming out
From a world full of disgrace.
What if I left my mask at home?
I could try it and just see…
No I can’t – I couldn’t try
I’m afraid of the real me.

I wish I could be accepted as the person that I am
But if they saw me warts and all would they want to be my friend?
Maybe I’ve got this upside down, perhaps the step to strength
Is opening up, and letting down, and revealing them my weakness.
Just perhaps they are all like me – afraid to show the dirt
Maybe by my opening up, we could all start to heal from hurt.

Another Poem - The Vow

Here's another poem for critique... my school assignment was to write a paper on the essence of marriage.  Because I feel that I convey that kind of thing best on poetical form, I wrote a poem instead.  At first my head was all done in - I know what I believe, but getting it down on paper is so much harder.  I was able to have a chat with my lovely friend though who helped to step it out for me and gave me a couple of pointers.  Thanks so much, dear friend!  This is for you and your fiance.  :)

The Vow

It’s naught that I bring

And yet I bring everything

I am giving it all to you.

I’m so excited, but scared

I pray to God I’m prepared

For the new life we’re about to pursue.

My old life is behind me –

And though it’s the life that’s defined me –

I promise I’ll never go back.

For you will secure my ardour

And going back will be harder

The farther we go down the track.

Things won’t always be perfect

There’ll be times when we’re wrecked

And it all seems to be going awry.

I know I’ll make mistakes

But I’ll be with you in the heartbreaks

To comfort you while you cry.

We are young and new to this

What if we err or go amiss?

Fear not for example precedes us:

Christ’s love for his bride

Her sweet trust to confide -

We’ll follow wherever He leads us

What a blessed sweet vision

It makes firm my decision

To love you with whole mind and heart

I will love you forever

And forsake you never

As we say, “Until death do us part”.

Commonplace Palace

I thought I would share the other poem I entered in the writing eisteddfod.  I have already put up "Strength During Loss" which you can read here.  I was told recently by a poet that rhyming poetry is a bit of a lost art and very few people can do it (personally, I think it depends on how you have learned poetry and what you practice) but not sure what the adjudicator would be looking fr, I thought I would enter a free verse poem as well, which I don't really consider to be a poem - more like prose with funny paragraphing.  :P  Hope you like it all the same.  Thankyou to +Alice Farrelly for helping me out with my formatting, too.  :D

Commonplace Palace

Sitting, I listen to the sounds around me.
Sisters, singing and chattering happily
Oblivious as yet of life’s hardships and woes.
Bless their sweet hearts – they come over and kiss me
And off they go again!
Mozart playing through the stereo, creating a ballroom atmosphere
In this commonplace lounge,
Yet not so commonplace either…
Wherever love and laughter abound, is it so common?
No!  Kisses and hugs from one’s family
Create a fairy tale setting for a princess to live in.
For Mother and Father are the king and the queen
With one young prince and seven princesses to rule alongside.
How rich we are to live in our commonplace palace –
Laughter hangs from the ceiling and lights up the room.
Love surrounds us on all sides
Warmer than the fire in the hearth.
Homemade scarves –  birthday gifts, mainly – are more prized
Than a purple Tyrian cloak.
Patchwork quilts are hugged as stories shared
From books and from life.
Yes our commonplace palace is warmer,
Brighter,
Livelier
Than Buckingham itself
For within these walls resides our family:
Mother Father, Sisters, Brother
Altogether.

Poem for Critique

While investigating the syllabus for this year's Muswellbrook eisteddfod, I was pleasantly surprised to discover a new section - creative writing.  I hadn't planned on entering in anything this year as my piano is not up to scratch and I cannot do public talking, but although I do not consider writing to be a particularly strong point for me, I thought creative writing would be fun to try.  (If you would like to enter, the syllabus can be found at file:///C:/Users/Emily/Downloads/Syllabus%202014_1%20(1).pdf)


Anyway, the poem I have written is rather sad and probably not what one would expect from a younger writer (in my opinion, anyway) but I decided to go through with it because 1) it is a topic I feel very strongly about 2) the poem came so naturally there doesn't seem to be much sense in changing it for something that I struggled for hours to write, and 3) because I am in the open age category (being over 18 years old) I had to pull out something a little more mature (for want of a better word) to be able to compete with older more experienced writers.  I am somewhat comforted by the fact that a published poet said recently that rhythmic, rhyming poetry is a dying art and few people can master it... (that said, however, I know a number of people who write in such just a way - maybe we are all geniuses!  :P )


I haven't named my poem as yet, so when you comment (and, yes, I am imploring you to comment on this one!) please tell me honestly what you think of the poem, where I could make improvements, and what I could name it.  I will very much appreciate all suggestions and criticisms.  :)  Thankyou!

Anxious, they hover and are waiting near by

As the night is broken by a pained woman’s cry.

The husband, the mother they listen and wait.

It’s been such a long time… such a long time

Such a long time since they’d started to wait.

Then through the quiet, the still early dawn,

Comes the cry of a baby – the child is born.

The joy of a little one – they rush to her side.

She’s exhausted and weak, but beaming with pride.

“Look at him,” she whispers, a tear in her eye,

“He could only be your son… only be your son…

Only your son would have such beautiful eyes.”

They gaze at the child, so skinny, so small

And before they say more, he’s gone like a leaf in the fall.

For one joyous instant, he had been theirs:

And now all one hears are their tears and their prayers.

“God let us keep him!” they cry out aloud

But the little soul slips away… the soul slips away…

The soul slips away while they are praying aloud.

And as the little one stiffens and starts to grow cold,

They kiss him good-bye with grief none can withhold.

God grant comfort to her to had pained for so long

 And to him who for her must stay steady and strong.

And while we don’t know why these things come to pass,

We know faith is a strength… faith is a strength…

Faith is a strength which none can surpass.

Hold onto this strength and peace will overflow

With the courage to look and to hope for tomorrow.