Aged Six Years (pt. 3)

I’ll put these old poems to rest for a bit after this one. This one is kind of a downer, but I like the rhythm in it . There’s kind of a systematic break and halt to it, and the lines are short, with singular thoughts in each stanza. So, I hope, you kind of get the picture and empathize, construct the whole idea around the emotion and scene. P.S. WordPress is not friendly to line breaks and text formatting. P.P.S. go to Rodor’s blog and tell her what you think love is: rodors.wordpress.com

Copyright 2003, All rights reserved.

A Man Sits Quietly

A man sits quietly in the garden,
Tries desperately to sit with grace,
His hands clasped, his heart broken

His brow is naked in the sun
He makes no effort to quell the rays,
A man sitting quietly in the garden

With every moment his eyes darken
His lips quiver in pitiful ways
His hands clasped, his heart broken

Here and there tears freely run
Down his sun-hardened face,
A man sitting quietly in the garden

He’s locked in a nightmare, He can’t awaken
Eyes pressed shut, he prays
His hands clasped, his heart broken

His love, she is gone, distant and fallen
He mourns lowly now in this place,
A man sitting quietly in a garden
His hands clasped, his heart broken

Aged Six Years (pt. 2)

Let’s go with something different this time… Copyright 2003, all rights reserved.

Limericks

Unable to miss the huge puddle
He sat in the water befuddled
Bewildered and drenched
Eyes shut and fists clenched
Embarrassed and wet and muddled

One evening while crossing the road
I was hindered mid-stride by a toad
“Please stop, oh my gosh!
My face you will squash!”
I ignored him and he did explode

Is a parrot really a bird?
So talented in quoting word
Useless for frying
Too caged up for flying
Its nature is hopelessly blurred

Aged Six Years (pt. 1)

I recently found some poetry that I wrote about six years ago, some of which are probably the best I have written – though hopefully not the best that may come. Here is one of my favorites out of all the poems I have written. Assuredly, I have works with better wording, better meter or structure, but this one I feel does a very good job of completing a climatic thought within the poem. At least I hope it does for you too… Copyright 2003, all rights reserved.

Naiad in Moonlight

Her hair drips sapphire raindrops
Into the pool of the brook beneath her
She gazes calmly at her reflection
Though it is hazy and fraught with ripples

She brushes the soaking strands
Of flaxen hair from her face
It sparkles with the moonlight
White and gilded

Softly she slides her fingers
Through the rolling water
With her head gently resting
On a moss laden stone

Her hand cupped,
She lifts high the water
Letting it crash back down
Slowly from her palm

With a quiet laugh
Her delight is fulfilled and
She stands with streams cascading
Down her body onto the ground

She lowers herself into the water
First the pale, pure feet
And she sinks into the current
Until it wraps around her waist

Her body glistens and grows faint
Like a mist into the water
And her spirit is carried
Down the river vein

Pens

I really enjoy a good pen. And I can be particularly picky about what a good pen is. I absolutely cannot stand pencils (although the mechanical type are not nearly as detestable as the (in)famous No. 2). Ball point pens are outright crimes against papermarking. Paper has a texture and groove that begs to be scraped and dragged upon. My pen needs to plow the ink into fallow ruled lines….

That may be a bit dramatic. Could be that I can’t write anything legibly unless I push down on the paper really hard.

Either you’re wondering why my affinity for pens warrants a post, or on the other hand, you might be genuinely intrigued… (At which point I feel inclined to mock you for your interest in my absurdity. Just saying.) Smart money is on the former.

That’s the thing about quirks – one may shrink back from the absurd and another may embrace it as a dose of comfortable normalcy. We harbor our habits within oaken chests, locked with iron, and dropped into the bottom of the sea. We don’t let go. Every idiosyncrasy will present it’s own testimony of necessity. It’s an easy sword for us to fall upon. My habits are sacred and I am willing to burn up a gift of rythmic, modulated… complacent… surrender to them without hesitation. My habits are my own.

Sin is the worst inflection of habit. And my heart will fervently defend itself with masterful arguments and propositions so that it may continue in rebellion. And I submit out of habit. I submit because I make too much sense… My own flesh is too convincing to argue with. I buy my own wares.

There isn’t any good reason to demand one pen over the other.

God grant me strength to battle against my own flesh. Bring a sword that may cleave me away from habitual sacrifice to sin. Bring the constant interjection of light into my droning darkness.

Kid’s Kamp *check*

Kid’s Kamp was a little different for us this year. Stephanie and I got to be the student sponsor leaders at camp this year, which meant that for the first time ever I believe, we were both at camp doing the same thing, working together. This only just occurred to me; reflecting on it, we worked pretty well together.

This role was definitely stretching, and rewarding. It played out a lot more like leading on a mission trip, which for me had kind of had a disconnecting effect with the children at camp. Last year my focus was more singular, honed in only on the upcoming sixth graders. This year was much more prismatic, where I felt that I had different roles throughout the day. All in all it was a great experience – I delight in helping students use follow the calling of God and using their spiritual gifts for good works. It’s exceedingly fulfilling for me to see 50ish older students pouring into my new 6th graders and showing them the genuine love of Christ. I have hope that God will use their service to change the lives of my new class.

God has been teaching me to take joy in the many ways that others in his bride minister to the students in my flock. He has been speaking to me about the value (the word seems fitting, but stale… treasure better describes…) of seeking, seeing and equipping others to pour into my flock alongside me. I have spiritual gifts that God wants me to use to serve them with, but those gifts do not encompass their every need. Through his depths of wisdom, God places us all together like pieces of a puzzle. The picture that he reveals is the beautiful ministry of his bride.