Whispers

i'm getting tired of the whisper
i ache to see the rocks split
the mountains move
to hear the horn sound
and the thunder roar

it's so quiet now
and sometimes it feels useless
like i'm talking to myself in an empty building
with echoes dogging my heels

or i'm writing letters to no one
paying for the stamps with the last of my quarters
and mailing them to nowhere

and yet, sometimes
when i least expect it
the whisper reaches my ears
and the apathy fades
slightly

it's still not what i want
but, now, i wonder
would i know what i want
if he gave it to me

or would i complain that he's too bland and miss what he's trying to say?

Waiting (Contemplative Piece/Poem)

"Why aren't you on the street corner?" I sigh, as I berate God for not being where I want him to be. "I've been begging for a sign, but I don't hear anything." I say, and my irate ranting covers the sound of his whispers in my ear.

"Why don't you come to me in a pillar of fire?" I say. "You did it for her, so why am I always left out?" I close my eyes in disgust, and miss the small message coming my way in the form of a paper airplane on a gust of wind.

"Where's my miraculous healing?" I scream, as I further twist my own arm behind my back. "You healed him when he asked, so am I just not important to you?" I say, as I turn my back right before you come to me with a band-aid held in your outstretched hand.

"Why wasn't I listening?" I whisper, when I finally have dropped my facades enough to notice your permanent presence in my bedroom, right there in the corner where I'd stuffed you. "It's okay." You respond, as you hand me a handwritten letter with the answers to all of my questions and doubts. "I was just waiting for permission to hold your hand." You say, as you hold me while I cry, and you paste me back together.

Matthew 5:41 (Original Poem)

i have been carrying my master's armor for many a mile,
just as i was instructed to
all my life
"fight the good fight"
"rewards are just around the corner"
"he sees your sacrifice and he will honor it"
they say
but my body grows weary from the exhurtion

of course, my master is not cruel
he rewards me for my service
whether it is a softly whispered "good job"
or a short day of rest
but i am weary all the same

"lord" i ask
"when will i feel restored?
where is the end of the journey
or even a respite for my aching soul?"

i turn to him expecting answers
but he just smiles
the smile that makes everyone follow his every wish
and answers not my current question
but the question i had asked 5 miles ago

as he waxes lyric about things i had previously asked to hear
i re-adjust the armor in my arms
and focus on walking just one more step

if i can make it to the next mile marker
i might get an answer then

The Wedding Dress (Original Poem)

(Another poem. Not much to say about this, just thought I'd post it here.)

my wedding dress is beautiful
it was tailor made
to fit my frame
by my bridegroom

my wedding dress is beautiful
even with the few spots
that have stained the hem
my bridegroom says he never notices them anyways

my wedding dress is beautiful
from where it hangs
on my door
because i don't want to wear it

"it's too tight"
and
"i've already dirtied it"
or
"it makes me stand out"
i tell my bridegroom
whenever i have spare time
between work
school
and sitting in my old rags in the mud

my wedding dress is beautiful
but i hardly ever wear it
because i'd rather wear my old rags
even if they're falling off my shoulders
and see-through in places
and too short for me now
because i outgrew them long ago

but at least they're comfortable
and require no change

and if i have to i'll cover my ears
with my hands
to block out my bridegroom
as he shouts my name
and knocks on my door
hoping that one day
i'll get up
open the door
and put on my wedding dress again

until then
the dress of blessings hangs
and i
i deteriorate
in the filth of my own making

Untitled Poem

(I don't really ever write anything that resembles poetry, but I'm feeling especially emotional right now, so I thought I'd give it a shot. It's kind of cathartic, in a way. Maybe I'll do it more.)

i'm a carafe pouring into water glasses
of those whom i love and cherish
i give them all of me
in hopes that it will hold together
the bonds that i hold dear
so i pour
         pour
             pour
until my hand hurts from holding out the jug
and my fingers shake from the effort
but when will they pour back into me?

i'm cracking from the lack of moisture
and i don't think i have
any water left to give
i watch those i've poured into
pour
    pour
        pour out
into other people around them
the refreshment of their souls evident
from miles away
but no one pours back into me

people are moving away from me
so i guess it's worth it to them
to schedule others in
to make time
to pour
      pour
         pour
into other friends
maybe they have more to offer
than i ever will
because no one is pouring back into me

i look towards the people
who i've given the most to
and i cry out
'is there any left for me?'
but they simply smile like all is well
as they empty themselves into others
and no one ever pours back into me

but my skin cracks when i smile
and sometimes i think that maybe
just maybe
every compliment i've heard was forced
in an effort to get me to shut up
and keep pouring
                  pouring
                     pouring
into everyone else who isn't me
and won't ever pour into me
so that they can be full to pour into others

but no one
no matter how i look
no matter what i try
no matter what i say

no one is pouring back into me

From

(Based on the poem "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon, and inspired by a TEDxSoleburySchool talk from Emily Bailin.)


I am from worn out bibles with marked and dog-eared pages
From lacey, layered clothing and steaming mugs of tea
I am from the two story house that is somehow still too small for all the people living there
With the soft lawn that always stays green, and the large towering trees all around
I am from the winding creek with the tiny "island" in the middle
The crab apple tree with the perfect branches for climbing in

I’m from Christmas tree skirts covered in presents and unconditional love even when I don’t deserve it
From the mother with the brightest smile and the father with the best hugs
I’m from children’s songs sung on the Sunday morning drive to church
From dinnertime discussions filled with laughter
And living out joy even in sorrow

I’m from “you can do anything” and “you’re beautiful”
From “it takes two to make a fight” and "for God so loved the world he gave his only begotten son"
I’m from Thanksgiving Dinners with my Mother’s family at Great Grandma and Grandpa Riordan’s home
I’m from cornfields
From distant Native American roots that still hold firm and Ireland’s distant call
From Aunt Peggy’s pumpkin bread and homemade chocolate chip cookies
From piano lessons with Mrs. Boger who never made me feel inadequate, even when I hadn’t practiced
And from a self love of Japan, a country I've never visited
I’m from china dolls in the cupboard of Mom’s “pretty room” and Dad’s stuffed black cat

I am from memories long past
And things yet to come
And I am still in the making