Bits from a notebook

-Maybe thinking isn't necessarily in the form of words or a language.

-The truth of things never lies on the surface

-My cell phone's predictive text assumes "pain" before "rain".  How sad.

-Sometimes you have to hear things spoken out-loud to believe they're true.  So I tell Jon that he's beautiful, and myself that I don't need that cookie.

-We must be taught to look for what we can't see.

-I'm beginning to see how alike we all really are.

-"Oh no! I think I am becoming better friends with words than with paint!  Or maybe words are more like my best girl friends, and paint is more...my beloved."

-Tonight, 

words are so 

bloated 

and heavy 

that i can barely use them

-I love when the train out my window 

harmonizes with Mozart's piano concerto in D major.

I hate when my alarm 

blends with ambulance sirens in the morning.

-All I want to do

is walk across this room 

and cross through every box 

on that calendar til June.

I'll open up a window

and pray that the wind will

sweep every paper off my cork-board,

and every deadline off of April.

-When I finally get to sprawl 

across my mattress, 

the day exhausted,

body throbbing, 

I thank God.

On the orange wall across the room

little gummy people made of oil paint 

creep off their canvases,

and singing voices flow through the pipes overhead.

Words I've been thinking about

-essence, essential

-broken, restore, healing

-fundamentals: drawing, ballet, diction, scales

-create, creator, creation, creative, creativity

-student/servant

-counterintuitive

Unsettled

I feel like every time I snap 

a puzzle piece in its place,

I notice one more is missing,

and if I didn't know there was a God 

holding this world together,

I'd swear the box is a few short.

I feel like too many people in this city

pawn their mom's wedding ring

to buy more heroine.

I've seen 

the needles 

in the alleys

and I hear those ambulances wail

 every night.

Turning the corner,

I might stumble upon

the metal carcass 

of an abandoned streetcar 

rotting in a field 

or

a cozy little cafe called On the Hill,

not like Inn on the Hill,

not the run down prostitute motel on a very flat 

34th street, 

but like a green hill 

in a storybook 

where everyone's parents work

and actually love their kids.

I feel like love 

is the most distorted word 

in our language.

I feel like the bell 

ringing from a clock tower right now

is saying "Move,"

and I think about how 

the steeple a few streets over

stopped ringing a long time ago.

Subject

I believe

a poem 

is more than words,

I believe

you and me

have got souls,

yeah i believe,

we aren't just cells,

cause i believe

that love exists, 

and I believe 

God does too,

I bet He wants

to get to know us,

and God I'd love

to know you.

The Slaughter of the Jews by the Franks

Community even in death,
their blood flows as one tide,
the elder’s mixing with the young’s,
the bridegroom’s with the bride’s.

Killed like oxen,
slaughtered sheep,
dragged through the marketplace.
Trails of blood
stain dirt streets,
while heaven hides her face.

Day of darkness
and of gloom
Oh day of densest clouds
hidden are the sun and moon
the stars are wrapped in shrouds.

Hark! The Angels cry aloud!
By God’s name
men kill.
Their haunting battle cries resound
“God’s will! It is God’s will!”

Seeing (From Tree)

I tried looking away but
her stare surrounded me
like a net catching fish.
Sapphire irises
circled
my trunk,
smooth blue sea glass
caressed
each leaf,
a slow lead pencil brought
each branch
to her lap,
and those clay-stained tennis shoes
stayed,
as long-limbed dust clouds
passed.

Draw What You See

The first thing I ever saw in this world was a tree.
I don't remember what kind of tree,
but Mr. Nelson assigned the drawing,
and I was in the 5th grade.
Before then,
I never knew how leaves connect to a branch,
or how a trunk connects to the earth.
Sitting in the dirt kickball field, paper in lap,
through neurons and synapses
my eyes connected to my brain and
down into my graphite pencil.
Slowly,
it traced
the skinny
contour
of the trunk
in front of me.
My mind replayed Mr. Nelson's words,
"Class, I don't understand why
I'm getting drawings of tulips
when there are no tulips
in the field. "

Matthew 11:28 - 30

"Come to me,
all you who are weary and burdened,
and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you
and learn from me,
for I am gentle
and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

How Could I Ever Diminish Your Words?

your words lack nothing.
they are the sun,
and spring's
green gifts to
the frozen ground.
they are down-filled,
covering me
when I sleep.
they become
gulf waters
smoothing over my feet
when I miss home,
and a guitar's
steady strum,
i'm sorry I called them
anything other than
enough.