Palmtree Contemplations

Give me the gift of a long farewell, Words of love spoken on long, late nights, Over tea that burns when it goes down Swallowed as it is with the whiskey of hope. Give me the gift of a long farewell, Embrace me every golden twilight, Each new and frosted dawn, Let us keep the memory of your leaving near And then we shall save time for we will Say what we mean. Give me the gift of a long farewell, Where these moments together are pearls, And the string between them Our days spent apart.

You spilled some courage as you left, And I fell to my knees to lap it up Drop by golden drop. I felt it shimmer inside me As it sped to all the cold Fearful places in my bones. I hoped against experience, Wished despite all knowledge to the contrary That it would help, But it did not. For as time passed, the room grew not brighter but dark. The shadows sprouted talons And I found myself Shaking, shaking, shaking In spite of all the light filled courage I had swallowed. It came back up in golden tears, Smearing all the masks I wear to Make myself feel brave. Stealing courage, even from someone As fearless as you, Did nothing for me.

I sang for you tonight. And yes, I know you couldn't hear me, since you're miles away and probably not even thinking about me. Still, I sang every hymn that made me think of you, and I sang them as if you were in the room, listening. I could have prayed, maybe asked God one more time to give you peace and comfort and joy. I could have fallen to my knees and talked to our Father about how I don't understand why you have to go through all of this right now. The words, "This isn't fair" could have come out of my mouth the way they always do when I think about this darkness you are facing. Instead, I sang for you. I sang about God's faithfulness, His truth, and and His love. I sang about leaning on Him, about living day by day, and trusting Him "what e'er betide." I sang about the love that has no limit and the grace that has no measure. I sang as if you were right across from me, and every melody was a balm to ease your pain. It was re

A friend of mine sent me a text about a project they were working on at the time. The text ended with the opening lines of this poem, and I responded with a rhyming couplet. Over the next few hours we proceeded to write back and forth, my friend supplying two lines each time while I responded with two more. The result was a one of a kind work of art, which I have entitled A Summer Poem. I'm trying to paint with every color, Write with every word, But some colors don't make the story better Some poems should go unheard. The paper blank the canvas white, The thought of what could be. Nothing's clear, yet the choice is mine To make from pain a tapestry.  Colors bloom, words collide, The dance begins to find its form, But while rainbows may last for a day Some hands cannot hold through a storm.   As the final form begins to shape Clouds peel back as if to say: Wind and time shall not destroy Strong convictions never sway. 

I’ve made a hundred thousand wishes, None of which have come to pass. But now I see my fatal error: I never built on what would last. All that time I was building my castles On jet streams and shooting stars, The world was turning beneath this canvas, Humming to dull its stinging scars. All those single shooting stars, I saw them, yes, But never realized the larger song, This shimmering dance of light and sound The other stars make all night long. I was blind! So very blind! And deaf to all cares but mine, Until I stopped in the street ‘neath the sky, Stopped and heard the star symphony shine. Quartets of red and white novas, All glittering, sparkling, and sweet, Playing melodies familiar, yet new That echo in the puddles at my feet. There is no discord here, And nothing out of tune, Only endless perfect cadences And the milky whole-note tones of the moon. I lose myself in this brilliant star song, Forgetting all my woes and

People call me a Romantic. Part of it might be because I enjoy taking long walks uphill to watch a sunset. It could also be due to my reading Rupert Brooke's poetry while sipping Earl Grey tea and listening to Chopin. The fact that my close friends call me The Disney Princess doesn't help my status. Neither does my sentimental habit of saving every memorable card, text, facebook message, and letter I have received since first grade in a great big red bin, complete with an organized tagging and bagging system. Perhaps I should also mention that sometimes, near midnight when the streets are quiet, I sneak down to the local library's garden plot and then walk home in the moonlight with my arms full of flowers.  It's plain to see why people are so quick to slap the Romantic label on me. I have a friend who never ceases to point out my romantic nature. I could be sighing about how terrible my day has been, or express frustration about life choices that need to be made,

Someone called me a wanderer the other day, and although it was a joke there is some truth to it. As I write, it is Spring Break, and I have spent the week at three different homes consecutively. It does not seem strange to me until I compare it with other people's breaks where they go home... and do whatever it is people do when they go to that place.  When people learn of my background as a missionary kid they often feel compelled to ask me where my home is and, invariably, I respond with something polite. "Oh, well, I don't exactly have a home" or "College has really been like a home for me." These are said blithely, though, more for the sake of the other person. What I really want to do is laugh and cry and shrug helplessly before saying, "If I knew where or what home was don't you think I'd be there?" From the perspective of someone who loves sounds, the word "home" is lovely to say. When spoken properly, the long &q

We are studying the Contemplative Tradition in Integrated Theology. The discussion of what it means to contemplate begins, and continues in a meandering flow of vague thoughts and confusing answers. None of us can come up with why we should do it, or even what why the writer of our reading thinks we should do it, other than the notion that it will "help us meet with God." This of course sparks more confusion about what it means to have met with God. How can we even know if we have? The questions are tossed out, and although attempts at answers are made, no one is making any progress. My pen stays still. Vila and Reith contribute their own thoughts sparingly, allowing us to wrestle with our own frustration about the tradition's vagueness.  (I don't know if professors expect us to call them by their proper titles in our thoughts, but I never do. It's too formal). After a while, Reith tells us, "We are going to do the Contemplative Tradition right now." H