Wisdom (a poem)

Candlelight,
Shines so bright,
On a face,
Full of grace.

Round and lined,
Eyes half blind,
Soft grey hair,
Skin once fair.

Wisdom shines,
Through the lines,
Flesh so tired,
Mind inspired.

The Love of God

Looking for love,
In all the wrong places,
When really a Dove,
Should fill all the spaces.

I wrote this poem for a poetry contest last year. The person I sent it to replied that they liked the humor in it and thought I should keep writing poetry.

I didn't mean for it to be funny.

Another Poem

So, my New Year's resolution last year was to post one poem a week on my blog. I probably wrote enough poetry over my Christmas break to do that this year, but it probably won't happen unless my readers bug me. :) However, here's one that I just wrote today. I'd appreciate title suggestions.

I have a dream,
To find the gleam,
Hidden in the eye,
Of the broken and despised.

To know their name,
And feel their pain,
To love like Christ,
Whatever the price.

Haven't Written In a While... Here You Go

My heart is like a chunk of silly putty. God keeps attaching it, or I do, to people. Slowly, or quickly, (as case may be) I get drawn out, pulled into friendship with that person. Then, snap! God breaks the bond. It hurts so bad. I don't feel like I'm ever going to feel whole unless I become a hermit. (THAT would probably lead to insanity). It doesn't make any sense to me. But, I can't see the whole picture. Maybe that piece of me was what someone needed at that time. Maybe my whole life is destined to consist of leaving shards of my heart in other people but never feeling like I'm getting anything back. But maybe that, in some awful-seeming way, is the path for God to make the biggest impact through me. The only question is, what do I really want? Deep relationships with humankind for the short term or an everlasting relationship with God that does more for God's Kingdom and His people?

What do you want? 

Well, it's been long enough...

Here, here, people who follow my blog. A poem:

Silky smooth sail o'er the sea,
Hand on the helm, whole-hearted I,
Look long for lands long lost to light,
And treasures tall, untouched, but bright.

Aannnndddddd, some random quotes from my brain that may someday turn into a story. You heard it here first!

"The witch! She got sick again!"
"She was never sick..." (insert dramatic and creepy music)

I shall now put my hat back on my head to keep more of my brain from randomly falling onto this virtual page. Until we meet again...

Back from the Grave

Okay, so I haven't died. But I think you all knew that. If you didn't, I apologize. Anyway, I attended a young adult conference recently and they asked a few attendees to write an article about it. I volunteered, and the link to my article is below.
http://www.iche.org/events/5074/11-08-2014/2014-young-adult-conference/bright-spot-anticipate

Grace

I just wrote this story here, at JJC. I think it's the most emotional thing I've ever written, for me at least. I'm curious to see if any of my readers can see any analogies or similarities to real events. Post your guesses in the comments!

Grace

By Josiah White

She sleeps; a sort of conceded contentment on her face. I thin mattress is below her; a wool blanket draped on her thin frame. Thin fingers on her right hand poke through a hole in her moth-ridden covering. She rolls over; her hand is hanging in mid-air. The ring falls off and hits the floor with a light ping, but she awakes suddenly, as if the very life she leads were crumbling about her…

            In a small town she lives, a ramshackle former duplex her house. The left side is gone, and cracks in the formerly shared wall grow ever wider as the wind bids. Inside, drywall dust sits in little tidy, obsessed over piles on the floor as insulation peeks through what remains of the walls. The ceiling is gone in places, revealing a second story where light from a broken window shines down, onto the threadbare carpet. Farther down the hall, which takes a left, is her room. Buried in the recesses of the house it is, like a cave deep in a dark mountain, a nook within a shelterless place. A mouse appears from nowhere, then a cat, feral and mangy. Past the bedroom door they run, the cat for its dinner, the mouse for its life. The door flies open as the girl chucks a broken brick at the commotion.

            “Confounded place!” she spat, but no sound came from her lips. She dared not disturb the wretched, artificial peace of the house. Suddenly, she heard a step outside. She froze. Nearer it came. Then he kicked down the front door.

            “Mr. Smith?” she called weakly down the hall.

            “Please, call me…” he began.

            “I can’t, it’s too…” She paused, not sure what to say. She rarely talked, and subjects like the past or her emotions she rarely broached, even in the silence all alone.

            “It’s too… recent.”

            “But it’s been thirteen years since…”

            “Stop!” she fairly screamed. Tears flooded her eyes and then froze on her cheeks.

            “Not this year, I can’t do it,” she resolutely declared.

“Your must; you can’t live here forever!”

“Besides, thirteen is an unlucky number,” She observed.

He paused as he muttered, “As if luck exists here…”

“Life is good outside of here,” he insisted in softer tones. “You need to let go of the past.”

“No!” she screamed, and fell to the ground, sobbing. A fire flashed through her mind, singing every desire to leave with red guilt. The smoldered ruins of her past haunted her, while screams of death provided a ghastly soundtrack. She couldn’t leave them, couldn’t let go. She deserved to be here, after that wretched day. An electronic buzzing interrupted her thoughts. She turned to look at the clock… 15:80. The mocking numbers laughed cruelly as she blinked them back to normal… 15:00 military time. 3:00 normal time.

Mr. Smith was gone. Suddenly, she wanted to go with him, too leave this awful place, but it was too late.

“Oh, well, he’ll be back next year as usual,” she sighed. But then it dawned on her: it wouldn’t get any easier with time. She needed to go; leave this ghost town of her past.

“Mr. Smith!” As she ran out of the house, she jumped right over the broken door. As she flew through the doorframe, she realized that she was free, free from her burdens, free from the past.

“Thank You, God, for Mr. Smith.”