Xapa to the World

Category: Poetry

  • Poem: The Moon, My Heart

    The moon is a frequent subject of my poetry, and I’m not ashamed of it.  I don’t worship the moon.  Instead, it is simply a reminder to me of God’s love.  It is His instrument of wooing to me.  Much like a sunset, or thunderstorm, or cloud shadows….yep, those are beautiful instruments.  Nothing in themselves, but to know that they are a gift from my Maker, the One who loves the very deepest part of me…that makes them special.

    This is not a Christian poem…so don’t look for the spiritual meaning in it.  It is a contemplation of my romantic state.  It’s a reflection of my desire for honesty and realness.  So, there you go!

    July 16th, 2005

    I saw the moon hanging in the sky tonight,
    And I think it was my heart there.
    No stars were shining to keep it company,
    Only itself, big, white, untouched…
    Untouched only by a real love,
    But left cold and hidden by the clouds,
    The many romances which gently called to it,
    Called its light down in a soft glow.
    But once that light was seen,
    The caller shouted it back to the day,
    Or simply ignored it.
    My heart, this object floating –
    Floating like a silver dollar, light enough
    To be blown away with the wind –
    It hangs there, waiting for someone to look,
    Waiting for someone to fall in love
    With the light.

    Sarah ><>

  • Poem: Leo and Rachel’s Shoe

    This poem is part of a collection inspired by my cousin’s 4 yr old daughter, Rachel.  On my 21st bday, instead of going out to party (which I’m not into anyways), she and I were outside of my grandparent’s house in Pittsburgh catching lightning bugs and playing with a imaginary lion named Leo.  It inspired me to write several pieces about Rachel and this lion.  Rachel has/had a lisp, so I put that into the poems.  They rhyme scheme may seem a little choppy, but I’m hoping to make these into books, and then one stanza will be on each page.  Let me know what you think!

    July 14th, 2005

    Little Rachel didn’t know what to do.
    Her favorite lion was lost
    And with him was her shoe.

    Last night when they were hunting
    For lizards and snakes and such
    He had taken her shoe for squishing
    Spiders and she hadn’t cared that much.

    But this morning, she was worried.
    She would be late for school
    And her mother was hurried!

    Where did he put it? She thought for a moment.
    Under the palm trees of the deserted island?
    Or maybe he had left it in the camping tent,
    Or buried it under the ocean’s sand!

    She ran outside and called his name.
    “Weo!” She shouted and
    Around the corner he came.

    His tail was tucked between his legs.
    “I knew you’d call if I kept your shoe.
    I really want some bacon and eggs.”
    Little Rachel didn’t know what to do!

    She told Leo she had to go to school
    She would play with him later
    And maybe go to the pool.

    So Leo the lion gave her the shoe
    He watched her get on the bus.
    “I’ll be home in a wittle while, too!
    So pwease don’t make a big fuss!”

    Sarah ><>

  • Poem: Mr. Teddy

    This poem is…a very tough one for me to read sometimes.  I wrote it in the perspective of a little girl whose mother had recently died of Aids.  A little girl in Africa was in my mind, and she had a little teddy bear…a little teddy bear which she told everything.  No rhyme scheme, but there is a dialect written into the piece, so I hope you can hear it when you read it.  Thanks!

    July 6th, 2005

    Mr Teddy? Are you awake?
    I’m a little scared and it’s very dark.
    I hope I don’t squeeze you too tight.
    Just tell me if I do, ok?

    Are you getting wet, Mr Teddy?
    I’m sorry. I can’t stop my tears.
    I think I’m more wet than you though.

    You know very well why I’m cryin’.
    You have ears too, you know!
    Yes, you do. They’re sittin’ right on top o’ your head.
    I see them. I do.

    And your eyes can see too.
    You saw them take her away,
    With my favorite blanket over her head.

    I miss my blanket. Momma stitched it for me,
    Just for me, not for you.
    Why would you need a blanket like that?
    I don’t want it back though.

    No, she’s not comin’ back.
    I know a’cause Abby said so.
    Abby wouldn’t lie to me, ‘cept just that once.

    You do too remember, my goodness!
    Remember when the doctor came over.
    Abby said he was for Gramma,
    But he was for Momma.

    Gramma did get sick and she left too.
    Momma said she went to Jesus.
    I guess that’s where Momma is too.

    Last week Momma said Abby would watch me
    And take care of us.
    You better be more careful a’cause
    Abby doesn’t stitch like Momma did.

    You might fall apart a’fore you know it.
    Mr Teddy, please be careful
    So you can stay a long time with me.

    Momma said if I hugged you, you would hug her.
    You must do it when I’m gone
    A’cause I always see you when I’m here
    And Momma’s not here no more.

    I’m tired now and I think I’m out of tears.
    Momma always said I could cry a river.
    Good night, Mr Teddy. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

    Sarah ><>

  • Poem: Faded Glory

    May 26th, 2005

    This place which You created,
    The earth I call my home,
    Is a beautiful workmanship
    That calls me out to roam.

    Every eyeful I receive
    Brings my thoughts closer to You,
    But it’s all a faded glory
    You’ve told me this is true.

    No matter where I go
    I see it and I know,
    There’s something greater set apart
    For this race of man, dull of heart.
    I hear it in my ears,
    And I feel it in my tears,
    Both we and earth were made for more
    and so this heart of mine implores,

    Take me to the place
    Where Your glory’s clearly seen
    Where my heart is just as rest –
    Yes, I know I’ve never been

    But it’s right where You are
    And my heart won’t hold the scars
    Of the brokenness I felt
    When I left You and fell.

     – Sarah ><>

  • Poem: My Trees

    This poem…I work at a bank, right?  Right across from the bank I used to work at, there was an empty lot with some beautiful trees that grew in the plots between us and the lot.  They were so sweet.  Very soon, construction started up and the trees were one of the first things to come down.  It happened in the Spring, when the leaves were at their brightest green.  Birds were flying and flitting all around the branches.  After the trees were felled, I saw the birds float forlornly over the dying trees.  It was so sad to me.  And then, in true “Sarah” form, I began to introspect.  And this poem came out.  I hope you enjoy it.  I was under a lot of influence at the time by Robert Frost…so, you might notice some parallels in sound from him…I can’t help but mimic what I’m hearing.  🙂

    May 13th, 2005

    The tree that grows gracefully –
    Brown trunk, straight, solid
    With verdant, jagged leaves –
    Lightly tosses in the breeze
    Of this warm May jour.
    Through my window, beyond cars
    Choking the air, grabbing at the green
    From chutes overhead, I watch
    The trees shimmer in the sun.
    The greed of paper faces soon takes
    My mind and I look down at a tray of
    Keys with letters and another face of light.
    I glance up at the tall giant and smile
    At the secret of Life we both share.
    Some men out passed the rows of
    Cars, passed a silver grate of separation,
    Take plows and dig into a mound of earth.
    The trees stand tall, a tender show of
    A miracle abounding – as do I.
    And then they come, not as surveyers of
    Beauty and life, they simply do as they must.
    My heart betrays as I see their task.
    Though I know the necessity, my heart breaks
    As the testimony breaks simply. The giant
    Of green, my co-companion in glory, falls –
    Quickly, silently, through my triple-paned glass.
    How could they? How could they not
    See the green leaves, catching the sun
    And glowing bright? Could they see
    Them tremble at the break,
    Falling in a breathless heap? Or,
    Is this just my heart I see?
    This sight of splendor and craftsmanship,
    No more a tall display of a Maker’s care,
    Is this the tree or me I see?

    Sarah ><>

  • Poem: My Neverland

    This is probably one of my most favorite poems that I’ve written so far.  It was inspired after watching the movie “Finding Neverland.”  I really believe that creative thought and fairy stories, appealing to a child’s imagination is essential to them coming to faith in God.  One, all good fiction fantasy stories emulate the Gospel.  Seriously!  Think about it!  Cinderella is a great example.  She was the daughter of a rich man, whom she was suddenly separated from in death.  Someone else took control of her life and she was subjected to awful living conditions.  You could hardly recognize her for the person she was supposed to be from the beginning.  Then, she meets the prince and through a series of events, the ones in control of her are dispelled, and she is finally united with the prince, beyond the glory of what she was originally intended for.  Doesn’t that sound familiar?  We were created to be close to God.  Our own sin has separated us, and now we are stuck in a crummy place called the world, which is laden with sin.  Yet, we’re not totally lost.  We had a beautiful affair (our salvation experience) with the Prince of glory, and He is passionate about us.  He sought to bring us out of this place in which we are being held captive.  He did what was necessary to bridge the gap so that we could be united with Him in the end.

    Some of you who read this, won’t have any problem agreeing with my point that make-believe can help lead a child to Christ.  But the college I went to is very legalistic and it seemed they didn’t want any make-believe at all because it wasn’t true and therefore couldn’t be approved by the Bible.  They think that Harry Potter is evil because the characters practice witchcraft.  Ok…yes, withcraft is evil…but generalize the story-line of the series and you’ll see a greater underlying force…Harry Potter came from a great family.  He was separated and is forced to live in squalor and be mistreated.  Just when you think he could lose heart, he comes in contact with Hagrid who first excites his mind to a new world, one that is separate from our own…but not really.  He meets Dumbledore, who, from what I’ve read and learned, seems more and more like a Christ-figure (again…look at a generalization).  I don’t think that Rowling’s intent was to tell a Christian story…but it’s a good story and all good stories emulate the Gospel.  It just shows to me that the Gospel is something that appeals to all people…they all have the story written in their heart…whether they realize that Christ is the subject of that story, that’s another question.  I woudl challenge you to take your favorite good story and think about how it pictures the Gospel.  I think you’ll be surprised at it.  Lord of the Rings is a great example…and the writer had it in his mind to write something that was Christ-like.  I just think it’s really cool.  Kids (and all people for that matter) are more able to encounter Christ if their minds have been exposed to the victories of children’s fairy stories…the good ones.  With a story like Harry Potter…the good story must be complemented with precaution towards the very necessary theme of witchcraft.  witchcraft is bad…no question…but a child can easily understand that and still get the good story out of it.  Face it…Jesus used good stories to show mysteries of the Kingdom with the people He spoke to…why shouldn’t we?

    Oh…rhyme scheme per stanza: abaacbcc.  Yes, I made up a word in the second stanza…when you’re writing something…you’re allowed to.  It’s called poetic license…and if you have a problem with it, take it up with Lewis Carroll.

    April 14th, 2005

    How long since I’ve left myself to dream
    Of Tinkerbell or Captain Hook –
    Who fly upon such magical schemes
    And make life more grand than it seems?
    So many times, our minds are shut tight
    To think only of how things look.
    When all the while the fabric of right
    Is woven with a beam of luminous light,

    Exposing, no, opening our eyes to a World
    So deeply imbedded in our hearts.
    What dreams our hearts imagine, unfurled
    In all their splendor – unseen, whirled –
    Amidst all the commotion and sincerity.
    People walking, juggling the parts
    Of their lives that seem to have no coherity.
    What could imagination have with our sanity?

    And yet I find that I am dreaming
    Of a Neverland – a Foreverland –
    A Place where the magic, never fleeting,
    Is forgiveness from a higher being.
    His grace and mercy are the golden dust
    And joy is much more than sand
    On beaches white. Fly, I must,
    To this glorious Place of which I lust.

    This Place has overthrown the dark
    One who pirates the waters.
    He was cast out of his rugged ark
    And now all creation sings as a lark.
    Had not the imagination been fed
    Of many sons and daughters,
    They would not easily to this Place be led
    Nor dream so sweetly in their bed.

    Sarah ><>

  • Poem: Accusation of Snow

    March 12th, 2005

    Snow, snow. Depressing snow.
    White death, I dub you.
    Will you not leave? Won’t you
    Leave us with your honor, with
    A remnant of your beauty, and
    Devotion towards you? No,
    No, you are remaining, trying to show
    Your soft and gentile side.
    Ah, but you lie. You, a coward
    Desiring not to go quietly in the night.
    Choosing not to surrender
    To peace and new sunrises.

     – Sarah ><>

  • Poem: Black Bag and a Coat of Brown

    February 17th, 2005

    This man I see with a coat of brown
    There’s no name that he claims
    Just smiles and walks around town.
    I wonder, just who, just who he may blame?
    A black bag he carries on his back
    Who is this guy and what is his game?
    He never answers or tells what he lacks.

    Just walking and walking he
    Rarely sits down but to watch all
    The people go ’round the city.
    Not very large but fairly tall
    He ne’er troubles himself with things,
    Except for the bag, nor does he call
    To anyone who may be passing.

    Sitting one day, I watch him pass by
    With his black bag and coat of brown
    And I watch him in sly
    Like many who see him ’round town.
    To the garbage he goes and reaches in
    And into his bag he puts the good down.
    What do I do? Do I tell of his sin?

    No, I sit very still and watch him continue
    Inspecting the treasures so carelessly tossed.
    My beautiful, scenic, no-obstructed view
    Of this simple, peaceful man seemingly lost
    In the shuffle of day to day life
    And all the trauma and pain of cost
    Just trying to get by without strife.

    My heart goes out to him, this man
    Who is walking away from me now
    Unaware of my observance. I have no plan
    Of what to do to bless or change. How
    Can I go back and try to live down
    My life full of clutter to which I bow?
    Walks away the bag and coat of brown.

     – Sarah ><>

  • Poem: Cold Winter 5

    5
    January 28, 2005

    Cold and my lips unmoving
    Silence filling in the voids within these walls
    Yet my thoughts are rushing
    Swirling as fast as the snow
    Caught in the dance of the Winter wind
    Tossing and thrashing
    Sweeping the sky as salt.
    Never resting to stick together
    Just flying through the air
    To strike at my face; bite my nose.
    My mind dulled by the constant
    Throw of snow and flakes
    Protected only by my scarf and gloves
    Wrapped around my neck
    A meager attempt at warmth.
    When will my thoughts feel to me
    A gentle summer breeze?
    Not until the air turns warm
    And the wind comes from the other side
    Where the sun is sleeping.

    Sarah ><>

  • Poem: Cold Winter 4

    4
    January 26, 2005

    Sickness is a reminder
    Of Winter’s lack of sustenance
    So easy to lose control of the body
    The nose, head, throat, joints,
    Heart, soul…
    Trapped in the cage of self
    Craving for release and when
    Self’s door opens and the fresh air
    Beckons on the other side,
    Too lazy to lift a finger or toe
    The desire is gone, once known
    That only cold exists beyond my shelter
    Hapless, distorted, nauseous
    Staying inside or suffer the cold
    Choices not so easily made
    Nor when my body is boggled down
    By this worm writhing free in me.
    I wish to stamp it out, discipline
    But no avail, nothing will stop it
    So I lay here, cold, unaffected.

    Sarah ><>