Poem: Cold Winter 8

8
January 24th, 2014

How did they know? Those farmers…
How did they know of the frigid and bluster
Of this year’s winter?
The proof is in the pudding
And the pudding is cold as stone
And hard as ice.
Cold.
Doesn’t even seem the right word for this feeling.
And the perpetual snow drifts across the roads,
Like snakes of white powder
Side-swiping between the tires and biting at them,
Turning them to ice in an instant.
And the cats eyes of taillights
Glaring behind as if angry of the cold as well.
I’m tired of it too, but my car is warm,
Mostly, and I’m willing to go around in it.
But don’t ask me to get out and brave the frozen wasteland.
My only consolation remains that
The days do grow longer,
And soon will come the crocuses.

 – Sarah ><>

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Poem: Cold Winter 7

7
January 22nd, 2012

The ice came and took its victims.
Freezing and snapping and catching,
Holding us hostage until it so pleased.
But the sun came and rescued us.
And in response, the ice melted,
Exhaling a mist into the sky –
At night, obscuring the sights
And refracting the lights so they scatter
And blend and flood as much as the water.
Red and white and yellow and green,
Bright and obtrusive,
Tainting the scene.
But the lake is near untouched
With the haze rising above
And weaving its way through the waterlogged trees.
They never drown.
And the train awakens and the white lights
Between the cars like buck teeth
Flash and pulse and faster and faster
And gone.

 – Sarah ><>

Poem: Spring Expects Growth

May 29, 2011

Spring expects growth,

new life and an increase.

While Winter ran rampant across the earth,

we expect God to work in the soil,

in the trunks of the trees,

in the hearts of men.

Spring brings disappointment when the Winter is over

and nothing has changed.

The garden is empty,

The trees have no leaves

and the heart is unsteady.

No blame is afforded to God –

only to the stubbornness of the soil.

It is my fault that I am the same.

Sarah ><>

I reviewed this poem.  Check it out here.

Poem: The Something Hidden

October 21, 2010

The Hunt.  The Search.
The Discovery.  The Find.

I loved it as a child.
At Easter or in Hide ‘n’ Seek
Or a puzzle.
To be the one hunted was ok,
But to seek out what was wanted –
The joy was there.

My favorite is when I’m not looking
And the thing is suddenly there.
God woos like that;
Hidden, yet not hiding,
Sought, and yet seeking.

The Hunt.  The Search.
The Discovery.  The Find.

My teachers, mostly patient,
Letting me find on my own.
Recognizing the joy of realizing
The point, the aim.

Now a teacher myself –
Learning to guide but not uncover –
Like hunting for eggs with a young one,
Letting the blue peek out behind a leaf,
Just to see the delight in their eyes.
Watching God peek out behind the pages
And people and stories.

He is a masterful Lover,
Well-equipped to be found by anyone –
Often in places I’d never look.
The joy is now leading others
To seek and find with their own eyes.

The Hunt.  The Search.
The Discovery.  The Find.

Sarah ><>

Poem: The Moon-Cloud

September 24, 2010

The moon,

Like a rice wafer in the sky,

So light it seems almost like a cloud

To be blown away by a sigh.

Round, defined, translucent,

Like a dream just after waking –

Fading into the pale blue sky of morning –

Soon to be forgotten

With the dawning of the day.

Sarah ><>

Poem: The Scalding

June 22nd, 2010

The drip-drip of water into the pot.
Setting it on the stove,
I turn the dial slowly to “Hot” and watch
And wait.
The result is already known:
Heat + water = boiling and steam.
As the bubbles form at the bottom,
I stick my hand over the pot to feel
The heat rising.  And rising.
And rising.
Not ready yet though.
Finally, cascading to the surface – it’s time.
I plunge my hand in,
Feeling the water scald my skin,
My muscles and nerves screaming out.
But I cannot pull back.
The pot must be emptied.
Inside, I’m shouting, “No, no, NO!”
But I raise the pot over my head
And pour the rest out.
As the boiling water joins my tears,
My cheeks red from shame, pain, and fears,
I set the pot in the sink.
The drip-drip of water into the pot.
I’ll be healed when it’s full, to do it again.

Sarah ><>