Xapa to the World

Tag: poem

  • 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 ><>

  • Poem: Green

    March 26, 2010

    I catch glimpses of green from beneath

    the rough casings of brown.

    Green, showing its affinity

    for the bright blue of the sky above

    and the already verdant ground below

    blanketed by warm and delicious yellow light.

    The snow from the early morning

    has already melted away

    and gone to feed the aching thirst

    of those green, green, green,

    velvet to the touch, newborns

    peeking out and teasing my eyes and heart

    with a hope of what’s coming.

    Life from death –

    is the great mystery of my mind today –

    how regardless of circumstance

    there is a bubbling inside of me

    urging itself to uncover from within,

    shedding its winter-case

    and entreating all to join in the wonder.

    Death no more to hold them in its grasp –

    an echo of a greater Truth

    and, aah!

    My heart is at peace and energy.

    Sarah ><>

  • Poem: Emerging

    October 29th, 2009

    On the tip of my brain
    Sits a poem only half-formed.

    It has been on the verge of being written
    But lacks a common thread or substance.
    Inspiration…

    The change of the seasons are a muse
    As is Prokofiev, green tea, and daffodils.
    When peering out into nature
    To watch God’s amazing workmanship
    Words drip into the sky
    And peek out from behind the trees.

    These fleeting moments of clarity
    Are so difficult to grasp,
    But their memory leaves a taste in my mind
    And can’t help but make me thirst for the Something Greater.

    Like the dark shadows shining down from the clouds
    Between the bright rays of the sun.
    Or the resonance of a string on my violin
    With the tamborine atop the piano.

    The sound rushes through the air and finds a kindred voice
    And the two shake with joy at their meeting,
    Lifting my heart with them
    And laughter bursting forth.

    Observing the absurd and giggling
    Deeply until I must gasp for air.

    God, the beautiful painter,
    Who made the colors to complement each other.
    He put red flowers on stalks of green;
    Purple and yellow wildflowers
    Scatter themselves and dance along the highway,

    Crowned with caps of white.
    Trees containing one hundred shades of orange, gold,
    And vibrant, burning embers of scarlet
    Against a vastness of blue
    And a trunk of black.

    Each leaf, then, holds a secret;
    Each flower petal an answer,

    And my eyes flit over them oft unaware
    Of such a great mystery.
    Oh, grant me the liberty to write such a verse
    That would do justice to these trappings
    Beating out of my heart.

    A calling, a whisper,
    A rampant longing for the glorious.

    Sarah ><>