Optional Bicycle Parts

I know my grooves so well, 
mechanical flick back,
or prop up.  Whichever
you prefer.  I blend, hitched

in metals of you while 
you parade before eyes 
as ringmaster and call 
forth assistance at whim. 

Sometimes I ground, facedown
where I lick earth, brace up
the weight of you, and you
say [Just] eat and be thankful.  

Round mirrors, left and right, muse 
your beauty-- traction to 
feed covet eyes once... No!
Two glances-- Your favorite! 

Handlebar fringe tickles 
wind like a flirt-- so close
to arms' frame. Or basket 
of worthier catches 

with freshly caught dames.  Least 
from worn tires, I catch 
rubber's debris and road's 
stale crumbs from yesterday. 

My links teethe for oil, but 
you won't be disturbed. You 
pedal on because you 
trust nuts and bolts hold tight. 

As I untwine from your 
chainring, your hollow, steel
frame loses momentum 
and thuds out, "Betrayer!" 
As a poetry assignment for one of my English graduate courses, we had to write a poem in iambic trimeter quatrains.  Although the stanza/lines and syllable count adhere to the original form, I did not go back and check the iambic rhythm; for my own purposes, I stuck to the content of the poem rather than form.  This draft is vastly different from the first as I had started out with something else entirely different and am so grateful that my professor pushed me to improve this piece.       

Photo by Emily Huismann on Unsplash  

No One Loves Harder Than a Poet— or So It Seems

I once fell in love with a man who was a poet.  His words along with his gaze upon me made me feel so alive.  His words stoked a fire in my heart.  Sometimes I didn’t reciprocate right away.  I wanted to sit in it— bathe in it— for I’d never known anything like it. 

I wondered if I was enough.  I wasn’t a poet like him.  Where I had limitations to express myself, he seemed to have none.  I convinced myself he knew how to love and to feel, and I didn’t.  I tried so hard to write in verse to show my love, but my words failed to convey what my heart felt.  All I could do was try my best and hope that he knew. 

Now I know words fall short, and where words fail, the “knowing” trumps.  Can the grave and its appetite for the dead ever cease?  Can fire be divided into individual flames?  Nor can love be contained and pinned to mere syllables. 

For I see poets in this world who try to bleed out their heart onto pages, unable to exorcise the ghosts of past loves.  They twist, push-pull, and wrangle to squeeze words out, only to extract a drop of what they feel.  It’s like the iceberg effect— 10 percent is revealed where 90 percent remains hidden; the tip-top is only our reaction to the events of love, where underneath is the complex design of anticipation and transformation, which cannot be fully explained.      

If love were chalked down to the mere wealth of words, it sadly would be minimalized and should be utterly scorned. 

I love you needs to be expressed in word, whether poetically written or not; it doesn’t matter.  Say it a lot, but show it more.  Where words fail to be remembered—even the most beautifully penned ones— I can still remember how he made me feel and how I felt about him; that is unshakable and unforgettable.   

“Hope II”

Our memories blanket me like a coat,

(vibrant and damp) with shades

of you suspended in time—

Was that a year ago or ten?

Now I remember.  It was neither.

It was 1907. 

Little did I know at the time I was

standing before our art— timeless,

captured, frozen—  

Visions are weightier than imagination. 

Love is a child: infantile yet grows.

The Prayers for it were lax, for why should

they have been fervent, as such Innocence should

survive. The Prayers were never for its safety. 

They were spoken Prophesy— Fated Destiny,

most cruel and beautiful when Death and Life and

Sensuality in the most purest sense would

exist side by side, suspended in equilibrium.

You are within my walls—

a familiar face and

a stranger— and both hurt—

Now mornings stream words of you

like a seamless prayer—a habit—

and I write them down because it was

between words and lines where we once

exchanged our hearts with one another— it’s

the only way I know how to find you again.     

This piece was written and inspired by two: 1) the painting Hope II by Gustav Klimt, which I had the pleasure of seeing the original in New York at the MOMA ten years ago; and 2) a man I met around the same time who showed me the truest form of love.  In conjunction with this poem, the spoken word of “Find Me” by Forest Blakk (which I happened upon just a couple of months ago) placed me back in time as I revisited what was a sealed up time capsule of wonderful memories and love.  One link here is most haunting and much felt when just listening to it along with reading the words; the other gives a visual that’s quite provoking and unforgettable— just like the love we once shared that has become a timeless piece of art in my Hall of Memories.

—Much love to you, JM, without regrets.  I am most thankful when I think of you.   

Photo Painting is Hope II by Gustav Klimt (1907)

It’s a New Chapter

God, grant me the state of being calm, peaceful, untroubled, 
accepting the things I cannot change; 
the ability to do something that frightens me; 
and the quality of good judgment over all such matters. 
(The Serenity Prayer, my emphasis added) 

As 2020 comes to a close, I realize the positive changes and growth in me:     

  • I search my heart and give myself permission, space, and a set time to grieve any losses.  Some evenings before bedtime, I allow myself 10 minutes to cry, rant, pray, etc., over hurts and pain that live inside of me.  Then, I go to bed and welcome a new day by moving forward.     
  • I recognize some of my self-sabotaging behaviors.  If it involves another person, I admit my mistake(s) and try to correct it as best I know how (Romans 12:18).
  • I accept that I make mistakes and that I will make more in the future.  In the past, I have seen my mistakes as permanent damage, unrepairable, etc., but God’s mercy is greater:  “If our hearts condemn us, we know that God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything” (1 John 3:20). 
  • Everyone that crosses my path is a teacher. 
  • I live in the moment; I am more attuned to what is God showing me right now, right this moment.  What a gift!  He is always speaking to us: “For God does speak—now one way, now another—though no one perceives it” (Job 33:14).    
  • I let go of controlling outcomes.  In doing this, I have been pleasantly surprised (in a good way) rather than let down.    
  • Where I have been more prone to make up “scenarios” in my mind of what might happen, I am learning that better outcomes are a result of me being proactive rather than reactive.  I have self-control because of His Spirit (Galatians 5:23).    
  • I work hard, yet I make rest just as much a priority.   
  • I’ve settled the one lingering question I have had about what I am looking for in a husband.  It’s simple: Someone who will LEAD: lead by example; lead the connection; lead in spirit and in truth; and lead in love.
  • I realize that as much as I love some people, God has a specific purpose for me and not everyone will walk alongside me in that journey.  Because of this perspective, I am seeing the bigger picture.    
  • I pause and breathe to calm myself.   
  • I stopped replaying and talking about the things that happened to me or hurt me.  I mostly talk to God when things bother me.  This has helped quiet my spirit as I wait patiently for God’s healing.     
  • Instead of being guarded, I am open to what God has in store for me and my future.  I am excited actually.  I know He means goodness (and mercy—so important!) for me all the days of my life, and He will withhold no good thing (Psalm 23:6 & Psalm 84:11). 
  • I have experienced unconditional love from my friends.  What can I say?? THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! You have shown me what it is, what it looks like, and made me believe I am worthy of it in all of my relationships. 
  • I focus more on what I have than what I don’t have: I have an amazing career where I can use the gifts and talents God has given me; I have coworkers and classmates who have helped me hone in on my craft as a teacher; I have a beautiful, welcoming home where others (and myself) can experience a place of refuge; I have a community of neighbors willing to help me in my time of need; I have a church family that embraces me; I have lifelong friends who know my story and who continue to love me unconditionally; and I have had the resources and time to invest further in my education so that I can broaden career options.  Lastly, I have my health and am able to thrive in life.    
  • I trust God’s timing and plan for my life.    
  • I have learned that not all things are black and white.  Even in the darker times this past year, I learned something about myself and my relationships.  My pain wasn’t wasted.
  • “No” is a grace-filled answer sometimes.   
  • Living alone doesn’t have to be lonely.  I am focusing on self-care and self-love for the first time.                
  • I have invested in a life-coach, or rather she invests in me.  It is a safe-space where I talk to her once a week for an hour about my thoughts and what is going on in my life.  In talking to her, I am noticing my patterns– We all have them! I welcome constructive criticism because I know this person loves me and wants to see my growth.  (She will never know how much this means to me.)    
  • Many times I have been more indirect than direct in my communication with others.  I am changing the way I express my requests, pushing fear and pride aside (2 Timothy 1:7). 
  • I have changed my verbiage from “I deserve better” to “I am worth it!” I will not settle for less than I am worth!     
  • Small steps are progress, and I celebrate those.   
  • I am taking risks.  If a desire in my heart surfaces, I am pursuing it (Psalm 37:4).     

My motto for 2021 is to embrace my most genuine, authentic self and not forget the important words of the Serenity Prayer. My best is yet to come.  My story is not over.   

Photo by Chinh Le Duc on Unsplash

Come home, my beloved; I’m waiting.

“‘Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God'” (Ruth 1:16).

My former husband use to poke fun at me whenever we would travel.  As soon as we arrived at our lodging place, I would unpack toiletries, placing them in their useful area.  He called it “nesting”.  Apparently my first priority is to make even a temporary place feel like home. 

I notice that I am constantly “nesting” as I clean and organize, more prone to these tasks when I feel things in my life are beyond my control; I work with my hands for a grounding effect.  In working on bigger repairs and projects this summer, they proved to be more than just home improvements.  While I worked with my hands, God worked on my heart. 

As my recent love life had taken a sudden, unexpected detour, I wrestled for clarity about what was in my heart and what was God’s heart for me.  I struggled through this process of surrender because although it was a call to die to something, it was coupled with believing God in faith that He will answer these long-awaited hopes of my heart. 

Little did I know how quickly God would readily breathe anew into this wasteland of my life!  I tackled my last big home project toward the end of July.  As I set about the repairs of sanding and re-staining areas of my back porch, I sensed a deep longing within.  What was the driving force behind all of this hard work?  Was it for the satisfaction to check off a task on the to-do list?  Was it to diminish a worry over the wear and tear of my home that would only get worse if not tended to in a timely manner?  For these two things alone, they could have initially been a motivator; God had something else in mind.  In working with my hands, my mind sifted through a rush of varying emotions until I found clarity.  The desire for a husband was so strong, stronger than it has ever been; it felt like I was working on my house because I’m waiting for him to come home. 

This part of my life feels nothing short a miracle, not only that this desire would be fulfilled but also that this has become God’s ordering of my prayers.  Like Ezekiel in the midst of a lifeless valley of dry bones (Ezekiel 37), I spoke words that poured forth like rushing waters: “Come home, my husband. Come home to me.”

As my hands steadily worked with the wood of my home, I knew what I was calling forth didn’t necessarily mean the actual home we would dwell in (mine, his, or ours).  This was about the spiritual union of “home” that we will find in each other. 

As I wrote this, so many Scriptures came to mind.  I have included them here.  Regardless of what life looks like from here on for me or for you, these are the real seeds of promise.  As I prepare my heart for any outcome, I place my hope in God, the giver of good gifts to His children.     

Photo by Krists Luhaers on Unsplash

Verses

 “The Lord God said, ‘It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him’” (Genesis 2:18, NIV).

“The purposes of a person’s heart are deep waters, but one who has insight draws them out” (Proverbs 20:5, NIV).      

“Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart” (Psalm 37:4, ESV).

“For it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose” (Philippians 2:13).

“Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved?” (Song of Solomon 8:5, NKJ).

“But Ruth replied, ‘Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God’” (Ruth 1:16, NIV).

“Therefore, a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh” (Genesis 2:24, ESV).

“But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well” (Matthew 6:33). 

“Restless in bed and sleepless through the night,
    I longed for my lover.
    I wanted him desperately. His absence was painful.
So I got up, went out and roved the city,
    hunting through streets and down alleys.
I wanted my lover in the worst way!
    I looked high and low, and didn’t find him.
And then the night watchmen found me
    as they patrolled the darkened city.
    ‘Have you seen my dear lost love?’ I asked.
No sooner had I left them than I found him,
    found my dear lost love.
I threw my arms around him and held him tight,
    wouldn’t let him go until I had him home again,
    safe at home beside the fire.”
(Song of Solomon 3:1-4, MSG)

“I belong to my beloved and he belongs to me…” (Song of Solomon 6:3a, BSB).

“For husbands, this means love your wives, just as Christ loved the church. He gave up his life for her” (Ephesians 5:25). 

“Who is this coming up from the wilderness
    like a column of smoke,
perfumed with myrrh and incense
    made from all the spices of the merchant?”
(Song of Solomon 3:6, NIV) (Note: As I studied this verse, the Holy Spirit prompted me in its meaning: Make sure he noticeably has the aroma of Christ on him.)

“Whenever the day came for Elkanah to sacrifice, he would give portions of the meat to his wife Peninnah and to all her sons and daughters. But to Hannah he gave a double portion because he loved her, and the Lord had closed her womb. Because the Lord had closed Hannah’s womb, her rival kept provoking her in order to irritate her. This went on year after year. Whenever Hannah went up to the house of the Lord, her rival provoked her till she wept and would not eat. Her husband Elkanah would say to her, ‘Hannah, why are you weeping? Why don’t you eat? Why are you downhearted? Don’t I mean more to you than ten sons?’” (1 Samuel 1:4-8, NIV)  (I want so badly to have a family with you, my beloved, even if it’s just the two of us.) 

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit” (Romans 15:13). 

“[Abraham] is our father in the sight of God, in whom he believed—the God who gives life to the dead and calls things that are not as though they were” (Romans 4:17).

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust. Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.” (Psalm 91:1-4)

“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!” (Matthew 7:9-11).

“Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven” (Matthew 6:10).

Letting Go of a Little Girl’s Dream

She searches pink for jewelry keepers 

with a ballerina’s pirouette feature, 

possessing time with the pin drum. She hand-

cranks, and the tiny dancer’s wax-like face wanes 

in the distorted mirror that mocks at her, 

unfairest one of all: “Little girl,” as it were, 

“dreams of having little girls.” Her fixed stare breaks 

to shelved board games: the people pegs play fake                  

smiles on the cover of The Game of Life.

Six holes peg for family, pink and blue, wife

and husband. A baby’s coo wraps her fallow 

womb on unseen aisle before she shifts back now

to the dancer whose platform spring tilts and sticks–

“Girls” “Girls” “Girls” like a scratched prophecy. Transfixed, 

her eyes blur as she hears, “Something so broken 

can never be fixed” as the musak plays on.    

As a poetry assignment for one of my English graduate courses, we had to write heroic couplets (aabbcc end-rhyme), 16-22 lines of iambic pentameter.  The poem had to take place in a store; a toy store was one of those options.  At least three of the rhyming words had to have two syllables or more.  We had to compare the piped music in the store to something industrial for at least two lines.  We were given suggested words to use in the poem– fallow, indent, oil, and daffodil– of which I only used one.       

Note: As I strive to adhere to the strict guidelines of iambic pentameter, a true poet will see that I am still in the beginner stages of achieving such form, this being far from a final draft. 

Image from Google

The Discontent Wife

Sometimes I still reflect on how my 14 year marriage ended in divorce.  My former husband and I were what I would consider “compatible” and generally happy most of the time.  Most of our marriage was one of peace and respect for each other.  It wasn’t a hostile marriage nor was our divorce; the respect we had for each other was one of loyalty to the very end.  Even now twelve years later if someone asks me about it, I share the truths about us with words of kindness, care, and respect.     

Since I’ve now almost been divorced as long as I was married, I’ve had lots of time to examine and search my own heart over the matter.  Those developments have changed with time.  First I blamed him.  Then I blamed myself.  Next I blamed both of us.  Now I focus on what was my responsibility in the demise of our union.            

I believe the most important aspect is putting myself in my former husband’s shoes and imagining what his answer would be on why it didn’t work for him.  It is a hard truth to face and accept, but if this step is avoided, I potentially run the risk of other failed relationships in the future. 

What would his answer be for why our marriage didn’t last?  I believe it can be contained in these six words:

I just couldn’t make her happy.

With the reflection and realization of this hard truth, a deep pain gnaws in my gut.  Did he ever do things to make me happy?  Without a doubt, YES!  Most of the time he blessed me in our marriage.  Being married in our early 20’s, we still had much room to grow and develop as individuals and as one flesh, something I wasn’t willing to let time, experience, and our pulled energies build into something lasting.  Instead of looking at the strengths of our relationship, I viewed it through the lens of our shortcomings, unable to embrace the fact that with two imperfect people, we would always have an imperfect marriage.  As I continually expressed my frustrations, our marriage suffered, and in that, I fashioned an impassive husband.  

I am a people-watcher and now cannot help but observe the interactions between couples, specifically at restaurants.  I suppose it is because everyone, including myself, is stationary for a while and much can be observed in the one encounter.  At times it’s been painful to watch couples grapple through a conflict because it reminds me of what we must have looked like during our marriage.  Sadly it seems like a rerun of the same scene, just a different couple: The wife seemingly mulls over details with her husband about some upsetting incident.  As I watch the man on the receiving end, his facial expressions and body language tell all!  I’ve been tempted a few times to walk over and give a soft warning, mainly to the woman:          

Be careful with your words.  Be assured, he is taking all of it in, and more than likely he is more upset that he cannot seem to make you happy in this area of dispute. But worst of all, he is holding a lot in for fear of hurting you more and may even feel like a failure as a husband.  He asked you to marry him because he delights in you.  He deserves the same esteem.  It’s easier to pick apart the things that aren’t working in your relationship but be thankful and focus on what is working!  Believe me, no matter how hard things may seem, you don’t want to hinder your relationship and end up where I am today.              

To the men and women out there that have a great spouse— a great life together: Be mindful of your words and actions toward one another; they are like deposits, which can support or stunt the growth of your relationship.  Even the smallest nitpicking over time can have scathing consequences, coupled with deep regret when it’s too late to prevent their effects in our life.  Nurture the relationship with patient grace, and watch it grow into a harvest of enduring love.    

Photo by Cameron Stow on Unsplash

Home Sweet Home and the Village School

Coffee brews a burnt woody-nut

that hugs velvety egg-shell walls

like tiles, maze-parquet, abut.

Coffee brews a burnt-woody nut

that boomerangs like hems and tucks,

like framed brown faces cloak a shawl.

Coffee brews a burnt woody-nut

that hugs velvety egg-shell walls.

. . .

The school teacher strops leathered minds,

carves with straight and angled brass bits,

turns Lazy Susan in sketched twine.

The school teacher strops leathered minds,

bunts layer on layer, aligns

patterns for base grooves– lesser grit.

The school teacher strops leathered minds,

carves with straight and angled brass bits.

A poetry assignment for one of my English graduate courses, we had to write a double triolet, 16 lines iambic tetrameter. In the first triolet, we had to describe a room or place in which we spent a great amount of time alone (creating a metaphor that compares something in the room or place to an envelope). In the second, we had to write a complimentary triolet and describe a place that is overcrowded and makes you anxious (creating a metaphor that compares something in the environment to a specific kind of instrument for tooling leather or for tanning hides).

Coming Back to the Heart of Worship

“God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in the Spirit and in truth.” (John 4:24)

I treasure natural conversations with others that center around our spiritual walk with God.  It was refreshing to open this sort of dialogue with someone close to me just a couple of weeks ago.  We talked about God opening doors of opportunity, walking in the will of God, and communing with Him. That conversation stayed with me, and I mulled over one particular portion of it where my friend mentioned prayer, how he just talked to God and told Him he loved Him.  His statement convicted me. Besides corporate worship, I couldn’t remember the last time I personally worshiped Him in sustained adoration for who He is; I had bombarded Him lately only with my requests and concerns. 

A few days later, a particular worship song reeled in my mind and spirit; I pulled up the song on my cell phone and listened to it on my way to work.  I came without an agenda. No requests were made. I needed to feel the closeness of God. 

In that intentional moment of worship, I dwelled on Him— His name, His goodness, and His faithfulness.  As I entered His presence, three immediate benefits followed: Peace flowed like a river and sustained all throughout that day and even the days that followed (Isaiah 66:12a); like a reset, He became the focal point in all my thoughts, dealings, and interactions with others (Colossians 3:1-4); and I experienced a vulnerable freedom to be myself without reservation or pretense (2 Corinthians 3:17).  This spiritual encounter brought about something supernatural with the much needed reminder that the communing intimacy of God is unmatched, paling in comparison with the fellowship of others. 

I am thankful the Holy Spirit showed up in my Honda that day.  He didn’t shut the door on me and say, “It’s been a long time. Too long.”  Like a lifetime, old friend, from my last personal worship encounter to this one, the gap in between didn’t matter; He welcomed me in His presence without guilt or shame.  How comforting it is to know that we have an open-door policy with Him always, no matter how long we’ve been away and no matter the condition of our heart!  

I am also thankful for the divine conversation with my friend who moved me forward in my faith.  It appointed the act of intentional, loving worship. Instead of looking for His hand, I looked for His face.  And I found Him. 

Photo by Jude Beck on Unsplash

Christmas Magic

The

doorman’s arm

            appendaged with the open and close

            of the cinema door

                        as bitter winter took its last

bite

at my heeled

ankles.  Wait over there, ma’am, for my

date with tickets had not

arrived yet.  The lobby buzzed of

good

tidings and

            cheers like each bulb sleeved in chandelier

glass.  I peered through the row

of glass doors as the marquee lights

bounced

on shiny

cars turning off 3rd and 18th.   You     

            skimmed the red carpet in 

fedora and black-white wingtips.    

Wide-

eyed, I gasped

            while my twitterpated mind forgot

I’d just met you.  Your eyes

took me for a ride as we crossed

red

velvet ropes

and coy convexity of narrow

balcony stairs until

we reached our twin-mating box seats.

House

lights still up, 

we shared favorites: “The Christmas Song” and

“O Holy Night.”  The show

began: Christmas Carols rang free

in

the hall while

our hearts sang the same pitch, accepting

octaves where the sweetest

melody flows without a rest.       

The following is a poem written for my English poetry graduate class. It was based off of a syllabics prompt where we had to construct a poem of eight quintains or five-line stanzas. The syllable count for each quintain is 1, 3, 9, 6, 8, which follows the syllable counts in Marianne Moore’s eight-quintain poem “The Fish.”

Photo taken at the Lyric Theatre December 2018