Category: Writing

Make New

Something fragile,
Something treasured,
Something filled with hopes,
Dreams and memories,

Gets the place high
On the shelf, where
It can be seen and admired.
Where it’s kept safe

From finger prints and
Greedy hands, who, maybe,
See it’s value, but not it’s
Beauty, or rarity.

But the guard gets let down.
Someone, or something, gets
Permission, to hold it, to
Feel it, to see-

How when the light hits it,
It shines and sparkles,
Glistens and gleams,
In all it’s meant to be.

But careless recklessness,
Brings it crashing to the floor,
Shattering glass into splinters,
And fear into sobs and tears.

On hands and knees, the
Pieces are gathered and clutched,
Piercing the skin over and over,
The hurt fresh with each poke.

On her own, she can’t fix it,
The more she tries, the tighter
she holds onto the pieces,
The more she bleeds.

She has to surrender,
Let each piece fall back
To the floor, and give it
To the One who made her.

To the One who can restore,
To the One who can heal,
To the One who can make new,

And can use her pain,
For His ultimate plan.

https://youtu.be/4_2aX_i4qpM

Meant to Be

Something out of place
May seem pretty in the
Right light, or from a
Certain angle.

But a feather on a fence
Will never fly, will never
Soar, or reach the heights
It was made to see.

So even when it hurts,
Even when questions are
Unanswered, even when confusion
Swirls- try to remember this:

God’s plan is so much better.
And He’s just relocating you,
Shaping you, focusing you,
For where you’re meant to be.

Even if you can’t see it,
Even if you can’t believe it,
From where You’re standing
Today.

Tree

The tree sees everything,
From sunrise to sunset,
From day to week,
From month to year.

She stands tall and strong,
Moving with the wind,
Withstanding the rain,
Never showing her fear.

She takes the heat,
And takes the freeze,
Staying consistent, constant,
Hiding every tear.

Her leaves fall and
Grow back, a repeated
Cycle, a guarantee-
She’ll always be here.

The tree sees everything,
From sunrise to sunset,
From day to week,
From month to year.

But who will ever
See her?

Relief

She collected her bag and water bottle from the bench and climbed up the steps onto the field. She paused, taking everything in one last time. The way the grass was the perfect shade of green. The snow-white chalk that drew the batters’ boxes and the pitching circle. The red clay dirt that had stained hundreds of pairs of her socks throughout the years. The bullpen.
Her eyes settled on the crates of balls, and she remembered the weight of the ball in her hand. The burn of the seam over her fingers as she spun each pitch with precision. The slide of her back foot as she dragged it behind her. The snap of the ball in the catcher’s mitt as the batter swung and missed.
She tore herself away and walked down the narrow one-way street that took her to the mall. Ducking her head, one tear slid down her cheek as she jogged towards the setting sun, working to avoid eye contact with anyone she met. The purple and navy shades of dusk settled in around her as she found her car. Her keys slipped through her fingers and clattered to the concrete. Bending over, she collected her keys, and herself, before opening her door and sitting down. She made eye contact with herself in the review mirror. Her blue eyes were clouded with unshed tears and sadness, and a small ache had settled in around her heart. The pain didn’t surprise her as she thought about the decision she had just made, everything she had just walked away from, or the life she had just left behind.
What shocked her, was the small sense of relief.

Clarity

Tears blur your vision,
Making it hard to see,
Emphasizing the confusion,
And the pain that caused them.

You blink and try to clear your eyes,
But more and more just flow,
Streaming down your cheeks,
Leaving a salty trail on your face.

The pain swallows you whole,
Seeping into each crack of your
Heart. Your breathing turns to gasps,
Until you can’t hear anything else.

So slow down, hit pause,
Pull over if you have to.
Let them fall until there’s
Nothing left, ‘til you’re dry.

Then blink.
And find your clarity.

Tears

Tears are salty raindrops
That fall from eyes
Instead of clouds.

They speak for us
When our pain
Cuts off our words.

The pain stems from
Disappointment, heart break,
When we feel alone-

like no one sees,
like no one understands,
like no one cares.

We think they run
Unseen-down our cheeks,
Our chin, then gone

As we face reality,
And let go of hope
As it slides away,

Falling from our faces,
But leaving trenches,
Felt only in our own hearts.

But- Someone does see.
Someone does understand.
Someone does care.

He feels our pain,
And collects each tear,
Saving them in a bottle.

He holds each tear, sees
Each fear. Knowing our true
selves, and loving us anyway.

Reminding us hope is
Never gone, His love
Is never unattainable.

When pain consumes,
When questions stay unanswered,
When nothing makes sense,

His love stays. And He
Saves and rescues, each and
Every undeserving piece

Of your soul,
Of your heart,
Of your tears.

And He never lets you go.

A Letter to Grandma

Three hundred and sixty five days-
It’s only a fraction of
Twenty six and a half years.

But each one felt so different,
So foreign, than any of the ones
That came before.

I feel like the world should
Have stopped turning, or at least
Paused. But it just kept on moving.

I’ve submitted my novel to a few
Publishers. Nothing has happened yet,
But I promise I’ll keep trying.

I’m teaching middle school now
Something you always wanted,
I’m sorry you’re not here to see.

I wrecked my car, totaled it,
Yeah, it was my fault, but I’m ok.
I’m sorry. I know you would’ve been scared.

I fell off and dislocated my shoulder,
And could hear your voice saying
“Erica Lynne,” as you shook your head.

Boog is with you now, or at least
I hope he’s found his way to you.
I always teased you that he was yours.

Madeline sleeps in your chair,
Yes, it’s covered in her gray hair, but
She’s keeping it warm and safe.

I got a puppy. I can see you rolling your eyes.
But I named him Deacon, from Nashville,
You always said Charles Esten was cute.

Each day has been divided into moments,
Some good, some okay, some hard.
I guess that’s probably normal.

Something simple can still catch me
Off guard. Like my total at the gas station- 1928. The year you were born.

Other memories come and make me
Laugh, which I know is what you would want.
You were always smiling and enjoying life.

I’ve grown a lot, changing in ways I think
are good. I’ve made some mistakes, yes,
But I hope I’ve still managed to make you proud.

Three hundred and sixty five days-
It’s only a fraction of
Twenty six and a half years,

But it stands out in bold type,
Harder, sharper, than the rest,
Because it was the first one,

Without you here.