Tag: horses

Home

They say home is where
Your heart is.
Maybe because it always
Goes with.

It stays in place,
Beating and pumping,
Keeping a rhythm,
Staying whole.

It’s doors and windows
Open, letting in other souls,
Places, and dreams
To hold.

But the wind blows,
And life changes,
Causing cracks and
Breaks to form.

But still, it goes on
Beating and pumping,
Though the new rhythm
Changed the song.

It has to move on, or
Move away, letting go,
Instead of holding on
To the pain.

Home is where the
Heart is, since it always
Stays. But home becomes
More than one place,

Found in the pieces
That are broken off,
That can’t come with-
Even though without them,

It’ll never be whole.

Someone Like Me

Someone like me—
deals with anxiety.
Caring too much for
what doesn’t matter.
And not enough for
what truly does.

Someone like me—
falls short over and over.
Never enough, never
brave, never perfect.
Failing, flailing,
hurting myself, and others.

Someone like me—
stutters and stumbles.
Struggling with the same
things, every single time.
Wondering if there will ever
be change. Or hope.

Someone like me—
is never understood by
those who surround me.
My thoughts, my dreams,
never match theirs,
dividing my heart in half.

Someone like me—
is unworthy, alone to
face the giants and fears.
Trembling, shaking, shattering,
instead of taking hold of the
stones in my hand.

Someone like me—
is hopeless, a lost cause.
Getting left behind in this life.
Deserving nothing but darkness,
shame, and guilt. The
results of my stupidity.

But Someone like Him—
Redefined my future, redefined
every lie I believe about
myself. With one display
of incomprehensible love—
His death on the cross.

Someone like Him,
has plans for me,
using my failures, my falls,
my anxiety— to create a
masterpiece I can’t see.
Or even start to understand.

Someone like Him,
loves even the most unlovable
pieces of my heart and soul.
Tearing down the walls,
the barrier of sin and hell,
so I can have a forever with Him.

Someone like Him,
With unending mercy and
relentless love, takes my
unworthiness, my guilt, my shame,
and all of the other lies I hold,
and breathes truth into my darkness—

Reaching me with unshakable kindness.
Holding me with unchanging patience.
Freeing me with unfailing grace.

And loving me, when no one should.

Old Friend

My oldest friend
Has never said a word to me,
But he’s the best speaker I know,
Once you’ve learned how to listen.

He’s heard every dream and heartache,
And caught every tear,
As it slid from my cheek and clung
To his coat, waiting to be absorbed.

He’s taught me more about dealing
With and living through pain,
Than anyone else could. Always
Making a lesson out of what he’s endured.

His heart is genuine, he holds no grudges.
Forgiving even those who cut him deep.
His soft muzzle nuzzling their palm,
Warm air blowing through their fingers.

He thinks he’s king, holding the herd in check.
Keeping an eye out for threats that exist,
And, for those that don’t.
But you can never be too safe.

He still runs and plays like a carefree colt,
Even though his muscles and joints tell the truth
Of the years that are catching up to him.
More days behind him than before.

Our time is shortened by each sunset,
Each passing season and star.
But for now, I’ll cling to his mane.
And listen to every word still unspoken,

Throwing in a few thoughts of my own,
Thanking him for everything he’s given.
Thanking him for everything he is and has been.

Thanking him
for all he was.

The only mane I can cling to now,
Is the small piece that I kept.
It smells like him, feels like him,
And listens to my heart break.

The sun sets and fades over the mountain,
Casting shadows over a fresh pile of dirt,
Tears now soak the ground, not his coat,
And time can’t be reversed.

But his soul will live on,
Even if his body can’t,
In the memories I cling to,
And always, always, in my heart.

Cidney’s Song

What makes a song
a song—
Something worth singing,
repeating—  
Worth sharing with others?

Sincerity.

He sings from within,
his eyes full of light,
When he sees,
When he hears,
His person, his place.

His melody holds strong,
His heart full of joy,
When he runs,
When he jumps,
His life, his love.

He writes the harmony,
His mind adjusting,
To his new role,
To his new lot,
His home, his forever.

What makes a song
a song—
Something worth singing,
Repeating—

Sincerity.
A story worth sharing.

Little Things

It’s the little things 
most don’t notice.

An ear, flicking
Listening,
To what you say.
Whether it’s voiced.
Or through movement.
Or not at all.

An eye, blinking, 
Thinking
Of what you want,
Warm and soft, full.
Or cold and distant.
Empty, unforgiven mistakes.

A muscle, twitching, 
Reacting,
To something small.
A reminder of how light,
How soft, sensitive,
You need to be.

A muzzle, blowing, 
Searching,
For anything you might give. 
Breathing into your palm, 
Or your ear. Putting you 
Back together. 

It’s the small pieces of 
Themselves. 
They so freely give,
To replace the pieces 
Of our own hearts 
That go missing. 

And it’s these little things, 
Most don’t notice. 

Maker

Imagine the carpenter
Hovering over plain, shapeless wood,
Running His finger tips over the surface,
Picturing the piece He’ll create.

Take a look at the artist,
His hand curled around His brush,
Selecting each color, pressing each stroke,
Treasuring the image on the canvas.

Be sure to watch the writer,
Chewing on the end of His pen,
Crafting the story, choosing each word,
Feeling the narrative as it unfolds.

Do your best to fathom,
How it looks when all of these combine,
Into one Master, Creator, Maker,
The God who doesn’t make mistakes.

Picture Him hovering over every piece and part,
Selecting each shape, each color with care,
Crafting every detail of every day,
Writing each moment, choosing each word.

Wrap your head around this truth,
And hold it deep inside your heart,
Even the pieces you don’t like,
Even the story lines you can’t understand,
Are still a part of His masterpiece.
Are still a part of His perfect plan.

Barn

It’s not much, but it’s everything.
The small, metal building.
It’s quiet, except for the soft
Chewing, and snorting—contentment
Saying more than noise ever could.

The world can’t reach her here,
No negativity, or questions,
No stress or doubt. It’s only
A place of peace, of dreams.
And unconditional love.

Life gets left behind, as soon
As her feet cross the threshold.
Her heart beats with purpose
In the place where hope can be held,
Even if everything else stands against it.

Truth

Spinning in circles, going nowhere fast.
Squinting, blinking, tearing up,
Trying to see through the dust.

Frustration building, tension growing,
Muscles rigid and tight.
Fighting yourself every step.

Sweat trickles down, a chill
Interrupts the heat of the moment,
Questions what the effort is for.

The sun blinds instead of enlightens.
The glare makes it impossible to see,
To think, to choose, to find, anything.

Feet grow tired, knees grow weak,
Minds fill with every fear and doubt,
Will I ever be right? Will I ever be enough?

But one slight shift, one change in perspective,
Can stop the spinning, can dry the tears,
Can lift our eyes and give us new vision.

A Hand reaches down, lifting our shuffling
Feet out of the trench we’ve created,
Clearing the dust from our head,

Silencing the thoughts of doubt,
Removing each tingle of fear,
Replacing each with a Voice filled
With nothing but pure truth.