Why I like to write in the morning, a poem

Why I like to write in the morningI like to write in the morning,

before reality – sets in.

I like to write in the morning,

before I recall what –

logically, probably, certainly – ain’t happenin’

I like to write in the morning,

when they day is

– still untouched.

Then, anything is possible,

And any dream’s attainable.

I like to write in the morning,

before the birds begin their words,

when stars are still out,

when the coffee is hot (decaf for lent, Kylie).

Fresh mind.

No stress.

No fear to interfere.

Only hope

– in the morning.

I like to write in the morning,

’cause that’s when I dream the biggest dreams.

When the improbable feels tangible,

when I feel unstoppable –

That’s why I like to I write in the morning.

Poems I wrote a while ago

Below are two short poems I wrote for another blog, a number of years ago. It’s fun to look through forgotten stuff : )

 

stay with me

Intro: Sometimes, when my children have a hard time, I don’t say anything. I just stay with them. Hold them. Try to be there, tangibly … not as judge, teacher or corrector. And it’s made all the difference.

Stay with me 10 minutes

When you don’t have any words, but still just want to be together … Stay with me 10 minutes.

When you are feeling sad and mad, and I don’t have any words … Can I just stay with you?

We don’t have anything to do, but we just want to be … Stay together 10 minutes.

Let’s just sit together.

We don’t need words, or anything to do…Just stay with me 10 minutes.

 

message in a bottle

Intro: I can’t remember what prompted this poem, but I know it had to do with my gratitude for God and Max, my husband.

Message is a bottle

My soul was drowning in this bottle,

Corked up and trapped in lonely melancholy.

Then one day someone opened my prison up,

poured all the sorrow out,

and set me free.

 

I left a message in this bottle,

for someone hopefully to see.

I used to be held captive here,

till love and truth delivered me.

 

The House by the Side of the Road, by Sam Walter Foss

“Let me live by the side of the road and be a friend to man.”

I love people, very much, but it takes tremendous effort for me to interact with folks. I can’t remember names or faces. I can’t seem to get in the loop of basic popular culture. I struggle with adhering to social rhythms. The bottom line is that, for me, being with people is almost always exhausting. Most days, all I want to do is withdraw and disappear. It’s one of my greatest challenges.

This week though, I read a sweet poem, The House by the Side of the Road, by Sam Walter Foss, and it encouraged me. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Sam walter Foss

Sam Walter Foss

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner’s seat
Nor hurl the cynic’s ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish – so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

The Thief of Turns

 

The Thief of Turns

The Thief of Turns

My kids were arguing this morning, and one of them called the other “thief of turns” – and that got me thinking, not so much about my kids, but why some people never seem to get their turn. Here is a poem I wrote about the Thief of Turns- I’m typing it out in case you can’t read my handwriting:

The Thief of Turns

Everyone deserves a turn –
That’s what’s fair.

But your turn never comes,
it passes and passes and passes.

They stole my turn.
I missed the turn.
When will it be my turn?

Everyone deserves a turn,
but you have to learn to take your turn.

Did I somehow miss the turn?
Did I do something wrong?

You have, but it wasn’t all you…

it was the Thief of Turns.

He snuck up while you weren’t looking, and stole your turn.

He’s not your friend.
He whispers lies.
He distracts you.
He blinds you.

And then he steals your turn and says, “you don’t deserve a turn.”

But don’t believe him.

a little poem for Max

I just wrote this poem to vent some stress, and to remind myself about what matters most. Sure, it needs editing, but here goes:

My thoughts can be so critical
of the people around me.

My thoughts can be so critical
of the insecurity and incompetency in me.

But I just want to be,
and I want you near me.

How do they balance tasks and productivity?
Success and vulnerability?

The dissonance is paralyzing.
Persistence against resistance.
Organization, but no condemnation.

But that’s not how it’s meant to be.
I just want to be,
and I want you near me.