Those boys with slammed cars and white hands, don't envy them.
You've found your place in the wind. You've put your print on the soil. You've stood your shadow in the blazing sun. You've shared the silent discourse of a living land.
They look right past you. There's not bluster or brag enough in you to suit them. You stand at peace with earnest eyes, with no words that recommend. Though your hands tell of your care, your gaze of your honor, your bearing of your discipline, and your shoulders of your power, it is not a language they read or understand.
When a little one reaches, seeking, you bend to meet his height. You see a seedling to nurture where others might neglect and ignore. You build, they batter, you toil, they boast. You ponder the deeper things, they chase the fads in films and flings. If ever you weary of standing alone, unreckoned and ignored, hold fast and anchor deep because somewhere...someone sees.
Someone reads the story of your hands, she deciphers the language of your eyes. Your Savior is hers as well; she recognizes His voice, she finds in you a kindred joy.
Do not look past her, do not ignore. What others see as plain or unassuming, do not despise. Find the sunshine hidden in her hair. Find the breeze caught in her whirl. Find the dawn that breaks when she smiles.
Read her eyes, hear her heart, for you may just find they speak the silent discourse of a living land.
I entered this poem in an essay contest and got a notification that I'm in the top 100 entries! I shall know next month if I've advanced to the top 10, and so on.
She is the very model of a modern Major Mother,
Her eminence is unsurpassed by Mums of any other,
Clever and cute, brown-eyed brunette; petite in build and stature,
She’s got a smile a mile wide with ready rapt’rous laughter.
In her crazy days, growing up, in wild and scenic Alaska,
She sang and strutted in a pageant and won the crown “Miss Sitka.”
She always was a straight-A girl, a high-school salutatorian,
Who dotted her i’s and crossed her t’s, a veritable moral Victorian,
She majored her Master’s in music, conducted choir, schooled Eskimo natives,
But she fell in love with a dance-band guitarist, (one of those free-spirited creatives).
They settled down and in no time they amassed a mess of five,
And in that bunch I consider myself blessed to be alive,
If I could travel back in time, at warp-speed oh so hyper,
I think I’d thank her every time she changed my dirty diaper.
She schooled us squirmies all at home, maverick that she is,
And transformed us each from drooling twit to academic whiz,
At home she loves to garden, reaping greatly what she sows,
An adoring troupe of chickens trail everywhere she goes.
She’s seen a lot of doctors for years of chronic pain,
But she chooses to be thankful every day, just the same,
So in light of all these qualities, I find it apt to say
I love my modern Major Mother, “Happy Mother’s Day!”
When the lights are left behind and we are lost in the night expanse, a terrible whisper steals into our hearts.
We stare to the side of the prick-lights, elusive as they are. They can only be seen where we aren't looking.
The city sleeps and we wonder if we are the only ones who haven't forgotten the universe.
Suddenly, our world shifts. We are no longer laying on our backs gazing through a pine vignette, but pinned to the side of a planet looking out at a glittering loneliness. Looking down, the only things between us and an endless fall are the silhouettes of our shoes and the fringe of a dark earth's horizon. The perturbing shift continues; we find ourselves plastered like flies to a terra ceiling, staring down a vast abyss.
But it's the sort of terror that dazzles. Tears glisten, refracting the starlight off of breeze-kissed cheeks.
A racing comet steals a gasp from our throats. It is a busy night for the universe; stars dying, being born, so regardless of us. And what, we ponder, lies beyond the utter reaches? Where the stars peter out, the space-time frays and the light dies faint, what then? What lurks in the blindsides of reality, what peers in, unfettered by dimension? A shiver down the spine says it's time to hide from the gaze of the sky, so we scramble for our screens and ceilings. We block away what makes us small and surround ourselves with smaller things, to assure our reign as little kings. Unbeknownst to our aching minds is the fact that the Presence beyond the Deep could be near us even as we sleep. Could the space suspended between the fibers of our finite being house an infinite Being unseen? Could a spaceless One reach through the uncharted dark and leave a trace upon our aching hearts?