Shooting Stars

Shower of shooting stars
    this love,
pieces of beauty and light
    amidst darkness.
Wishes and prayers
    with the isolation of the fall.
Breaking down and coming undone
    in the rush.
In the heat there is passion
    colors;
 The fuel of the fire.
Intensity that takes
    breath away.
In the rhythm of our heartbeats,
    here and gone.
Beating pain in my chest,
    needed to live.
Never knew I could feel this much;
   this love, a
Shower of shooting stars

Unconditional Love

"For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him, shall not perish but have eternal life"
John 3:16

"I have come that they may have Life, and have it to the full"
John 10:10b

I.
Immeasurable and undeserving
Experience never ending joy
Through knowing God personally
For this is His purpose for us

II.
Sinful, missing the mark
Undeserving and unable
To achieve this purpose
Alone.

The wages of this imperfection?
Death
Eternal, spiritual
Separation.

Though we attempt, we fail
For a gap exists
Between God's holiness
And our singleness
Unbridgeable

III.
EXCEPT
Through Jesus
The Way
The Truth
The Life

God's Son
Gives as our
Sacrifice
While we were still sinners
Crucified

The unbridgeable gap?
Bridged
There lies the corss-
Providing the way.
Christ paid the wages
Eternal death
Becomes
Eternal life.

IV.
Only by receiving
Accepting
Christ
Can we-
Eternally separated
Be forever reunited
Cleaned and Holy
By the Grace
Of our God.

V.
There He stands
At the door of your heart
Knocking

Opening the door
Life Changing
Eternally.

Happy Birthday

my wonderful fellow Africa Family Coordinators from work wrote me this great, hilarious poem for my birthday. they know me so well...

You are wise beyond your years
Being with you relives all our fears.

You like things neat - you are no hoarder
Without you, our G: drive would have absolutely no order.

Thank you for answering all our questions
And for the abundancy of your Africa information.

You fill us with wisdom about being a wife
You wear precious clothes and remove all our strife.

You are the senior of coordination
But still humble enough to give us so much supportive affirmation.

You are calm beyond words and love funny jokes
On the Run loves you because you drink all of their cokes.

Because of you
we know the beauty of clip art
Remember you are loved here
and are the beat of our heart

[Caitlin Edwards & Emily Lineberger]

His Walk

written for a highschool friend who lost his life fighting in Iraq

Young, he walked the line to Pomp and Circumstance
    into the smokey future.
Opportunity knocked at his door, the wood cracked
    Georgia called him south, the peach bruised
But his heart led him elsewhere
Into a land raped by war, torn by anger and hate

Innocence, his eyes saw only twenty years
    of love, of hope, of family, of friends, of God.
I called him into a life of loneliness, of emptiness
Aged, he walked the front line with
    the few, the proud
      for me.

Vitality, his strength began mightily
    but the smoke weakened his hold.
He wanted to go home. His legs couldn't move.
    My life, my future, my freedom
    formed chains around his ankles
Three days.
He is home, he walks the silver-lined skies
    Back into the love, the hope, the family, the friends, God.
My chains fall from his ankles, he's free.

Nineteen

That springtime in Virginia, everything
     was new and fresh,
the flowers, the trees, the people
I met a boy who told me what I wanted to hear.
     I was naive,
feeding off what was given to me.
I questioned the intentions fleetingly, older and
     used, carrying the burden of the truth in
the back of my mind.

At nineteen, away from home, I wanted
    to seize the opportunity.
His eyes were gray casting shadows on his
     empty claims, and like a fool I'd smile
He knew what to do what to say, how to
     appease me and how to keep hidden.
We went to a crystal city and the walls fell
     down that night.

I asked and asked myself how each scar felt.
How I let it come to this point.
As the lies came to light and the facade began
  to crumble, "He didn't understand" was all he said.
A sudden storm came that night and the
  flash from the lightning illuminated the truth
He uttered yet, another false promise,
   and I left.

Beautiful Disaster

a glimpse into my testimony...

Midnight
My world crashed down
Where they stood
Drinking away my life
This is love.

I walked into the summer's night
Sitting on the cool pavement
Eyes closed
a disaster

Three O'Clock
the pieces of my world
Are in Your hands
This is Love

I sat on my bed
wrapped in Your warmth
Eyes closed
Beautiful

Breathless

My heart weighs
down my entire body
I suffocate

Your hand grasps
shooting pain down my spine
chaining my legs to the floor
as a river of red engulfs me

The air of you has forced itself
into my lungs
again
it surrounds me
leaving me with no other option

I breath you in

and choke
my lips gasp for breath
but no clean air exists

my eyes go black
and i give into you

falling to the ground
with the only sound
a crash of chains
and bleeding

Seduction.

[It is the nature of desire not to be satisfied, and most humans live only for the gratification of it] Aristotle

Magical innocence of youth

slowly deteriorates with aged wisdom

Into an inevitable haunting desire

an ache for transcendence to

surpass the mundane monotony and

rise into the passion of complete unbridled freedom.

This spark of intimacy reflects

fiery embers from your eyes

Gazing towards the ominous pilgrimage

required to quench

the thirst of your parched soul.

Yet

you are seduced back

unhealed wounds from 

arrows of darkness.

Lies shoot disdain for this

quaint sentiment of a

Sacred Romance

and into the quasiredemptive busyness

called life.

You return

embracing what is your anesthetized heart

Only to find your indulgent attempts

at gratification fail.

Curiosities are never tamed

buy crystallized

Broken only by the step of faith

off the edge of the abyss

Grace

Filth covers her face
  dirt and grime are found beneath her fingernails
Her clothes are tattered and torn
  with stains of debauchery
Pride is written in scars across her heart
  while selfishness is the fabric of her clothing

She stands in front of the crowd of demons for a price

       A High Price

Her head is lifted as if she is worth a thousand,
       or two
But the multitude below dirty and bruised,
      snatch and struggle
      seizing her for free
      tearing her garments
      and her heart
                  to pieces

She cannot fight


Racing through the muck and debauchery
      she sees Him, in white
combatting his way through the horde

        To Save Her.


Through the mud and dust he is
        unrecognizable to her

He reaches her
  and surrounds her with his Love
Pulling her from the pit

She is safe - but he is beaten, bruised,
  scarred, and stabbed
Blood streams from his face
  From his hands
  From his feet
  From his side
His white robe, now undistinguishable
  from its surroundings

But with his last breathe
She is lifted to safety, a beautiful paradise
       while he is dragged down to the valley

Shadows of death are dancing throughout the pit
       around her savior

This jubilee halts with a crack of thunder
Colors change
The valley becomes a mountain
The dead become flowers
The dirt becomes beauty
And there he stands at the peak
With his arms stretched out for her

And She Remembers

As she runs, the filth is falling
  the scars of pride are vanishing
  and herself is forgotten
Instead she wears the white gown
He purchased for her

And He stands there
  Her Husband
  Her Bridegroom

a memory

one of the first poems i remember hearing and memorizing is a poem my dad would read to me when i was a little girl. It is simple, straight forward, and has a real message. A message he was probably trying to teach me when i was young, but i just liked the poem- it rhymed... So, i thought i would share it with you:


A Wise Old Owl


A wise old owl lived in an oak;
The more he saw the less he spoke;
The less he spoke the more he heard:
Why can't we all be like that bird?
     [Edward Hersey Richards]

Crossing

I.
Two wanderers travel parallel paths
their journeys' cross.
Two years they walk in the same direction
together.
The same bright star
guiding the way.
Two hearts led by one Truth - steady,
Unchanging.

II.
Changing
steadily, the direction of their paths diverge.
One steps away from the starlight.
A traveler, lost in the dark.

Father into the thicket she wanders
blinded by weeds, dust, and dirt.
Surrounded in darkness
she stumbles and grasps for the light.
She falls.

Hearing
the remaining traveler attempts to help the fallen.
Straining
Into the darkness without loosing sight of the light herself
Failing in her attempts
to save
she continues in the light
Hoping

III.
I am watching, searching, and waiting
for her return
from the dark thicket
Praying
for a break in the brush to allow the light
to guide her
Home.

Divine Reflection

[in honor of valentines day [a day late] i wrote this poem for joey before we got married]

Restlessly Falling

I see myself floating

Lost in transition

To you

Rapidly Breathing

I feel my heart beating

Glimpses of me

In you

Slowly Sighing

I lose myself dreaming

Created and molded

For you

Carefully Waiting

I catch myself leaping

Forward by faith

To you

Thankfully Praising

I see what's captivating 

Reflections of Christ

In you

Altruistically Yearning
I try perfecting
Patience and kindness
For you

Intimately Desiring
I recognize  I'm falling
Further in love
With you

Canvas

Skyswept sea grasses
The quiet sunlight
Orchestrated rays
parallel from clouds
warming white soft sand.

a passion for poetry

ever since 9th grade when i had to write a poem for English class, i've loved writing poetry. i hated english class.... but writing poetry stuck with me. i like words. so in college i took a creative writing: poetry class as an elective for my writing and rhetoric major.  It was by far one of my favorite classes at JMU b/c all we did is write poetry. i love writing it, but it takes time, and this gave me a reason. we had to read it in front of the class and have it orally edited ... but i didn't mind, normally i would despise this, but i loved writing and making it better. So, as a final project we had to have a compilation of poetry... name it, have an abstract, etc. so i thought i'd share it as a part of this blog. maybe it'll motivate me to make time to write more... these aren't perfect, and they're no shakespeare, but i think they're relatable. and that's my goal.. i'll be posting sporadically.... I will also be posting poems that have special meaning to me or ones that i simply like... enjoy.

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My collection of poetry is connected through the underlying theme of relationships, whether a friendship, a relationship with a boyfriend or significant other, or a relationship with a  higher power (God).  This underlying intimacy is threaded throughout each poem.  The poems' subject matters range from general experiences such as death, to love, to loss, and to intimacy.  However, within each of these subject matters there is a larger story, a greater Romance that we are all a part of. Hopefully, this collection of poems gives insight into the greater story... the Romance that is Life.

journey from process to product

When examining the process of creative writing, especially among poets, it is a very individual, intimate journey into their soul. They themselves are sorting through the emotional baggage of life and picking through the cobwebs in the back of their mind to bring into the light, that which is a part of them. The product of this journey is the poem, while the process is the journey itself. It all begins with a triggering event, or emotional. My journey begins with that event that triggers the chaos running amuck in the mind and ends when I am able to fist this chaos and translate it into language. This does not necessarily finish the journey, but the product of the poem can bring closure. With that said, my writing process? Come with me on this journey...


My journey begins with that event, emotion, feeling, sentiment, or passion that triggers in me the need for release. Its release into the unknown to be controlled, tamed, and hopefully understood. Consequently, there is a time period in which I can grasp this uncontrolled, chaotic disarray of energy in order to translate it into something understandable. If I attempt this feat too quickly after the trigger my ability to seize and organize is severely inhibited by the extreme chaos of emotions. Therefore, when I am attempting to write I must allow my thoughts to settle and calm to a point where I can then begin to try this control and release. This time period can be anything from a couple hours to a couple months, thus so far has been the case.


When I do begin this process of putting my thoughts on paper, I am usually alone, in my mind at least. People can surround me, but as long as I am able to be in solitude with myself and not distracted by my environment I can write. I almost prefer writing with people around rather that isolating myself alone in my room. This also serves as inspiration at times. I can be completely isolated in my thoughts and experiencing my solitude when surrounded and people watching. Others, even strangers, give large amounts of inspiration when you watch them. From watching interactions between friends or couples, to someone alone and their actions or seeming emotions, these observations become poetry.  Not only being inspiring in themselves, these observations can arouse the long settled chaos in the back of my mind. These observations serve as a broom stirring up dust in the corner allowing me to reach for, again or possible the first time, a similar even in my own life.


Following along with my environment, I favor being outside when writing poetry. Whether warm or cool, the touching, tasting, smelling, seeing, and hearing of nature and what is life inspires my words. It also inspires my thoughts and emotions. Although I may not write about the grass or sky every time I write outside, the beauty of creation inspires other, deeper intimacies in life, more specifically, God. I am able to see God in the natural world and experience Him, in ways, including being outside, in His creation. The complex subject matter that is God, faith, and romance, inspires an uncountable number of sense and emotions to grasp with the language of poetry. 


A final aspect, of the environment of my journey includes a pen or pencil and paper. I cannot, even dream, of initially writing a poem on a computer, typewriter, or any type of technology. What is most natural and real flows most directly and uninhibited onto paper with a pen or pencil. With a computer, the process of writing becomes processed and unnatural going through various steps to become a product. When I am writing straight onto paper I am able to put everything I am thinking down immediately, and then go back and correct. This makes for a more authentic, personal product, rather than something influence, edited, and auto-formatted. My opinion concerning the use of a pencil or pen for the initial creation of a piece of any creative writing holds strong. It is a better product in the end. 


Completing the aspect of the journey concerning where my poems are born, lets continue to the centrality that is poetry writing, the inspiration. Many different things inspire my writing, some topics and subject matters more than others; however I feel my poetry covers a wide range. Among many forms of inspiration are relationships. Any sort of relationship can cause feelings of pain, loss, and struggle, beauty, love, joy which are some of the emotions I express when I do write about relationships with friends, significant others, and God. It is very cathartic to write poetry.


The tail end of the journey is revision. The chaos I am attempting to express usually initially comes out on paper as just that, chaos. It takes a varying number of revisions from poem to poem to arrive at a completed product. However, I simply go through it draft after draft changing words and arrangement to best express my intentions for the poem. Revision is an art in itself. usually when I revise, my audience is myself. I have never attempted to publish any works and therefore am unconcerned with what others think of it. However, it is a possible goal of mine to publish some poetry and when i complete final revisions I take others into consideration, but keeping my thoughts on where the poem is going and how it should read first. Poetry is a journey into the soul of another, therefore, it is most important that what you see is a pure reflection of that person's soul. I believe a poets most important audience, should be themselves.