Tag Archives: poetry

The World’s a Stage . . .

If the world’s a stage,
and we it’s grand actors,
then we are acting only for ourselves
and our fellow crew.
But sooner or later we must acknowledge
that really, in the pit of our stomach
we are yearning to tear off our mask
and meet the one
that is standing at the edge
of the curtain
holding the roses.
The one who cheers not for the act,
but for me.


I’m sorry I’m a day late. I had a date last night. 😉

I shared a post on Wednesday about a book I’d been reading that made me think a lot about where I am and what I am experiencing as an American living in a foreign country. Thoughts have been romping around my head the last few days, refusing to sit still and let me make sense of them. But every now and again I catch a snippet of their truth, and I am content to know that there is indeed some truth hidden inside of them. I don’t have to understand it all now, one day I will.


There are a lot of things here
that remind me of there.
They point and mimic and echo.
But they aren’t there,
and they never can be.
So, I’m stuck holding onto a  shadow.

The shadows are fleeting,
and never give fulness,
I’m always groaning for more.
I’m searching for ways
to make sense of the days
that I’m left without sight of home’s door.

Despair can come quickly
Fear threatens daily
I’ll never fully fit in.
But hope reassures
One day He will return
and I’ll be home . . . forever . . . with Him.


I’ve been thinking about “heroes” lately.
Those people, who have caught a vision dear to my heart
and done something about it.
They’ve accomplished something I dream of,
and all while remaining likable . . . for the most part.

And then, as I’ve thought about “heroes” –
the ones I particularly respect and admire –
I realize that they are better left unmet, and unknown.
Knowing them, even in the shallowest sense of the word,
often leaves me disappointed.
They are people, just like me.
The status of “hero” doesn’t change them, doesn’t make them something supernatural.
What do I want in a hero?

Well, briefly, this:
I want someone to look to as an example,
someone I can relate to,
someone who will champion my cause,
raise my feeble arms when I start falling under the weight of my ambitions.
I want someone who is going to smile when I succeed,
with a genuine smile, mind you,
And I want someone who will cry with me when I fail,
with sympathetic tears, of course.
I want someone who wants to know more than my name, my number,
my title, my accomplishments.
I want someone who wants to know my favorite coffee, my biggest pet peeve,
my greatest fear, and my most driving dream.
I don’t want someone with a nice secretary and a good e-mail signature
who sees the little girl on the other end of the internet connection
and thinks, “Oh yeah . . . another one of those.”

So, in short, I’ve realized that “heroes” are great.
They’re great for stories, and imaginations.
They’re great for strivings and reaching-fors.

But, when it comes right down to it,
I’ve got the only real heroes I need.
I’ve got a Jesus in heaven who’s watching everything I do, and cheering me on,
and I’ve got this amazing husband who not only knows my favorite coffee, but makes it for me every day.
I’m happy.

So this is summer . . .

Chaos, murmurs, hurt, strife.
Day long day, across the year, I feel these knocking at my door,
asking to come and weaken my joy.
It feels that summer has turned a cold shoulder towards me,
and I am at her mercy for whatever she might hurl my way.

But, then, nearly suddenly it seems,
a splash, a crash,
and all is changed.
For the sweet days of long light and warm feelings has come.
For this time, the chaos lives somewhere else,
I’m suspended in something that shocks me with light,
and at the same time sends me reeling in the freedom and peace that swaddle me.
Yet, as wondrous as this seems it must be,
there is only a short time before the “freedom” and “peace”
become uncomfortable and threaten to suffocate me if I don’t soon
return to the world of chaos.

That’s when I push off the bottom and come up for air.

Poetry Exercise:

So, today I read in Island of the World (really really amazing book) this quote,

Just like legs, poetic imagination needs daily exercise.

Well, that’s been weighing on me today, and I know that as an “author-wannabe,” that’s true. But, tonight – this is all I’ve got:

I see the pen and paper,
sitting glaringly in the corner of the room.
They are staring at me with some sort of cruel
guilt-trip, motivational speech laced in them.
But, I glance at my watch,
I mention to them how the clouds are descending, and it really looks quite monotonous out today.
I’m sure it would actually be counter-productive to take the time to get them out,
dust them off, put them in order for the exercise.
But they seem to be directly opposite, and entirely highlighting
my empty notebooks and unfinished manuscripts.
So, I argue with them for long, useless minutes, giving my excuses,
and of course waiting for their smart remarks back to me.
But, in the end, they win.
Mind you, they only win as I hear my empty excuses and, likewise empty promises for the future.
They win only because I was right in the beginning, for looking, and thinking.
I wanted the exercise all along, of course,
but had felt that the more responsible use of my time would be spent elsewhere, in some trudging boring work that was expected of me.
But now, ah! bliss! I shall sit and take the pen to the paper.
I have been waiting days for this freedom to exercise.