some poetry

 

eighteen

ages are funny things. to think that

you’ve existed for longer than someone

and shorter than someone else—

isn’t that strange?

and some of them have meanings.

you, for instance. you’re eighteen. what does that mean?

nothing. everything.

a child in someone’s mind and a grown-up in someone else’s.

you “turn eighteen” (what does that even mean? it’s like it’s the turn of a century)

and you become the same but different.

you’re a man now, child,

in the eyes of the world. you’re not a “minor” anymore. you’re a “major”.

a full-fledged human. congratulations, you actually exist now.

but what you did before, isn’t that important too?

ages are funny things. some people say they matter, but do they?

you don’t seem so different to me.

headache

thud.

thud.

thud.

there’s a small creature inside my head

it’s knocking at my skull with its teeth.

thud.

go away, small creature, you’re hurting me

i can’t possibly do anything

with you inside my head.

thud.

thud.

shut up, small creature, nobody cares about you.

thud.

“leave me my name.” - john proctor, the crucible

fool.

you want my name?

i have given you my soul.

sure, you can have my name,

once you’ve pried it from my cold, dead hands.

i have given you my soul. leave me my name.

colours

 her favourite colours change with the seasons.

in spring it’s green, brilliant grass green, like the leaves on roses and the moss growing gently on bushy-topped trees. it’s white, like daffodils and fuzzy dandelions, scattering their petals on the wind. it’s purple, soft lilac purple, like the early sunrise and gentle lavender always smiling. it’s pink, like the cherry blossoms waving in the quiet wind.

in summer it’s blue. stunning, piercing blue like the ocean casting itself on the shore, like the sky in the middle of a warm summer day. it’s yellow, like hibiscus flowers and tan like the soft sand lining the beach.

in autumn it’s orange like pumpkin spice, like soft candlelight in the dark and a fire warming the corner of a home. it’s brilliant red, like a forest lined with the leaves falling from bare trees. it’s brown, like the pages of a well-loved book, like nutmeg, like oatmeal that warms your mouth or the tang of coffee or the soft hug of cinnamon tea. 

in winter it’s red. bright, passionate red like the stripes on a candy cane or a red rose lying against the snow. it’s white, like snowflakes falling, like the lights on a christmas tree, like marshmallows sitting in a piping hot mug of cocoa. it’s cream, like a well-worn sweater or a fuzzy scarf that keeps away the cold. it’s army green, like a christmas tree that’s just been cut, like the smell of pine wafting through the air.

happy hobbit day!

    happy birthday, bilbo and frodo :)

don’t you want some of that cake? because I want some of that cake. desperately.

a gold-tinged dream

 

child

Everybody’s got to grow up sometime.

It comes on you gradually, 

a creeping shadow, a leaf in the wind.

And there comes a point when you say, like you always say,

“I’m not a child anymore,”

But you don’t really mean it. 

Not anymore. 

You begin to miss it - those flights of fancy, fighting dragons,

meeting the love of your life in a gold-tinged dream. 

Not everything’s so easy now.

There is good. Of course there is. But you feel her,

that little girl you used to be, slowly fading.

Becoming glass.

There are responsibilities now. 

It hurts sometimes, being too old for Narnia.

But there are bits of Narnia here, too.

ice cream summer

chocolate is the end of a performance, late-night rebellion, a victory dance.

mango is the sweet taste of beginnings, of hot summer evenings, of friendship.

strawberry is reflection, eating ice cream late at night and missing all the things that won’t ever happen again.

pineapple is bittersweet. the knowledge that good things are ending and others are starting. the tang of goodbyes and hellos and i’ll-miss-you’s and i-love-you’s. when will i see you again?

violin

 practicing is so tedious. practice the shift until you get it and then practice it some more. you’re not done

until it’s perfect, but it’s so worth it. isn’t it? the moment you get on stage and see 

the lights dim and hear the sounds beginning, it’s worth it. the moment you hear “well

done” from the person who matters the most, it’s worth it. the moment 

you feel the tears running down your cheeks because of how beautiful

the music is, it’s worth it. this thing you love,

it is hard, but you do it anyway 

because you love it. you couldn’t

imagine living without it.

thank you,

God.

a character sketch

white, pink, and brown // the quiet breeze of morning // lace hemming a white gown // playing the pianoforte // reading poetry // a quiet proposal // slow smiles // running barefoot through the field // i love you, most ardently

trials of various kinds

“count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. and let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” - james 1:2-4

    would that this were easier! it’s so hard to keep going sometimes. and i tell myself, hey, it’s gonna be okay, because i know it will be. eventually, it will be. but right now doesn’t feel okay. right now feels like God help me i’m struggling help help help—

    and i just remember sitting in a treehouse not so long ago, reading about frodo and sam and the trials they faced. and sometimes i wish i had their courage. 

    to endure.

    to keep going.

    because why would you stop whilst you’re in the fire? keep going. God’s always with you.

    (it’s gonna be okay, i tell myself. it is going to be okay.)

word weird: dream

dream

* related to the old norse draumr and the danish drøm - “merriment; noise”

* came from proto-germanic draugmas - “deception, illusion, phantasm”

* possible cognates: sanskrit druh - “seek to harm or injure”

* old english dream meant “joy, mirth, noisy merriment”, and also “music”

    * this version is different from the modern word for “sleeping vision”

    * it faded from use after early middle english

* before it meant “sleeping vision”, the old english dream (or swefn) meant “sleep”

(from “origin and history of dream”, etymonline.)

a thoughtpost

 

    there’s something irreplaceable about being out in nature. 

    alone, just you and God, wandering and listening to the rustle of leaves and chirping of birds and twinkling of the stars. 

    we don’t get that kind of aloneness much anymore. it’s just school, work, more work, and then you go to sleep dreaming about the kind of things you wish you could experience but don’t know if you ever will. 

    i miss that kind of freedom.