Sandcastles

My future is sitting on my desk,
passively staring at me as if wondering how it came to be,
and when did it take this form. I want to tell it,
that it was destiny, that it was inevitably made in this image
by God or science or the environment, or any higher power really.
But that would be a lie: a terrible, terrible fabrication.
Because that is all this placid future is; a plasticine invention
that I formed with thick and scarred hands, clumsily constructing an image
I happened upon in a dream, or a dream within a dream.

It has changed many times since its inception,
mis manos have refined it, cleaning the edges, creating greater detail, molding the contours.
And I have stared at it for so long, I began to believe
In my own fabrication, in this melting plasticine figure.
And now I need to remold it, into a brick for now,
Because I cannot make my future with these weak hands and this malleable substance,
Only metal, and stronger hands than mine,
can bend and shape a solid future.


The inspiration for this poems comes from a hunk of plasticine on my desk that I have been playing around with and molding into all sorts of things. I was thinking about how we try to shape the future into what we want rather than what is real or what God wants. We try to take control and pretend that we have all the power, but at the end of the day we are weak. I am weak. I am not afraid to say that, because in Christ our weakness becomes strength. He has control, even when we think that we do. I thank God for that and I want to trust in Him more and more. I need to keep running the race, doing my best, opening up new roads, but at the same time I need to listen to Him for all things, and allow Him to close doors when they need to be shut rather than to try to pry them open and force my will.

What Organ to Follow?

Desiccated- Was how I felt, and also
the first word I overheard from the boisterous tourists
talking with loud hawaiian shirts baseball caps sunglasses camera
and the occasional gesture. They went on to say that the only difference
between Egypt and the airplane was the temperature:
Desiccated- That was how the mummies were so well-preserved.
It dried out the skin, sucked the life out.
They would remove all the organs, threw away the brain:
the true center of thought. The fake, impulsive mind- the heart
they kept and embalmed separately, safe from being broken or rotting:
Desiccated- How foolish, if only the heart played such a role
instead of making us chase after... "How backwards"
I said aloud, and they stopped for a moment, looking at me.
Suddenly the older woman said with her flashing blue eyes:
"No, Not really."

So I wrote this one while flying to phoenix and thinking about the lack of moisture in the cabin. I personally like this one, it is a bit more like a story than anything else. It may need some more editing, but I do like it the way it is.

Breaking it out again

I have not been on here for a long time, I doubt anyone checks or notices, but at the same time I feel it my duty to myself to create. So this is my resolution: I will post at least one poem a week. No matter what.

So here we go, I have been reading the Lord of the Rings to my sisters (who love it) so my writing will probably be influenced by that. I apologize for any confusion or strange turns in grammar that arise from that.

Deaf I am Blind

There are two types of cold,
or at least that many, my southern climes teach me little
of ice and thaw, of frost and flame.
but my short time in the snow has taught me
that there is the cold that you sense
on the tips of your nose, on your ears as they turn red,
on hands numb and hard, feeling like limbs of rock.

Then there is the cold you truly feel in your chest
in your breath, in your lungs. That freezes your voice
until you think you will die of suffocation before hypothermia takes hold.
And fear at first takes hold as you feel your limbs die, one by one
then it just feels warm, as if this is home, a sense of acceptance.

Thankfully I have never gone past this point, nor reached it
in any meaningful way. But I think I do know how it feels,
to feel that suffocation, to desire speech, but stay mute.
My voice is frozen in my chest, and there it stays until it bursts
with melancholy and confusion, until my eyes slowly close, and it is warm.


On that note, I have been feeling like something is coming to a culmination, a sense of unease has been following me. I had deja vu yesterday. Now my deja vu moments are not videos nor are they just pictures; they ARE pictures, however a destination, a timeline is included with each. Certain people are often included as well. This one was as I was going to the library with my sisters and my brother. The temperature was well below freezing, so the ground is hard and the small puddles that fill in the potholes of the road have been frozen solid, or almost solid. My sisters are romping about trying to break the glass-like ice into shards, generally causing a ruckus, and suddenly I remember. From a far off memory or dream I recall us going to the library in these conditions, to get The Hobbit (which we were getting). This memory was deeply imprinted into my mind.

I do not know what it means, if anything, but it was so clear, and left me with such a definite impression that I feel that something will happen. Patience is one thing I am usually good with, but I do not enjoy it. I shall employ it now, until I see what or whether this comes to anything.