Breathtaking

Life begins
with Your breath in my lungs.
Then, nestled in the warmth of Mom’s arms,
Sleep will overpower
as Your faithful watch prevails.

Tho’ at times our breaths are taken
You snatch it up,
Restoring it to its intended place.

You’re the Giver
I’m the Receiver

Then the light fades,
My lids fall as the distant light grows.
Tho’ my eyes are shut, there’s a beauty
too powerful to be seen by mortal eyes.

In the beginning, You gave me breath.
In the middle, You restored my breath.
In the end, You will be breathtaking.

This poem’s dedication is in two parts. The first part is to us all will find God to be breathtaking when it is our turn to enter the Kingdom. The second part is for our dearly departed loved ones that have had their breaths taken away by our Lord. And, if you so desire, I invite you to comment below those loved ones’ names who were so amazed at the breathtaking beauty of God.

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An Imperfect Hero

Go deep, deep to the depths of your mind.

Think of a hero, a hero of flesh.

You are five years old, barely old enough to remember. Tiptoe to the windowsill, a hand to the glass, as you watch him come home from his 9 to 5.

You are thirteen years old and the world’s out to get you. School day ends and there he is waiting in the car, waiting to ask about the tumultuous day of a junior high student.

You are out of the house. Realize that perhaps he’s not too bad; perhaps he’s not too weird. That is until he writes you to “come back taller.”

One night though, just like tonight, a clear and beautiful night, you see the world how he saw it in the reflection of the stars. You are five and he’s at his 9 to 5 to provide for you. You are thirteen and he wonders what happen to the child who was the little helper. You are out of the house and he does not have anyone to tease (except for the wife, but he can’t very well do that) so he writes.

Writes to catch up. Writes because he may not have Little Legs or his child, but he does still have something. He is still a father.

Go deeper in your mind. Close your eyes, fall into the abyss of otherworldly realms. Remember of the one who made him a Dad.

Not a father, but a Dad. A father is a title; a dad is a gift.

A time before you were born, before a thought, a man became a Dad. He taught his children from right and wrong. He taught his children about God. He taught his children to make time for their own.

That Dad became a grandfather, yet the title rendered useless shortly afterward. Just like once a father, now a Dad. That grandfather dropped the title for a new name of Granddad. He taught his grandchildren from right and wrong. He taught his grandchildren about God. He taught his grandchildren that family’s important.

Pull out; pull out from the depths of the depths of your mind to the clouds. Yet maintain the images of those men’s heroism. They may not be perfect. Maybe the Dad in your life did not sire you or maybe the Dad struggled quite a while. Within the clouds, form the words in which you call him.

Dad.

Say it again.

Dad.

Somehow this imperfect man was given the name Dad, a name of heroic legends. For it is not a name bestowed upon by priests or saints, but a name only you can give.

A father is made. A Dad is given out with careful consideration.

***
Here’s a few Father’s Day well wishes to a few men I know:

Happy Father’s Day to Luke, my big brother, who is nothing but a great Dad to his kids.

Happy Father’s Day to Grandpa, the Dad of my Mom. Many call him “sir” or by his given name. Many respect him and he is fair and kind to many. Words cannot describe how honored I am to be call his granddaughter.

Happy Father’s Day to Granddad, the Dad of my Dad, the one who taught my Dad what it is to be a Dad. The one who recently passed, leaving a fairly good size hole. Many call him “doctor,” “sir”, or “pastor.” He was gentle to many. Words cannot describe how honored I am be call his granddaughter.

Happy Father’s Day to Dad, a man who showed me what love and grace is. I am proud to be called his daughter.

And a happy father’s day to all the men I know who are fathers. Whether through marriage, adoption, or by blood, I hope you know you are indeed honored by having the name of Dad gifted unto you.

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To The Moms

Surrealism clouded the air
Vision gone blurred,
Except for that plus.
There is something growing inside

Shaky hands, shaky voice,
Excitement surging in and out.
Papers have arrived
Someone to love is out there

A phonecall, a rush of memories,
Revisiting those days of old.
Remembering first steps
Anticipating more first steps

Every morning when they arise
Every midday when they slow down
Every night when they rest
Prayers are sent to the Heavens.

Surrealism turns to realism,
Never imagining anything different.
Excitement turns to life,
Knowing that the best was given.
Anticipation exceeded expectations,
Joy whenever two meet.

So with these words,
Close your eyes
Don’t forget
For they love you first.

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Kindred Spirits

Pocahontas asked if you can see the colors of the wind. I ask if you can see the color of life, the colors of your friends. I am an artist and there are some colors that seem like they don’t go well together. Yet if you add a bit of white or black, the hue changes, and suddenly the two colors are absolutely perfect together. This poem is to thank all my friends for contributing to the dusk in my life.

Oranges and pinks colored the sky,
Washing the pastel blue away.
Then the mighty brush stroke it black
With twinkling stars above

Slumber overtook me
Calling me to Morpheus’ realm
And yet I see the paint strokes of before

The colors of dusk reflected in the Irish sea –
The wind in my hair
My soul resting on the mountain of Orme

The colors of dusk sounded in Victoria Falls –
The thunderous roars echoed in my ears
Mist raining over me, reviving my soul

The colors of dusk follow where I tread –
A color attaches to those close
Igniting a bright, colorful painting ahead.
No two hues are alike.

Symphony of colors composed up above –
Taking two mismatched shades,
Two shades that many will dismiss as together.
Yet with the right coloration
It is a beautiful artwork.

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Easter 2017

I stood on the hillside of Calvary
Jeers and taunts rang in my ears
Confusion sound in my heart.
Squeezing between people,
Intent on reaching the mountaintop

An ordinary man breathed His last.
Cheers erupt around
Yet a few sporadic cries are heard.
I watched as the man is carried down
I watched another comfort the weeping mother
A lone tear, for this man must have been something.

Three days…

Three days pass with household chores
Three days pass with teasing friends
THree days pass with thoughts on the dead man

I stood at the well;
A woman ran past me
Shouting for joy:
“He is risen!”

I stood at the marketplace;
Loaves of bread brimming over my basket
Eleven men and The Man walked by

“He is risen indeed.”

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A Mere Kid

I know I am not the brightest,
Nor even the oldest.
You may consider this unworthy of your time
Since I am a mere kid (and you’re so much wiser than I)

But I have visions
and idealisms that fuel my ambitions.
I see a world of peace
And I will not see it cease.

Though there are times that realism shades my eyes
and for that I apologize.
Those times I need reminding of my idealistic view
and set out to do.

Sometimes life throws a curveball
and the curtain falls –
But it doesn’t end until the fat lady sings.
Dust yourself off, spread your wings.

Fly up in the air
Offer to your enemies a prayer.
Offer unity,
Look for a way to find community.

You may ignore these words.
You may deferred.
I’m just a mere kid (and you may be ahead by a couple of lifetimes)
Who have fallen one too many times.

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My Voice

 

It’s no secret that politics and I rarely speak

I forget which party is right

And which one is left.

 

Yet I have something,

Something that’s within me.

I know my belief and I stand by it.

 

I believe in a world of equality:

Where it doesn’t matter

If your appearance or belief is this or that

All it matters is authenticity

 

I believe in a world of beauty:

A beauty that only exists because God made it

A beauty that is seen through actions

A beauty that is all around of us

 

I believe in a world of hope:

A hope that people will do good

A hope for the future generation

A hope that believing is worth it

Confession: I wrote this several nights ago, and it has been sitting in my draft folder for quite some time. It never felt right to post it (ironic as it is about my voice). I am sharing this now, because I believe now (as election day is upon us) is the time to share my voice.

I may not be the loudest one in the room. I may not be the most serious one. I may be the one who is quietly sitting there, agreeing or disagreeing without a fuss… but you know why I do that? I respect others and I listen. I still give my own opinions (although sometimes it takes a while, especially when I get talked over).

You have a voice. Maybe you’re shy, like me, and it is difficult to speak. Maybe you feel like when your conversationalist partner takes a breath, you have to quickly say what’s on your mind before your voice drowned out? That’s okay. Everyone’s voice is different. Some people are born with a great gift of spoken words, while others, such as myself, are born with gift of the written word. Your voice is your weapon. My weapon is writing. I speak through graphite and ink.

Let me conclude this post with a short plea. Election day is upon us, as I previously stated, and I know many people dislike the two primary candidates. Have hope and if not for you, but for the future generation. Think of a child, or two, that you know and think of an ideal world that you wish for him or her. Think of that as you vote. I don’t know many kids, as I still feel like a kid myself, but I know a few (like a nephew and a niece) and I like to think of a world for them. It is one of the ways that helps me decide who to vote for. Lastly, respect the leaders, even if you disagree with them. Pray for guidance for the leaders and the people.

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