The "little girl whose Daddy died" has worked really hard. She's grieved; she's been loyal to the memory of her Daddy; she's tried really hard not to be too happy too often so she wouldn't be disappointed when the sad times came again; she's been my fierce protector.
She's done her best and it's time I let her rest. I'm sure she'll be relieved to be excused from this huge job she's performed for 33 years! She'll be in a special place in my heart, especially since she worked so hard for me and taken such good care of me. But it's now my turn to take good care of her. It's my turn to reassure her that the good and the bad and the funny and the sad are all part of the flow of life and that each feeling has its time and place and life is an iterative process (I just love that word--"iterative"! I should adopt it and remind myself of the concept often!!!)
Thich Nhat Hahn says "You are more than your emotions." I try to remember that and live it everyday. By letting her take a well deserved rest, I think I will be more successful in internalizing the ebb and flow of emotions I feel.
So, thank you little girl, I really appreciate all that you've done to keep me together for all these years. Rest, relax and enjoy the young life that you had. I hope you'll enjoy the person you've helped to create. I love you and it's my turn to help you feel better.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Visit, then home
The wheels of the book truck squeak as
it drives them home.
Long weeks, sometimes months of
being away makes them eager to sleep
on their own shelves again.
Tomorrow they'll hang over the back edge
recalling their journeys near and far,
sharing memories from the trip,
happy to be home, and ready for a rest.
Soon enough, boredom will set in;
neighbors' tales begin to grate.
Tired of hearing the same old story,
and longing for another adventure
each tries hard to attract, waits to be chosen.
Each dreams of new places to explore.
April 14, 2009
it drives them home.
Long weeks, sometimes months of
being away makes them eager to sleep
on their own shelves again.
Tomorrow they'll hang over the back edge
recalling their journeys near and far,
sharing memories from the trip,
happy to be home, and ready for a rest.
Soon enough, boredom will set in;
neighbors' tales begin to grate.
Tired of hearing the same old story,
and longing for another adventure
each tries hard to attract, waits to be chosen.
Each dreams of new places to explore.
April 14, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Poetry Catch-Up
The Easter holiday finds me behind on my poetry and posting. In reverse writing order, here are two new poems.
NaPoWriMo Prompt #8 (from ReadWritePoem)
Please forgive your son, Mrs. Fillippi,
he was young and in love
and had no other way of expressing
how he felt about her,
the new girl in 3rd grade.
Tall and plump other kids called
her names like giraffe and elephant.
Wondering what to believe,
she ignored the name calling and
played by herself.
Whether it was pity or admiration,
he found himself waiting around the edges
of the playground watching her,
swallowing his fear as he approached
her to ask her to play with him during recess.
After a few weeks, he fell in love;
no one could penetrate his devotion
to her. One day he brought her
a token of his love--
a beautiful ring full of colorful stones.
Worn with pride for the rest of the day,
she left school with it clutched in her sweaty palm.
Kept safe in a box in her room, she
peeked at the ring all night and brought
it back to school the next day.
Afterschool, innocently playing
on the swings, a stranger drove into the
driveway and parked her station wagon. He
slowly got out of the car with a woman
who looked mad.
Yes, she mumbled, he gave me a ring
yesterday. The cold silence scared her
as she handed the ring back to him. You
grabbed his arm and hurried him back
to the car all the while hissing your anger.
At school the next day, he was too embarrassed
to talk to her. It was over;
he'd made a mistake and paid for it.
Forgive your son, Mrs. Fillippi,
young love makes young men act rashly.
April 13, 2009
Good Friday
How can I thank You
for the gift of Your son's sacrifice.
I ask for Your grace as I honor
Jesus' life--the life He lived for me.
I ask for Your mercy when I fail to remember
how much Jesus loves me now and forever.
Please help me to accept the love
You've shown me through Your son.
April 10, 2009
NaPoWriMo Prompt #8 (from ReadWritePoem)
Please forgive your son, Mrs. Fillippi,
he was young and in love
and had no other way of expressing
how he felt about her,
the new girl in 3rd grade.
Tall and plump other kids called
her names like giraffe and elephant.
Wondering what to believe,
she ignored the name calling and
played by herself.
Whether it was pity or admiration,
he found himself waiting around the edges
of the playground watching her,
swallowing his fear as he approached
her to ask her to play with him during recess.
After a few weeks, he fell in love;
no one could penetrate his devotion
to her. One day he brought her
a token of his love--
a beautiful ring full of colorful stones.
Worn with pride for the rest of the day,
she left school with it clutched in her sweaty palm.
Kept safe in a box in her room, she
peeked at the ring all night and brought
it back to school the next day.
Afterschool, innocently playing
on the swings, a stranger drove into the
driveway and parked her station wagon. He
slowly got out of the car with a woman
who looked mad.
Yes, she mumbled, he gave me a ring
yesterday. The cold silence scared her
as she handed the ring back to him. You
grabbed his arm and hurried him back
to the car all the while hissing your anger.
At school the next day, he was too embarrassed
to talk to her. It was over;
he'd made a mistake and paid for it.
Forgive your son, Mrs. Fillippi,
young love makes young men act rashly.
April 13, 2009
Good Friday
How can I thank You
for the gift of Your son's sacrifice.
I ask for Your grace as I honor
Jesus' life--the life He lived for me.
I ask for Your mercy when I fail to remember
how much Jesus loves me now and forever.
Please help me to accept the love
You've shown me through Your son.
April 10, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Voices
Today's poem is inspired by this phrase "when all the noise is silenced" found here and in Kelly Rae Roberts' book Taking Flight found here. Thank you Kelly for your inspiration for my poems twice this week!
cacophony of sound is in my head always
preventing me from hearing myself
insisting i listen to the noise of judgement
doubt loathing fear uncertainty
infernal speech interrupting my thoughts
drowning out voices of reason
comfort trust safety love
that are waiting for me to hear
so many years of hearing their talk
listening to their voices
believing they told the truth
i regret giving them so much power
truth is subjective and influenced by experience
my truth is about to change
confident now voices of reason
trust can be heard during the quiet
eager to explore these new thoughts
trying to turn up their volume
i wonder who will i be
when Babel is toppled again
April 8, 2009
cacophony of sound is in my head always
preventing me from hearing myself
insisting i listen to the noise of judgement
doubt loathing fear uncertainty
infernal speech interrupting my thoughts
drowning out voices of reason
comfort trust safety love
that are waiting for me to hear
so many years of hearing their talk
listening to their voices
believing they told the truth
i regret giving them so much power
truth is subjective and influenced by experience
my truth is about to change
confident now voices of reason
trust can be heard during the quiet
eager to explore these new thoughts
trying to turn up their volume
i wonder who will i be
when Babel is toppled again
April 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
All grown up
Using prompt #7 to write about nicknames at ReadWritePoem, here's today's entry.
"My name is Diane and I want you to call me that;
I will not respond to Dee Dee any more,"
she said on her fourteenth birthday. So eager to
grow up and and leave behind her younger days.
DeeDee, huh. That's a name for a little girl,
a girl who still believes that the bird sings only for her.
Listen closely to the song in the trees.
Hear it? Listen closely...
hear the bird calling your name--
chicka-dee-dee-dee
chicka-dee-dee-dee
chicka-dee-dee-dee.
"My name is not DeeDee; it's Diane!"
You are special, but not just to me.
Listen, do you hear the birds singing your name?
Even the birds know you are special,
chicka-dee-dee-dee
chicka-dee-dee-dee
chicka-dee-dee-dee.
"Why don't you people understand, my name is Diane!"
chicka-dee-dee-dee
"I don't want to be called that!"
chicka-dee-dee-dee
"Alright, just don't call me that in public!"
chicka-dee-dee-dee
April 7, 2009
"My name is Diane and I want you to call me that;
I will not respond to Dee Dee any more,"
she said on her fourteenth birthday. So eager to
grow up and and leave behind her younger days.
DeeDee, huh. That's a name for a little girl,
a girl who still believes that the bird sings only for her.
Listen closely to the song in the trees.
Hear it? Listen closely...
hear the bird calling your name--
chicka-dee-dee-dee
chicka-dee-dee-dee
chicka-dee-dee-dee.
"My name is not DeeDee; it's Diane!"
You are special, but not just to me.
Listen, do you hear the birds singing your name?
Even the birds know you are special,
chicka-dee-dee-dee
chicka-dee-dee-dee
chicka-dee-dee-dee.
"Why don't you people understand, my name is Diane!"
chicka-dee-dee-dee
"I don't want to be called that!"
chicka-dee-dee-dee
"Alright, just don't call me that in public!"
chicka-dee-dee-dee
April 7, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Conversations in a Library
Today's poem contains thoughts about a conversation I had at the library today.
Hearing that books will die
is distressing for one who loves them,
but is a distinct possibility
in a few generations.
There is no cause for worry
for the book is only a vessel
for the stories it contains
and those will live forever.
Our stories are comfort
and history and justice;
stories live in our memories,
our hearts and our souls.
Stories tell more about us than
we would like, and can be twisted toward
our own ends. Stories are dangerous
and necessary to our survival.
The book is a vessel
for our lies and our truths.
It is up to us to listen
and know the difference.
April 6, 2009
Hearing that books will die
is distressing for one who loves them,
but is a distinct possibility
in a few generations.
There is no cause for worry
for the book is only a vessel
for the stories it contains
and those will live forever.
Our stories are comfort
and history and justice;
stories live in our memories,
our hearts and our souls.
Stories tell more about us than
we would like, and can be twisted toward
our own ends. Stories are dangerous
and necessary to our survival.
The book is a vessel
for our lies and our truths.
It is up to us to listen
and know the difference.
April 6, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Poem for Today
Here is today's poem.
what does one write
when one believes she has
nothing to say?
this poem?
maybe one is tired
and should get some rest.
April 5, 2009
what does one write
when one believes she has
nothing to say?
this poem?
maybe one is tired
and should get some rest.
April 5, 2009
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