Is It

I’m sensing a stereotype developing

Warriors haunted with PTSD

Strike fear into their charges’ hearts,

As though the shepherds would devour

Their own lambs

I’m driven to ask

If there is not a soldier

Holed up within himself

Now, now that the champagne is quiet

And the confetti lies dead,

Unwilling to crawl out of his skull to so much

As kill a fly,

Staring out of his cells,

Thinking that to unlearn

The war in his hands

And take up gentleness again

Is not an effort more worthy

Than a quick and quiet self-violence

That might come easier than

Flaring out at an oblivious psychological trigger.

Behind the Scenes: Blog Stats and a Thank-You

I frequently use the hashtag #readersmakeithappen in my tweets relating to my blog. This blog does happen because of you. I took some screenshots of my stats so you can see one of the things that just make my day: knowing you're out there, reading my posts.

 This week...

Of all time, as of 12.9.11

 

 Most viewed posts this week...

Most viewed of all time as of 12.9.11

My traffic sources

And there you are, dear readers!

If I solely wanted to yammer on, "express myself," and demand someone pay devout attention to and understand me, I can hire a therapist for that. This blog is for you--an invitation to reflect on life under this sun with me, if only for a few minutes out of your busy day. To you who accepted that invitation, you have my gratitude.

Worm Theology

Worm Theology

Mad heresy of

Dead men’s hearsay.

If I be proud—

God bring me down.

Hilf mir zu helfen, ach, mein Gott

Today I heard a story sorrowful

In my ears. Hope was hurt beyond the best

Of mortal help. I covered my head just

To give grief some scant privacy. But oh,

But hated shunning sorrow as it looked

For help in my eyes. I can watch, though long

The night, pray my words will keep greedy winds

From scattering you far away and lost

Forever. But your full remedy, sad

And wretched true, is not in me—I've searched

In vain in the long, raging nights. Ach, Gott.

Miscellanea Item No. 2

I'm of the following opinion.

Sometimes people--friend, acquaintance, or a chance-meet--make mistakes and are very painfully aware of the enormity of the decisions' stupidity or recklessness. And they are sorry for the deed, not just the consequence.

When these people come to me--for advice, to vent, or so on, and whether or not they have done offense to me personally--I hope God gives me the perception to sense that they are indeed sorry. I pray even more for the grace and kindness of my Brother Christ Jesus to see that they have beaten themselves up enough about what they have done and that I will have the ability to take their "club" away from them--they don't need my help heaping up guilt on themselves.

Not everyone who has strayed from the right path needs a thrashing, and if they do, it's very likely not supposed to come from me.

Hugs, tea or coffee, chocolate, silent empathy, or all of the above are maybe better salves for the grieved hearts.

Untitled [draft 1]

My thoughts sparkle today

I don’t know if I shall show them to you

just yet.

they want polishing

a trim or so

here

and there.

But—possess your soul with patience!

You shall see them soon.

I’ll dance them in the sun before your eyes

While we haggle over significance,

Weight,

Worth.

You shall take it with you when all’s said and done,

And I’m as richer and more as before.

You’re taking it shan’t take a smidgeon from me.

I—I draw my wonders from a bag

cut from the same cloth

as Peter Schlemiel's wondrous bag of gold—

Only, I, fortunate favorite 

or not so fortunate,

Did not sell my shadow

for the sack,

As did poor Peter—

The shadows gave me mine for free.

All

All 

A sparrow’s crumb—

Because a crumb to a sparrow

is a feast

but a sparrow’s crumb

is hardly

mentioning.

Miscellanea Item No. 1

Friend of mine started a blog. Follow her: she's worth listening to. :) Kuyperian Librarian

Foundations I Art Class Project

Our professor assigned a folio project for our class. The first page requires us to answer the question "What is art?"
We can quote others if we wish, or we can write our own definitions. Here is mine.

Art results from the methods in which the artist may manipulate various materials in diverse styles — via color, form, and other sensorial elements and principles — to evoke specific emotional, intellectual, and/or physical responses from his or her audience,  be it admiration, fear, disgust, wonder, etc.

What do you think? Have I missed something? Or should it be narrowed down somewhat?

I closed my eyes and leaped

A few days ago, for the first time, I voluntarily submitted three poems (Edifice, The Southern Thing, and Sestina for my Charlotte) to a literary journal--Crazyhorse--for publication. Crazyhorse has published a few works by Billy Collins, a major influence on my own writing. I decided to take a chance with this publication because if his poetry found a niche there, perhaps mine could.

My submission was the 34,411^st.

Prayers.

Gentle man

Gentle man

Learned well in the ways of his Father

Dependable man

Intruding into my despair

Yet can take “no” for an answer—

Frightening thought.

He walked ahead of his beloved,

Gave her a rose—

Thorns gone: he himself had taken them off.

Generously open and red.   

And opened the door for her.

The Southern Thing

I didn’t understand my Southern self

Until I moved to South Dakota—I

Was just thirteen, then. I was—you might say—

A novelty. Very nice, that. It gave me

A sense of place in being out of place.

Years later, at that college—How was I

To know there was guilt being Southern, that

A limit on my social standing—mind

So filled with culture notwithstanding. I

Did try to change, to smooth my talk, to make

Straight my meandering speech. Lost the cause.

My heart was cheered by my kind friend—he said

I was quite different from the rednecks,

Hillbillies, “good ole’ boys.” I did believe

Him. Got used to my rambling cadence, thought

I was okay to walk about and talk

In good society—You understand,

I think, now, why when she said, “I’m glad

I’m not a Southerner,” what I heard was,

“I’m glad I’m not like you.”

[This poem hurt to write more than I thought it would.]