Adonai Tzidkenu

I creep in shadows.
My selfish ways are clouds,
barricades to the light.

Sweet purity and innocence
hover close to me.
A fog whose moisture
of blood undeservedly flowing
could wash my heart
free of its pollution of sin.

I turn my ear from the distressed
and heart-wrenching cries
my savior weeps for me in desperation,
instead using my pride
and steep stubbornness to inflate the gaps
that are left when everything else
has failed me.

My heart, porous as my ears are resistant,
steeps in the Word
and echoes back His plea.
Whimpers, knowing what help it needs,
though my actions lash out in blindness.
Hope rests on my shoulders,
not all is lost.

And when pride is wounded
and stubbornness weakened
I am left alone
with that which I so defied,
knowing that the righteousness
He accredited to me
was never mine.

No longer do I stand
with knives of mulish transgressions
deflecting the light
from entering my heart.
My only joy,
my fountain of life,
Are my tears of elation,
reflecting that light,
that love,
to the world.

Tessa

A miracle second to none in this world
The spark of a star freshly born
Polished and perfect before us she’s curled
Dark thoughts from minds are soon torn.

Cradled and warm in grandfather’s arms
With daddy nearby standing guard,
Not a soul can approach with intentions to harm
Hopes for this child stand strong and unmarred.

A beauty that baffles even elaborate dreams
A room full of praise for a most precious gift
A small sigh to trickle past lips as a stream,
Through cards of warm welcome they begin now to sift.

A baby brings joy, a baby brings tears,
A baby's a future to unfold through the years.

Sunrise

Morning
Bright dewy mist
Yawning over the hill
Waking everyone from slumber
Bonjour.

Tritones

The devil’s chord grinds harshly on the ears
Reverberations letting the heavy anger
settle in the room.

Augmented fourths from f to b
And back again
Diminished fifths.

Played but once, your fate is set
The moment one foot is layed upon the cathedral stoop
The stones pound hard against what could have been your future.

The Silent Snow

The snow, it falls so silently
In heaps of cold soft cotton.
Muffling the buried screams
That echo deep within.

In heaps of cold soft cotton
I fall as a child into memories
That echo deep within
Of frozen winters past.

I fall as a child into memories
Muffling the buried screams
Of frozen winters past.
The snow, it falls so silently.

Mr. Sun

The glare of the sand
Sunbeams aren’t so friendly now
The clouds are far gone.

A Wrong Turn

Poetry is the bravery of novelists unveiled.
The monarch outweighed
the panther.
The smell of moss
the pressure of humidity
and heat.
The sun’s rays
glare back
at my retinas
through the trees.
A macaw screams at me.
Incriminated
by a bird.
The bite of salt on my tongue
the taste of fatigue.
George,
are you sure this is Moscow?
It’s chilly here.
George,
you have a lovely watch,
what is the hour?
Oh snap,
my stomach growled.
The monarch might see
me
as a challenger.
Bashana Haba’ah.
The joyous moon of dreams
The panther comes near
eyes glinting
pounces
and kisses my nose.
I shall flap my arms
and soar to the canopy
where Moscow might be visible.
Cassie, she is clever.
She crafted this piece of genius
that you
are devouring.
When we arrive
we will eat fruit
and it will be sweet
like disgusting honey.
I will go
and blaze my way
across this floor
to that one
and stamp my feet!
I do not fear you!
You can not stop me!
Je t’aime, dear panther!
Te amo tambien,
he answers.
The trees stand tall
in the mist of the Amazon.

Tiny Dancer

You’re leaking out smiles
and spilling out grins
my heartbeat speeds up
and I feel my head spin.
My eyes gain a shine,
And I feel myself blush
You ask to be mine,
I could fly on this rush.
You just ask for a chance
in hopes that I’ll see
that a simple school dance
might set us both free.

The Odd Couple

Despite the nosiness
of the butterfly,
the toothy reptiles grin
has
the upper-hand.
One
false move
and
with a click of the teeth,
it’s goodbye,
butterfly.

Objection

Dirty, tarnished, and worn.
Overused and discarded.
These small trinkets,
though meaningless in the eye of a stranger,
hold more memories than
a grandmother’s quilt
or a grandfather’s shed.
Tradition and expectations,
or surprises and laughter,
the plastic holds many secrets.
The metal is many-faced.
Lacking the sheen of newer things,
those things that mean the most
are oft painted with love
or tears,
and with one small glance
at the glaze of emotions
these baubles
can uproot memories
like strong winds.

Deux

Tiny stalks grow
so fragile
on the wings of a nightmare.
Rhinoceroses jumping about
breaking all its fragile bones
the ghost of a hand is all I have
dripping metal burns to recall
a kiss of flame
with cloud puffs of white.
The new aspirations and dreams
bluntly funny
pulled me back by a thread,
however,
with a dark shade
a souvenir sculpture
a funny mistake
your voice repeats itself.
As proud as she was
sailing over the fence
it is a constant reminder
it happens so quickly.
By the prayer lay the tears
I can never seem to lose you.

The Color of Heaven

What secrets lie behind this wall?
Blissful things most unfathomable,
Sweet melodies dripping with the morning dew,
Blades of grass licking the sky, blown in breezes,
And gentle rains rolling down
Window panes like so many silent beads.

What color are angels’ wings?
Gleaming silver, pure and sweet,
or the color of a choir, painting chordal illustrations.
Capped with the ringing of chimes,
Shoed with the deep beat of a timpani,
Glinting in the sun with soft trills of elation.

This world has crawled too near
To simple, fading, things.
When beyond wallets and tears
There lies a glowing revelation
The key to relief and redemption,
Love.

Personal Narrative #2: The Loonie

"We leave tomorrow," I say. "I'm going to miss you guys so much." The end of the statement is meant only for him.
"Let's not talk about it, or you'll drown us all with your waterworks," he replies. I nod, trying to shake off the feeling of impeding sadness. Droplets of sorrow teeter on my eyelids, despite my best efforts to keep them at bay. We enter the cafeteria and sit down, surrounded by our fellow goodbye-ers. What was an aura of joviality and sweet summer afternoons has descended into a heavy oppression of murmured memories and tearful partings. Sitting there on the hard cafeteria bench, my mind slips back in time...
Upon my arrival at the first of many Group Workcamp experiences, I was quiet, shy and unsure of the other 400 people in the camp. Who is going to be in my work crew? Are they going to like me? Am I going to like them? Will we finish our jobs? What will our resident, or residents, be like? Am I going to make any friends here? Should I just hide in the van for the week? It didn't take very long for me to cast aside those initial fears. Everyone was nice: Luka from Virginia, who never had his video camera turned off; Jared "Canadia" Tyler, who taught me the proper way to say "socks" and how to use the ever-popular "eh"; Hannah, whose swing-dancing skills I would never forget...this camp truly was the experience of a lifetime. I give myself a mental shake, and settle back into the not-so-cheery present.
"Hey, I've got that dollar bill for you." I hand the paper bill to him, and George Washington winks his farewell as the thin green material creases in his grip. I can't help myself, the tears well up again, and as they tumble down my face, words fall out of my mouth in a heart-felt rush.
"Why do you have to live so far away? Nine hours...I'll never see you again after tomorrow." The prospect of goodbye seems a cruel punishment for spending a week helping others.
"Hey, we'll keep in touch, eh?" I promise you I'll write. And there's always the phone. Come on, don't cry." He reaches out to me, and puts his hands on my shoulders, bending to peer into my tear-streaked facade. I can see the reflections of my emotions in his eyes, and I know his sentiments are the same. He sigh and pulls me into a long bear hug and the intercom clicks on. A cheery, "Alright Workcampers! It's 11:50! 10 minutes 'till lights out - your leaders have a lot of driving to do in the morning!" brings the embrace to an awkward end. We step apart, and begin to walk to the cafeteria's entrance.
"Don't leave until I see you in the morning," I say, knowing it's not really up to him.
"I won't," he responds, knowing, too, that the choice is not his to make.
I turn to leave, but a hand on my arms stops me and turns me back to face him. I look into his eyes, confused. Isn't this hard enough? Why is he prolonging this? He takes my hand in his, opens it and places a coin inside my palm. He presses my small fingers over the precious trinket and holds my fist for a brief moment before uttering a soft goodnight and disappearing around the corner. I begin to make my way back to my room without opening my hand, almost afraid that if I do, I will lose this treasure and with it will go the incredible memories of the past week. As I drag my feet along the corridor, my footsteps echo with the recollections of the previous six days.
Prayer.
Friendships.
Jokes.
Hard work.
Games.
Hugs.
Laughter...
When at last I reach my room, weak from the strenuous battle against my tears, I pick my way to my bed through the baggage, clothes, and air mattresses of other girls that are strewn across the room. After I lower myself to the nearly-flat air mattress, I open my hand. The coin is a soft and faded golden hue, its eleven sides reflecting the flourescent lighting of the classroom. Embossed on the front is the image of Elizabeth II, her head adorned with a lustrous and bejeweled crown. How many friends did you make and never see agian, I wonder? With a gentle flick from my thumb the coin is overturned in my hand. There, on the back, is another image. Between the words "Canada" and "Dollar" there is a small loon embellishing the monetary piece. The infamous "Loonie". His dollar.
The next morning, after more sad partings, I lay in the van with silent tears trailblazing their way down my face. I had already read through the notes everyone had written me twice; he had sent me two. For the rest of the ride home, I stayed where I was. Curled up, arms bent in towards my body, and knees brought up towards my chest so that I was nearly in the fetal position. One hand lay right next to my heart. That hand, which had remained closed in a fist throughout the morning, despite the hugs and the waving, still grasped the special treasure. It would stay in my hand until I got home, late that night. when it would be transferred to a small box with a decorated leather cover. It would remain in the box with other small trinkets until someday I blew the dust off of it and opened it to recount the tales from summers and friendships past. Yes, it would remain in the box physically, but I would always carry it near inside.

Personal Narrative #1: Meeting Grandma

I glance around my home at the abundance of eye-level skirts and slacks. There are so many legs! Feeling slightly overwhelmed, I wander over past the dining room table towards the deck. Before I can reach the slider door, I am intercepted by a woman I have never met, but have seen in pictures.
"Chelsea, this is Gandy. She is Maureen's grandmother," I am told.
"Hi," I say, knowing a greeting is expected. She bends forward and plants a smoky kiss on my head.
"Well, aren't you just the cutest thing!" I smile and look up past her seated figure to the window in the kitchen while she continues with her prattle about my hair, my dimples, and gracious, did my mommy make that pretty pink dress? The question yanks me back from my daydream and I nod yes. Another adult walks over and begins to make small talk with Gandy, so I continue on my quest to the deck. When I reach the slider, I pause knowing that the handle is too high for my short arms to reach it. I gaze through the smeared glass at the adults standing on the vast wooden porch, all of them so absorbed in apparently fascinating conversations about things that are way over my head. I press my nose to the glass, and then lean back to see the cloudy print left behind before smudging it in to match the rest of the door.
"Did you want to go out there, Hun?" A woman's voice from above floats down to my level. I look up at my future step-mom and answer "Uh-huh."
"What do you say?" Her reply is fairly predictable, and I probably should have known better than to provoke it.
"Please?"
"Good girl, watch your step," comes the response. I grin up and toss a quick "Thank you," over my shoulder as I step down onto the porch. I toddle over to the railing to my left and look through the bars, feeling like a prisoner trapped in the banter of lackluster adults. I hear footsteps approaching and I can tell by the soft tap that it is another woman in flats. I turn and my prediction is confirmed by the navy blue shoes next to my jelly sandals. I gaze upwards and cannot believe what my eyes encounter. I was not aware until this moment that a person could be so utterly elderly! I stand there with my mouth agape, my jaw so close to the wooden floor below me I am afraid I may get splinters. As I regain my composure, I say the only thing that has crossed my mind since the moment I saw her.
"You have a lot of wrinkles," the sheer amazement is obvious in my voice.
"Well, yes I suppose I do," she replies, with a soft chuckle that has underlying tones of disbelief. Before responding, I ponder what I should say next. Honesty, they tell me, is the best policy, but the look on her face leads me to believe maybe they were wrong. Nevertheless, I do not want to get in trouble for being rude, and lying to family, stranger though she may be, would certainly be considered rude. I take a deep breath and spout out my carefully calculated comment.
"You must be really old!" Instantly I regret it. Her face goes from disbelieving leniency (thanks to my age) to being completely aghast.
"I guess I am getting up there in years, yes," she says with minor agitation. Uh-oh, I think, wrong thing to say... maybe I should ask a question. Yes, that's a good idea. Tall people like that. The tell me that's how I can learn. Maybe I will learn to say things that will make her smile instead of cringe. Pleased with my quick thinking, I pose a question that is bound to get a great reaction.
"Are you going to die soon?" Her paled cheeks turn rosy and she can't help it - she smiles and even lets loose a quick giggle.
"Well I hope not! Not anytime soon," she shakes her head and turns to go back inside. I promptly think this over, and to reassure her that dying is the last thing I want her to do, I agree with a heartfelt, "Yeah...maybe on the way home then." Apparantly, the fact that this is so far away in time is very comforting to her because she begins to laugh and walks inside to regale others with my clever comments. A few minutes pass and I sit on the steps to reflect on the amount of wrinkles that lady had. She defintely has more wrinkles than I can count on my finger...and my toes...wow! I met the oldest lady in the world! I hear the slider re-open and when I look up my dad is there with the lady.
"Chelsea, I'd like you to meet your Grandmother, Eunice," he says.
"Hi, Nunu," is my excited reply! I am related to the old one! Wait 'till I tell Hannah at school! She is gonna be sooo jealous!!
Today I learned an important lesson - first impressions really do count. I'll probably pay for this one at every family gathering forever and eternity. Something tells me that my dad will never run out of excuses or opportunities to recite this story. And I don't think my family will ever stop laughing at it, either.