warm embers

purple orchid
slender highness of the
garden
sing to us your sweet song
breathe on us your
fragrant hymns of
peace in this
stormy land

(rain) bow -- of hope, stretched
slim,
bring us your band
of colours, troops of red
blue green
marching in rhythm
across grey skies
telling us why
we should
hold on

youth of
our nation
be patient as life's poetry
unfolds
the writer is of old
we're told
despite the guns and
war
he's calling ships to shore
happy ending

breathing life
(warm embers of
hope)
into a cold
and dying
world

little greek friend

in your grecian way
you play with
questions
line up your
idols
flaunt
fatality
shake when death is mentioned
laugh at the
simplicity of
faith
all the while
falling in love with
the
un-named
unknown
God
you
unadmittedly
long for

vainly existing

is it vanity? i ask myself in the mirror. vanity to disapprove of one's image, or vanity to not care about the face i've been given? or vanity to stare? reflected i see fraud: black hair that's not mine, piercings that probe pale skin, wide blue eyes confused at the questions i'm provoking. i sigh, turn, and wonder if i'll ever regret these moments with myself. wasteful moments wondering who i am versus simply being. ripping out the studs, pulling out my hair, tearing off my clothes, i run madly into the meadows and pretend i'm the only one alive. dancing in vain with an image only i can see.

italian cuisine

literature, latch key to the soul. good literature, elusive. under the tuscan sun -- its words are like olive trees sprouting from the soil of my mind, blossoms of italian culture. i bite into each page, chew it, spit out the pits and continue hungrily, eager to explore a new day in a new country. i wake with the characters in their ancient home, sip tea on their balcony watching the sunlight unfurl across the orchards, cook peach preserves and pick pine nuts from the oblivious trees lining my walk way. it's an old house. i'm making new memories. don't make me turn out the light.

traffic

ring ring.
dad: i had a dream. we were standing at the road, our family and you. the car was coming, you didn't notice. stepped out into traffic. somehow dodged the car. stopped, turned, did a push-up. continued.
emily: meaning?
dad: i'm concerned for your health. are you taking on too much?
emily: can i put you on hold? i've got another call, three thousand e-mails, two teenage girls to find housing for, a bleeding marriage to bandage, friends to console and stories to assign. plus i'm trying to publish a book and apply for teaching english overseas. on second thought, will you be around if i call you back?
dad: i will be. will you?
click.

sole satisfaction

girls and shoes, like rhythm and rhyme; they satisfy the sole. personally, feet disgust me. others revel in decorating them, colouring toenails, comforting the callouses; i prefer to ignore them. ignore the fact that i have wiggly clumps at the end of my legs. some have hundreds of shoes lined up like eggs in a row -- life can only be journeyed in the perfect pair. pastel pink, orange, stone brown; personally, i'd rather concentrate on decorating my face. it's at eye-level. i'll leave the cinderellas to their shoes and resist the female foot fetish.

virginia woolf

crazed and brilliant locked up in a room she couldn't call her own, tied down to a man who loved a woman he didn't know. trying desperately to clean up her mistakes and keep her sane. to convince her of female responsibilities. she would run, pitter patter, down the corridor outside to the river, slip rocks in her pockets and try to escape the hours. he would pull her out. confused about her gender longing to be unchained as a male, writing furiously cigarette in mouth puffing her way to some sort of undefined rendition of the natural order. refusing to be a renaissance woman, or a woman of any century, self-absorped genius. she lay down her pen in that quiet little room and obeyed the voices, one last time. drowned in a moment of being.

coffee house

brewed beans, dried flowers, dull murmer of voices. we sit, three of us,
laugh, open Him up, examine the evidence. consider Him worthy of conversation.
pointed questions
real responses from a
little girl who
six months ago
didn't care.
green tea spills over with my tears, inside of course, outwardly i'm tough. your faith makes me
cry. i stare into your eyes, see the light of a new day dawning. miraculous. stunning.
we wipe off the table, pack the evidence in our bags
and drive away laughing.
nothing
is lost
forever.

human tent

this morning i woke with the horrible realization that i'm not nearly as nice as i thought i was. call it conviction. call it indigestion. whatever it was, i nearly gagged dragged down by my own selfishness. it was only a comment or two that slapped me silly and drew attention to the planks in my eyes. i ran so hard today trying to escape myself. then stopped, realizing i was once again obsessing -- over me. so futile, so fragile, this human tent... whether they be thorns or thistles they sting, these incessant sins. what's worse -- i slide by on a friendly facade. rip open these walls and let your lemon-yellow light shine in, scrape out my corners and find in me a broken yet genuine foundation.

the Jesus in you

tends the
lambs
lifts his hands, great
I am
with his robe, wipes my
feet
rides the colt, mops the
street
with his hair as he's
dragged
up the hill where he's
tagged
sent to hell
to rise again, fly
away
sing amen, he
lives today
in you

race against time

it's black minus the silver shimmer of trees in the moonlight. my feet crunch on yellow leaves, nostrils twitch with chill and my arms swing back and forth. a striped cat meows, darts, windows lend yellow warmth but my eyes stay focused on the tar splattered with trees' remains. i cannot stop, cannot think, cannot dwell on the issues that slam my heart into my flannel jacket, i just run. hoping to be so fast i can break through this thing called Time into Heaven's domain, fall flat on my face, catch my breath, then beg for You to return.

butterfly wings

wordless love
how can i, word-dependent, express the unspeakable?
stitch up these lips
carve out a hole in the earth for us to sit in
quietly
so as not to disturb the
love that's forming
a delicate webbing
translucent skin
stretched over our
scared selves
sheltered in this
silent cocoon
one day to break free
on wings of
strength and colour

madness or mercy?

bleeding
i once again
crawl
up your steps
knock on your door
and beg
you to let
Him in

flying into space

some are scared to be alone. others, thrive in empty spaces. i fill up on emptiness. it gives me room to breathe, to dance to my own tune. i could live in my attic, painting till dawn, sleeping on the splattered carpet and waking up looking like one of my abstract pictures. of course my husband would live with me, on the couch, reading. we'd both escape. we're often threatening to escape this existence called reality. nothing's been done about it yet. but maybe one day you'll see us flying high in the sky with our magic capes, and then later you'll find our heads peeking over clouds looking longingly at the world we've rejected.

in the stillness

the sunset dripped down
its colours
bled
as we sat quite content
on our little
bed
and realized the God who
gives us our
bread
for each new day
and all that is
said
seems meaningless
dead
in light of your mercy:
shed
and bled
for
us
we crawl to your throne
devo-ted
indeb-ted
forgiv-ed
and rest.

merciless matador

love is not easily angered. a phrase i mutter to myself in attempts to restrain. you stand there helpless the red flag flies and i charge. weeping and gnashing of teeth. weeping. gnashing. tears hurdling down cheeks splashing onto clothes drenching the air dissolving the madness. punching the air wondering why? with all this love, where's the peace? realizing ... i'm the one who let go. who gave up. who lashed out. you stand there helpful holding out your arms willing to embrace squeeze out the crazy emily fill me up with sanity. crumbling like cake. loving you.

table talk

i often wonder, at what point does God decide to intervene? it would have been ideal sitting there with my little friend drinking coffee talking of death, fears, and eternal life; it would have been best, i think, if you had joined us there. and maybe you did, sipping an apple cinnamon tea, marveling at man's creations, and forgetting that i needed you. to intervene. to convince. to pull out your wand and abbra ca dabra make disbelief disappear. maybe it all happened too fast, and i should just shut up and listen. maybe you have things under control. just maybe.

clay ornaments

with dirt on our hands
we're God's broken band
of undeserved worship
to a much deserved lordship
every morning we pray
in spite of our clay
breaking off in pieces
(ironically, frees us)
we hold out our palms
shake off our qualms
and fall on our faces
hoping nothing erases
this moment
together
before him

adieu

little girl, why did you leave? so much left unsaid yet you've fled to another land full of crack-cocaine and a mother unknowing, as lost as you may become. i can only pray his angels will uphold you over rocks of cyncism fly you beyond adult fears and into an abyss of joy. i can only groan on your behalf and weep, then dare to laugh in hopes that God will rescue you. i can only... let go.

end-times

the scroll of
revelation is
unrolling unfolding
in our times,
our crimes
spinning on a
dime in a second to fall
over
tumble down
with a
frown
stamp our fate
with elate
promises
for humanity
(questioning sanity?)
holy spirit
revive again
derive from us again
all that makes us true

morning meditations

today i found hope in
the skies.
pressed like a
lady's dress yellow
tassles
pink perimeters
with light blue
folds
my darkness
dissolved
in light of the
sun.