advice to self

Unschackle the chains you put on yourself
Think of why you did it, was it of any help?
What were you trying to prove by writing every day?
That words are cheap and easily come your way?

Now you're thinking how much longer you could keep this up
Do you continue beating the clock or simply stop?
You have nothing to lose but a big chunk of pride
You are better with less of it so better halt the ride

Go back to how you've been doing it before
Quit writing constantly, or else your work will soon be a bore
Dance on the keyboard only when the music's playing
When you hear the beat of your heart, that's when you start dancing

when words shouldn't be like gold

beautiful, loving words
are as precious
as a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls

but . . .

the analogy of words and treasures
should end with their worth.

for words,
unlike a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls,
should not be kept hidden
in a cold, impenetrable place
where they are
unseen,
untouched,
untold.

so how could you ever be happy
until you free your fingers
to glide across the keys,
to let words precious to you show
for all the world to see?

and how could i be writing about a "you"
when this is really about me?

Trust God, my heart

Not all that glitters is gold
Not everything flashy is worth our fancy
For all we know, its attraction is but momentary
We should beware lest we miss out on the extraordinary

If a woman could give herself only once
May it be to the one who truly deserves the chance
She must guard her affections, take her time
Before she lets someone say, “You’re mine”

She can ask the Lord to give her eyes to really see
To go beyond the surface and see more clearly
The real treasure hidden inside of a man
That will outvalue everything another holds in his hand

So hush, my heart, and let wisdom be your friend
Let her walk with you through your journey’s end
Do not let the whisperings of the false mislead you
Trust God and wait to give you a love that’s true

Writing on Stone and Sand

Sometimes I do a different kind of writing
But not the kind using ink and paper
I find myself busy etching and scribbling
On stone and sand—two different matters

I stop my hand from mixing them up
Not scribble on stone, not etch on sand
You should know what it is I’m writing
So my cautiousness you'll understand

I should be etching on stone
Kindnesses people show to me
I should be scribbling on sand
Offenses that cut deeply

The etched words on stone will last
Even after many decades have passed
And tomorrow, the tide can quickly wash away
On sand the scribbled hurts and tears of today

“Dear God, guide my hand where I should write
As I choose which memories I'll forever set
Give me the stone, show me the sand
Help me to remember, help me to forget”

A Poem for Ian

Once there was a boy named Ian
Who loves to laugh and have fun
He likes his ice cream vanilla white
And with his necktie is quite a cool sight

He’s the sweetest boy you’ll ever meet
How could I tell, you might think
With his skinny arms he’d hug me tight
And ask if he could stay by my side

He’d say out of the blue, “I love you”
Now if you were me, what would you do?
What else but smile and wonder out loud
How of him his parents must be so proud

Over the phone I ask him one day
“May I come on your birthday?”
He says, “Okay, just ride a big airplane”
Now, if it were only that simple and plain!

So I’m giving him this poem instead
He’d be thrilled upon seeing our picture posted
“Ian, as you turn six today, stay as cool and sweet
Of all the Ians in the world, you’re my favorite!”

H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y, Ian!

If words were clothes

If words were clothes,
Then what do we always wear?
Are we usually garbed in kindness and courtesies,
In pleasant how-are-yous and thank-yous?
Or are we often shabbily dressed in verbal attacks and gossips
In loud how-could-yous and whispered did-you-hear-abouts?

If words were clothes,
Then how could the most beautiful ones—
Made of the silky fabric of love,
stitched with the thread of tenderness—
Be sometimes tucked away and kept hidden
In the closet of fear and indecision?
There they remain hung, day after day,
Gathering dust while we say,
“I will wear these clothes someday”

But what if someday never comes?
What if after days turn into weeks,
Weeks into months,
Months into years,
We realize that these clothes—
Left hanging and unworn,
Don’t fit us anymore?
Why did we not wear them
Even just once, instead of never at all?

If words were clothes
Then I would examine my heart
As I would inspect my wardrobe
No tears will be shed over unworn clothes
It’ll be a different story with unspoken words

- - - - - - - - - -
My first attempt, in my blog, at poetry. I don't know the rules--about lines and meters and ryhmes. I'll probably cringe when I read this again after many years but I just felt like wearing, I meant writing, this today. :-)