Last night, I wrote my last poem for NaPoWriMo 2016. The fact overwhelms me a little. 31 poems, 31 days– and it’s over? And it has been a journey that has blessed, challenged, encouraged, and grown more than just my poetry.
Throughout the month, I’ve really discovered and appreciated so much more the people who make up my ‘writing community’!
Mom and Dad, you’ve really encouraged me in writing this year — not just poetry, but the short story and other stuff, too. And you liked what I wrote! And that means the world to me. ❤ ❤ Laura, thanks for encouraging me at 10 o’clock when I still needed to write something and for contributing ‘To a Fellow Poet’ to my collection. 😉 Thanks to A Glimpse of Starlight for the suggestion to do it May instead of April — I’m not sure I would have done NaPo this year otherwise. I’ve really appreciated being able to share my poems in Halaran. You all, readers, have been so gracious and and encouraging in your comments on all these weeks so far! Thank you soo much for taking the time to read them and let me know what you think! You all make up the Inklings of my writing experiments, and I am both humbled and amazed to see once again how much bigger my world is than just me.
Here’s my last 3 days of poems. I definitely want to do a month of poems next year!
the words allude me,
and if they won’t come to me,
pencils aren’t much use.
There are so many days
That I try, that I think I can,
think I can be strong;
– I can be beautiful;
– I can be wise;
– I can be the hero;
– I can make a name for myself.
I lean on my scepter
and find it is a splintering reed,
and it pierces the hand of the one who trusts it.
And I am left holding the pieces
of a picture of me–
what I thought I was,
what I really am.
on my own,
– I am weak.
– I am dust.
– The only name I can make for myself is Babel.
Because of my brokenness
— not because You leaned on falsehood,
but You gave Your hands to be pierced
so that my hands might be whole.
Your hands bear the scars of my making.
You say a bruised reed You do not despise,
and a smoldering wick You will not snuff out.
It is You Who makes dead bones
It is You Who breathes on stone
and makes it breathe.
It is You Who is strength and glory and wisdom.
I would look
Redeemed by Your blood and its atoning power,
All that I have is because of Your life.
Could I dream in truth of anything more breath-taking?
Hold my heart fast to You and You alone;
Ever let me seek my hero and story in Your words,
Lest I search for eternal life in words of death.