I wrote this poem while in the foggy state of "young love," which is little more than a toxic mix of heady hormones and poor judgment.  Actually, if I didn't know how toxic the two people in the poem would become later on, I would probably think their story quite romantic, but romantic stories are not always a good set-up for a good relationship.  This is in Spanish, even though the person it was for didn't speak it, because that was the language I wrote poetry in back then when I was bored.  See "Apuntes de una Clase" for more of the randomness.

Separados por el mar
Después de descubrirte
Otra vez fue encarcelar
Nuestro amor en un cruel alcazár
Y pasar un año para esperar.

Pero no te olvidé,
Ni tus ojos ni cara--
Los ojos en que nadé,
Nadé por el azul que suplicara
Que el amor es lo que esperara.

Por esperar, te quiero
Más que lo que es fácil.
Por el amor espero,
Espero vencer el asero (no puedo leer mi letra) difícil
Espero vencer este espacio tan vil.

¡Triunfante, ya somos!
Cada beso, un premio
De lo que alcanzamos
Por sufrir mucho, pelear por lo que dió
Dios en su misericordia, remedio.

(Tal vez este remedio es ser libre por fin del hombre para que escribí este poema.  Ahora, soy soltera y feliz, feliz a esperar para un buen hombre que no demanda que espero para él por un año de viaje, ni insiste que la mujer es subordinada al hombre en una relación.)

Apuntes de una Clase

This poem was written during a class featuring a brilliant but dull professor who just couldn't hold my attention.  This poem tracks, in very bad Spanish, where my mind was wandering as we discussed the life of St. Augustine.  (By the way, from my handwriting I still can't tell if the last word of the third verse is Spanish for "catholicism" or "cataclysm." Does it really matter which one I meant?)

Cuando hablamos del materialismo
Y su pelea en la mente de Augustín,
Pienso en el capitalismo
Que apoya el día de San Valentín.

¡Un precio por el amor!
Gritan los vendedores.
Sube el clamor
De los que venden osos y flores.

Cuando hablamos de la intención
Y su papel en el asceticismo
Pienso en la pretensión
De los que describan catalicismo.

¡Muerte, espada, y destrucción!
Gritan los predicadores.
Suben a Sión
Para juzgar a lost pecadores.

My Prison

Written September 7, 2001. My apologies to Pleasant Hill Adventist Academy: I really grew to love the school in later years, and this is not a reflection on the school itself, but on how much time I spent there in sixth grade.

There are no bars of sturdy iron,
But thick glass and shades.
There is no need of ball and chain,
But piles of unsorted files.
There are no doors of heavy metal,
But wood and glass, you see;
My rations are not meager bread,
But pizza, hay stacks, and more.
There are no jailers, grim or else,
But teachers and parents.
I am not told to push an oar,
Or break up rocks,
Or prune trees,
But file and grade papers,
From 8 AM to 10 at night.
I cannot leave this place.
This classroom is my only world,
I know no world than school.
I see my friends go home and play,
But I stay here.
I see my friends go to summer camp,
But I stay here.
An eternity may pass,
In which time they will prosper,
But I will stay here.
School I will take on.
For I will be a teacher (most likely)
Lacking any song.

This is a rude insult to the beautiful art of teaching, which I would consider an honor to join someday. And as for that school in which I once felt trapped--how dearly I wish I could call it my home again. So writes an exile of a city, Pleasant Hill, which I love, where I no longer feel welcome. My new poems, now that I have been to summer camp, joined a profession other than teaching, and seen the world, may mourn instead the loss of the only place where I have felt the label "home" applied.

Running

Written September 7, 2001:

The wind whipping through my hair,
The spirit of quick movement,
The feet that pound upon the ground--
The state of pure enjoyment.

July 27, 2001

If there's no title for the poems I find in these journals (and many of them are without title), their dates suffice. This poem is particularly rough in its style, but describes very real circumstances, for which reason names are blocked out. If you have any familiarity with me from that time, though, you probably know exactly who they describe:

Many moths ago,
Before we were friends
I thought of you in horror
As a monster to no ends.

So I mocked and gossiped
Behind your back
The horrible things I said!
For which I should be whipped.

At Camporee I then found out
The struggles and the pain
The pain you faced every day,
The pain that made us friends.

When I became ambassador
Between the last two tables,
I tired of the Boy Band talk,
The endless talk of media.

When you told me of
Your love for B________.
I already knew, you see.
J_____ had already told me.

In procession are the events
In which I led you
Down the trail of mockery;
The picture, play, and story.

The picture, as you might have imagined
Was not requested of me
I offered and drew it myself
And then J_____ was pleased with me.

Later I sought to draw more
More pictures of your romance
But then I felt the spirit of guilt
And threw them in the trash.

Later, even than that
I wanted to communicate the story,
So I picked up pen and paper and the words began to flow
Putting down what I perceived for you alone to know.

But yet again I got caught up
In fictitious acts of heroism
Then the play I began to write
Just made it worse for you.

After all the written pranks
I turned to my computer;
It supplied greeting cards
And sonnets of amour.

So you see that I am not, indeed,
One worthy to be your friend.
Instead I should be punished,
Tortured to no end.

Yet still you show your mercy
And remain as my companion.
Which leaves me one question:
Why? Why? Why?

Incidentally, that "Why?" eventually became my redemption. The struggle with guilt described in this poem, and the friend to whom it was addressed, taught me the true love of Christ in a way that was more than a word to me, and it changed my life forever.

THE END

This poem inaugurates my quest to write down the scattered lines of poetry that exist from my 43 journals that I have written over the last 14 years. This first one, THE END, is written on the back page of what I like to think of as the Prequel Journal, which I started to write when I was only seven or eight, and still have not finished. It still has many blank pages, which I am filling by writing an entry every time I finish reading the whole canon of journals.

It's the end of my book,
but not my story.
The end of mere words,
but not my story.
Even these are mere lines,
In poetry; only a rhyme.
A finished book,
but not a finished story.
Like a tree that sprung up,
but without branches.
No, this is not my whole life,
but just a small portion.
Not until I'm gone
will the real story begin.

The Glacial Hand of God

Lost in the land,

Touched by the glacial hand of God

I appeal the stares of the stars.

What right have you, oh stars,

To judge my wandering the land?

My feet are worn out from the celestial ice,

My body grows weary under the stars.

Judge me not, glaring stars,

For the glacial hand of God

Has set my feet on pilgrimage

And has set the ice beneath my feet

That my body and soul would weary

Into heat and energy

Beneath the glaring stars.

I am lost in the land,

Beneath the glaring stars,

But the glacial hand of God

Will guide me to the end of my days

When the hot sweat of wandering

Will cool once more into glittering ice

Beneath a caring sun.

When the stars fall,

The day will dawn,

And the glacial hand of God

Will have me wander no more.