Knitting

“And the glory of the LORD will be revealed, and all people will see it together.

For the mouth of the LORD has spoken."

Two needles click and slide between my fingers-

Dancing, a never-ending dance, colors

Flash in the light and weave a broken pattern.

A host of loose and dangling ends hang limply

Their time and place is gone, and they are left

To swing, until the project has been finished.

A half a dozen balls lay at my side,

A few of them attached to my knitting.

They range in color, from the happy strings,

Like blue and pink and green and golden hues,

To bleaker shades, like black and grey and mauve.

At random, so it seems, they’re chosen freely

And mixed into the work, it makes a pattern,

That’s hard to see until the end is finished.

It’s like our story, living in a place,

Where we can never hope to understand

Why cruelty and hate this world will harbor

So, willing, ‘till the day He shows His plan

And turns the knotted mess into a pattern-

That only his own handiwork can make. 

Fog - A Pantoum

Written on a misty morning on the farm.

The fog on the moor wraps me close in its arms,

It sinks into the cracks of oak and ash.

It rolls out like a carpet through the grey sky;

Leaves drip with water, as the fog sits, heavy.

It sinks into the cracks of oak and ash;

The world is silent in mysterious respect.

Leaves drip with water, as the fog sits, heavy.

Mountain ponies, splotched with grey, stomp the grass.

The world is silent in mysterious respect,

The smell of earth, and grass, and rain.

Mountain ponies, splotched with grey, stomp the grass.

A flute sounds out, hidden somewhere in the grey.

 

The fog on the moor wraps me close in its arms,

It rolls out like a carpet through the grey sky.

A flute sounds out, hidden somewhere in the grey.

The smell of earth, and grass, and rain.

How to write a pantoum

Another Poem: Chico

With the nice cool mornings that we have had recently, me and my sisters have been riding our horses before we start school. It has been quite convenient, as the afternoons are so hot, and we really enjoy getting a nice ride in before we start out day. A few months ago, we bought a sweet cream-colored horse named Chico ("little boy" in Spanish- he is very small for a horse!). Over the past couple of moths, I have really grown to love Chico! He is so sweet, and I love the way that he rides (he is very smooth, unlike Turbo, our other horse). Chico will let us ride normally, bareback, and double on him! Horses, like people, develop personalities of their own. They all are different, and it is even an old wive's tale that they develop the same personalities as their owner (or their name! We have a horse named Stormy, and believe me, he can get a pretty cloudy temperament some times :). Because all horses have different personalities, they appeal to different people. Chico and me definitely work well together!

Chico's biggest fault is probably that he is a little bit buddy sour. This means that he would rather be with his horse friends than be working all by himself. Sometimes, while I am riding him, he tries to run over to Stormy and Turbo and stand with them. However, buddy sourness is something that, with time, like all other things, can be cured in a horse. You just have to work it out of them like any other bad habit. In this way (and many others!) horses are a lot like people. I think that's why they are one of the most lovable and popular animals all over the world. 

This is a poem that I have written about Chico. Please enjoy! Any comments or suggestions are welcome :).

He puts his muzzle right upon my cheek

And softly rubs it with his gentle nose

I touch his mane so soft, and feel his coat

So sleek and smooth, almost as white as snow.

With gentle hands, I brush his coat and mane

And toss my saddle up upon his back.

When once the girth is tightened and the bit

Is in his mouth, we’re done with all our tack.

I put my foot into the curved stirrup,

And pull myself into the barrel saddle

And with a click and gentle kick of boots,

We’re off, to fight imaginary battles.

We fly through wood and dale with rapid speed

His hooves they barely touch the ground that yields,

Its grasses for to pad his hooved feet-

A glittering and pointed sword I wield.

The rider and the horse become just one,

And all that can be seen is a white streak

The bond of love it holds them both together,

And all that they can think about is speed.

We dash through darkened wood, dodging the trees

And winding with the path of dirt we twist

And run, so swiftly through the shade and fog:

Our path unaltered by the heavy mist.

When once we’re finished with our lengthy run,

We come to screeching halt, together stop.

I swing my leg around him and I step

Off, onto ground to praise him with a carrot.

I pat his side and whisper in his ear

How much I love him, and together walk

Up to the barn where we will sit quietly

Where for an hour without words we’ll talk.

The Clod and The Pebble

   Hello everyone! Every week, I study a poet and some of his/her poetry in my school. This week, I wanted to write a little bit about a poem that I have been studying this week. It is called The Clod and The Pebble, by William Blake. 

       The Clod and The Pebble is a short poem written in iambic tetrameter. The poem addresses some of the world's biggest topics: love and bitterness. Blake starts the poem by saying:

'Love seeketh not Itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care;

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.'

So sung a little Clod of Clay,

Trodden with the cattle's feet;"

The original printing of
The Clod and The Pebble

       A clod of clay is a lump of soft, malleable clay, trodden, as Blake says, by the feet of cattle and animals. This clod obviously has suffered: he has been trampled, flattened, and squished by passers-by. Though he has been broken, he still has love. He is not hardened into hatred, but continually humbled and broken. Despite his suffering, he has joy! How can this be? 

       Sometimes, I think, we mistake an easy life to be equal to true joy. However, the two are quite different. Though having an easy life can make us happy, true joy only comes from God. How does he give us joy? Well, Ann Voskamp (author of The Broken Way) says that true joy only comes from being broken. To yield grain, the field must be plowed and broken. To yield wheat, the kernel must break open. To yield bread, the wheat must be ground and broken. Brokenness is a natural part of life, and we must accept it and become stronger. Just like the only way to build your muscles is to break them, so to build our love and peace, we must be broken. And out of that love and peace comes joy.

William Blake

The little clod has found the true meaning of happiness, the true meaning of love, by being broken.

"Maybe wholeness is embracing brokenness as a part of your life." 
-Voskamp

                           But a Pebble of the brook,

                               Warbled out these metres meet

                             'Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to Its delight
Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.'

       The pebble, hardened by the rocks of the brook, is blind to love. He does not understand what real love is, because he has not been broken. When we are broken, the true meaning of love becomes clearer. Love becomes about the other person, not about ourselves. It becomes about giving, not taking.

Who do we want to be: the clod, or the pebble? 

From my Commonplace Book...

Some of My Favorite J.R.R. Tolkien Poems

Here is a collection of some of my favorite poems by J.R.R. Tolkien, author of  The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings (some of my favorite books!), not to mention many other fascinating works. Not only was he a superbly skilled writer, Tolkien knew exactly how to put words, rhyme, and meaning together to make some truly beautiful poetry. I hope you enjoy reading this poetry as much as I have!

The Road goes Ever on and on

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journey new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Still 'round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

Luthien Tinuviel

"The leaves were long, the grass was green,

The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Tinuviel was dancing there
To music of a pipe unseen,
And light of stars was in her hair,
And in her raiment glimmering.

There Beren came from mountains cold.
And lost he wandered under leaves,
And where the Elven-river rolled
He walked alone and sorrowing.
He peered between the hemlock-leaves
And saw in wonder flowers of gold
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,
And her hair like shadow following.

Enchantment healed his weary feet
That over hills were doomed to roam;
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,
And grasped at moonbeams glistening.
Through woven woods in Elvenhome
She lightly fled on dancing feet,
And left him lonely still to roam
In the silent forest listening.

He heard there oft the flying sound
Of feet as light as linden-leaves,
Or music welling underground,
In hidden hollows quavering.
Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,
And one by one with sighing sound
Whispering fell the beachen leaves
In wintry woodland wavering.

He sought her ever, wandering far
Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,
By light of moon and ray of star
In frosty heavens shivering.
Her mantle glinted in the moon,
As on a hill-top high and far
She danced, and at her feet was strewn
A mist of silver quivering.

When winter passed, she came again,
And her song released the sudden spring,
Like rising lark, and falling rain,
And melting water bubbling.
He saw the elven-flowers spring
About her feet, and healed again
He longed by her to dance and sing
Upon the grass untroubling.

Again she fled, but swift he came,
Tinuviel! Tinuviel!
He called her by her elvish name;
And there she halted listening.
One moment stood she, and a spell
His voice laid on her: Beren came,
And doom fell on Tinuviel
That in his arms lay glistening.

As Beren looked into her eyes
Within the shadows of her hair,
The trembling starlight of the skies
He saw there mirrored shimmering.
Tinuviel the elven-fair,
Immortal maiden elven-wise,
About him cast her shadowy hair
And arms like silver glimmering.

Long was the way that fate them bore,
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless."

At the Gray Havens

Day is ended, dim my eyes,
But journey long before me lies.
Farewell, friends! I hear the call.
The ship's beside the stony wall.
Foam is white and waves are grey;
beyond the sunset leads my way.
Foam is salt, the wind is free;
I hear the rising of the sea.

Farewell, friends! The sails are set,
the wind is east, the moorings fret.
Shadows long before me lie,
beneath the ever-bending sky,
but islands lie behind the Sun
that I shall raise ere all is done;
lands there are to west of West,
where night is quiet and sleep is rest.

Guided by the Lonely Star,
beyond the utmost harbour-bar,
I'll find the heavens fair and free,
and beaches of the Starlit Sea.
Ship my ship! I seek the West,
and fields and mountains ever blest.
Farewell to Middle-earth at last.
I see the star above my mast!

In Western Lands beneath the Sun

In western lands beneath the Sun

the flowers may rise in Spring,

the trees may bud, the waters run,

the merry finches sing.

Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night

and swaying beeches bear

the Elven-stars as jewels white

amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey's end I lie

in darkness buried deep,

beyond all towers strong and high,

beyond all mountains steep,

above all shadows rides the Sun

and Stars forever dwell:

I will not say the Day is done,

nor bid the Stars farewell.

April

After writing "March", I felt really inspired to write a poem about each month of the year (hopefully I will be able to stay faithful to writing at least once month!). Here is my poem on April, if you live in Texas, you will totally be able to relate!

April

April showers bring May flowers,
They say.
I say,
One minute it is hot,
One minute it is cold,
One minute it is raining,
One minute it's a desert.
The weather is a - changing,
And I never can tell
If I should put away space heaters
Or bring out my blankets!
Will someone please tell me,
What season we are in,
I can't tell for myself-
But surely someone can!

March

I wrote this poem today because the weather is SO lovely! The setting is Oakbrook Park, Frisco, Texas. 

March

The trees are barren, with hardly a verdant burst,
The water trickles delicately,
Rolling over sticks and stones.

The day is warm, and yet,
A south breeze licks my face,
Cooling my body, and swelling my soul

The sky is a deep, rich blue
It beckons the birdies forth
They, however, stay on their comfortable, leafless, perches.

Basking in the warmth of the sun,
The peace of the day,
And the warm, south, breeze.

Even though these lovely things
Swell my heart and soul,
We must retire into the glades.

Here, the water is stagnant,
More thickly covered with sticks, and branches
It runs far back, into the depths of the woods.

The trees give little shade,
And the muddy banks and their brush,
Do not give much more.

These differences could paint a picture in my head,
And make the glades seem unworthy, to live in poetry,
And make the open land, a picture of successes,

I, however, am reminded that each and every corner of God's creation,
Is a masterpiece in itself, and we are blessed to have months like March,
All of it's many auras included, emitting thousands upon thousands of sensations.

Augustus Caesar's World Creative Narration

Rome

Rome is falling, quick and fast!

Please, O Brutus, save it!

You alone can change the hearts

Of Romans, small of wit!

Mark Antony is trying

To claim Rome for his own,

He has Caesar's money

He will take the throne!

No more will there be democracy,

No more will there be peace,

Mark Antony will rule,

That vile, wretched, beast!

Octavius was adopted,

In Julius Caesar’s will,

But Antony will do all he can

To keep the papers, still!

I do not like the look of this,

There will be civil war!

But if we bring back consuls,

Rome can be restored!

A few attempts have been made,

To save Rome from tyranny,

But none have been successful,

Please Brutus, make yours ring!

Make it ring in the hearts of Romans

Make it clear, to Antony,

That we won’t tolerate

A bit of tyranny!

Please, O, Brutus, please!

You saved us from one rebel,

Now help your country once again, 

Now save us from more trouble!

So now Brutus, I plead of you,

Fight for what is right!

Fear no mortal man,

And join in our fight!