when I think of old poets, I think of shriveled men with wispy gray hair trailing in long tentacles down their faces; their beards long and disheveled. A glass of cold rum sits on their desk; their teeth stained with it, their breath smelling of it. They wear old spectacles and bite on the ends of number two pencils with their stained teeth. Thinking, pondering. If poets are such creatures, I will not be one of them, for alas, I am neither male nor fond of drinking rum. But here are a few of my poems. I don’t know if they are poems. Maybe songs. Maybe stories. Maybe wrapped figments of thought. You decide.
The song of the sun.
The gentle whisper of sunflowers.
A wheat field kissed by a golden haze of light.
The sweet call of happiness and joy.
The dawn before dark.
Yellow comes softly; like when the sun rises over the prairie and you begin to feel its light touch your skin.
It comes boldly too; like when you walk into a field of yellow tulips and you catch your breath because -oh, glory – the sight of yellow is too much for your eyes. It almost blinds you.
It touches deep within us. It speaks to our souls.
Sun. Tulips. Yellow socks. Yellow sweaters. Pineapples. Lemons. Sunflowers. Goldfinches.
Don’t you hear it?
Listen. It sings a song of joy.
We know not what glorious light may come out of our deepest sorrows. We know not that counting our tears is like counting diamonds. And Someone holds these diamonds.
We do not realize that, one day, how fearlessly and triumphantly we will dance upon the very stones that once weighed us down. What was once considered loss, we will look back and laugh at. Thank you, Loss! You prepared me for a greater joy. Through you, a greater weight of glory was formed.
Once, we waited. Now we see why. We once thought we were all alone, but now we see that Someone was always standing close; keeping us. Holding us. Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but soon, face to face. Call it hope now because one day it will be reality.
Oh, let our feet dance upon disappointment.
He does not meet us in the hallway, halfway between our deathbed and our rising and leaving. He comes to the very verge of our graveside. Stands. Kneels. Reads our tombstone and then, with the same voice that ushered the galaxies into place, commands us to arise and go forth. We tremble. But can do no other than obey.
See? He took us from that grave, He breathed life and love into us, and suddenly, our eyes were opened. We look and what was once darkness is now light. Fields that were filled with the dead and rotting carcass of flowers are now in full bloom. The sun shines brighter and stronger than it ever did. The colors are bright, the smells vivid; life itself sings in the trees along with the birds, and croaks in the meadow with the toads.
Truly, He has given us all things. He has met us at the gravesite of death and has given us the kiss of life. Glory. Full glory.
Would you collect me like wildflowers on the path in the hot summer sun;
like raindrops falling on the wilted meadows, and fireflies gathering in a nest of dusk?
if you gathered me, would I fall through your hands silently and smoothly, with a quietness that says, ‘you cannot contain me.’ would your chalky-brown hands grasp at the air?
sometimes even wildflowers cannot be collected. after stepping out in that hot summer sun, you watch them nod their happy heads and you stand in wonder and let them be. this is a wordless world that cannot be touched. you let the next weary traveler smile, stand in wonder and forget his tired legs and soggy sandwiches.
how wonderful it is to be left alone.
“Beginning and End”
You know me. What a comfort that is. You see me; every fiber and flaw. Every ember and ambition. Every desire and dream. Before I speak, you know the words that I will say. You see my future and my journey. You hold the cup that I will drink from and you ordain my wanderings.
You saw what I would need in order to bloom and grow, and you set me in that way. When I cried for fear, You were there – hadn’t You already known all of this? You were already guiding me there before I even knew. You are the guideposts and the journey itself. You are the fountain I will drink from along the way, and You are the end of my journey.
If we were to see the world from the clouds, would we not stand more in awe, and less in fear? If we had more of Your heart, and less of our own inward gaze, wouldn’t we think more about how You care for the nations, and less about what the neighbor thinks of the underwear drying on the clothesline? Wouldn’t we look at the lights that glisten down there on this little ball called earth, and attribute those lights to souls that hunger for You?
We wouldn’t think of life in terms of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, and what shoes go best with leopard print dresses, and who left the garage door open. Instead, we would see the unseen tears, and the untold stories. We would share more of the message of a Father who wipes every tear, and whose story is one of unimaginable hope.
If I had more of Your heart, I would see the world above moments in time. I would see it as a whole, wide, incredible, awe-striking panoply of mission and purpose; Your mission and Your purpose.
Less of the jelly sandwiches and more of Your heart, Jesus.
© Sophia Luciano and Storyteller, 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.