Let me be your wildflower

I felt it in my heart,

One fine morning of spring

Whilst I wished I was somewhere else,

Doing something important in some ways,

I felt that perhaps I could let You in,

For once,

Stay still,

Have the windows wide open

And remember,

What it feels like to have a Father

I can take by the hand and trust

To climb mountains,

To cross rivers,

To climb trees,

And to whisper amongst the branches…

I promise You.

Not to worry so much about these things,

To think only of Your peace,

Or as they would say here, Your justice.

I promise

To be Your wildflower, Lord

Gentle,

And loving,

Swiftly gone

If you will,

Just say the word

Or send Your wind.

I promise

To serve,

And think only of this:

To see them happy,

To get tired

So they may be free.

I promise

To become your refuge,

Your garden of quiet and beauty

So that You may know

That you can rest in me.

Let me be Your wildflower, Lord

And I promise to spend the rest of my days

Alone,

Making you feel in my heart

Like at home. —

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I am

I am

As a tree is

At sunset,

A golden stream.

In the depths of doubt

A rock without shield

I am

The space in between

A warrior in spirit

A thousand years-old

An ever looking soul

I am

Only to be found

In the quiet and the now

And when I look for myself

In pain, hurry or blind

I know that coming back

To where I stand now,

Forever more

I am who I am. —

Exodus 3:14

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Imperfect

Inspired by a phrase from Brianna Wiest, in her book: The Pivot Year

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I can read them

Again and again,

A thousand times on hand,

They won’t get any better

Or any worse.

They are what they are,

Poems,

Or better said:

I was born with these chains.

So I either touch the paper

And keep the thread,

Accept that who I was is who I am,

Or I bleach it all,

Kill everything,

Make art as pure as souless

And be liked, at best.

I don’t recognise my voice

When I believe they stare,

I can’t give anything

If I still think: “I want to help”.

Be foolish, and expose myself?

And hope that this nauseating fear

Will let me breathe

Now and then?

Or wait.

Re-read, erase.

Do it all again.

Serve coffee, be safe

Until I leave this mortal shell.

I thought that

How bad I wanted this

Was useless to mention

So be brave,

Feel it:

There was a purpose to this imperfection. —

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Fall

And one day

I saw myself

Fall

Like an autumn leave

Slowly

Spinning

In the wind

Going

Down to the ground

But there was no ground

To catch me. —

The sound of life

I’ve walked alone

Far

And far

Down many roads.

Until I found a place

Where I could long

For silence.

Little did I know

That silence wasn’t there.

Wherever I went

It never came.

But I did hear

The sound of life

Roaming the field

Like a newborn

Breathe

At last.

---

I have so much left to cry

I have so much left to cry.

Did it occur to you?

That perhaps behind those many smiles

Lies a silence

That won’t die.

I have so much left behind.

All of those days

Of joyful trust

And of those dreams

Barely untouched…

I never came to realise

That I had so much left to cry

Before I’m ready

To hold one’s gaze,

Before the sun

Can rise again.

I have so much left to fear,

And question,

And pray for.

So much to be seen

And cared

And fought for.

And as I know,

This day will come:

Inevitable rise,

From the depths

Of a black-ink storm,

I shall soon get up

And fill the sky

With bursts of laughter

And merry light

But I have so much left to learn

That I don’t know

Which one will first

From my mistakes

Or deepest hurts

Teach me the greatest way

To grow.

I feel them roll and roll,

Like long time dreams

Buried in snow

Down by my cheeks,

Gently, they roll.

So I stop by the window

And sit.

The winter cold

Blushing my cheeks

Gives me a little time.

To rest

And think.

I can see clearly now

From a bird’s eye view...

All the days I have denied

Fighting with fierce for what was mine

I never seemed to understand

That overwhelmed and somewhat tried

I still had so much left to cry. —

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How strange

How strange

To come back to a place

Where your roots grew

But never set,

Where your soul lies

But never rests.

How strange

To come back to a place

Where no one can

Call you by name,

Where people laugh

But never change.

How strange

To come back to a place

Where you belong

But never stayed.

Is it my place ?

I cannot say.

From memories,

One sings

And laughs, and hurts

Sometimes

But to come back...

To come back

Is to open your favourite book

Where its pages were torn. —

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I have longed to move away

I have longed to move away

From the hissing of the spent lie

And the old terrors' continual cry

Growing more terrible as the day

Goes over the hill into the deep sea;

I have longed to move away

From the repetition of salutes,

For there are ghosts in the air

And ghostly echoes on paper,

And the thunder of calls and notes.

I have longed to move away but am afraid;

Some life, yet unspent, might explode

Out of the old lie burning on the ground,

And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.

Neither by night's ancient fear,

The parting of hat from hair,

Pursed lips at the receiver,

Shall I fall to death's feather.

By these I would not care to die,

Half convention and half lie.

— Dylan Thomas, 25 Poems, 1936.

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