Cry of the Stars

He put the glowing bundle in my hands.

'What's this?' I said.
'My life,' was the reply.
    'Yours now.'
   
--what?
(I stood dumbstruck.)


'List of things inside,' he went on:
        never lies to Mom. never talks back to Dad. Yours.
        never speaks an unkind word. Yours.
        never gets annoyed with anything. Yours.
  
        always makes the right decision. Yours.
        always has complete self-control. Yours.
        pure thoughts. Yours.
  
        family relationship with Creator of all,
        stubborn love in the face of hatred,
        absolute, utter perfection--yours, yours, yours.
  
        more, too, if you keep looking.

   
'Mine,' I repeated. 'Mine?'
'My gift to you,' he said, smiling.
    'All yours.'

a miracle:

two glimmers like tall candles

reached each other across a black expanse

(found you, found it--)

astounding how contagious

smiles can be.

Who could tell?

You were just as new, but cold.

: The black exploded into blinding white

and rising sunlight kissed the ashes

like it could wake the dead

(found you, found it--)

was so bright and beautiful.

It did.

Life found you found Home.

dances like a mosquito
just out of reach,
hard to corner,
slipping out of your hands
with ghostly wings
and an eerie disappearing hum.

bites when you've
forgotten to look,
then itches and itches
and itches without stopping,
until you've fairly gone insane.

I.

I will not
flee from the sun with you,
for you would only
leave me trailing behind.
I will not
walk into the dawn with you,
for I don't know
what you do at my back.
When I've turned north,
then I will take you with me,
as your steps match
exactly with mine.


II.

outside i wonder what you play on rainy days
what hands and feet you follow then
and what rays shape your blurry frame
but in my house i can still see you
creeping around the corners back to me
and i don't have to wonder anymore.


III.

I dreamed that
darkness swallowed you,
set you free to wander,
and wrenched your fingers
from my own--

perhaps at night you
skip up to the clouds
and make a game of
hiding from the stars--

but don't forget
that when daylight returns,
you must flicker down to me
and once again be mine.

Good beginnings are only
exciting because of the
beautiful endings
they promise,
which an author sets up
carefully, so the reader
will be satisfied in
some way. 
Funny that something so
simple as an ending
can be so very
complex,
satisfying the writer as
well as the reader,
setting down
her pen,
saying to herself, yes, this
will grasp their hearts
and hold them
captive;
yet only the best tales can
transfix us like that.
I think I know
one of them:

It is finished,
wrote one author,
just beginning my story.
I'm reading eagerly until the end.

Come tomorrow, they'll be

If Scripture is God-breathed,
then maybe as we read,
our souls are mirroring His action.
Do you doubt the power of that air?
Remember: His breath brought
the first man from dust to life--
from simple earth to life!

Breathe in, redeemed one,
breathe in until you taste
His words sweet on your tongue,
filling your lungs and mouth with
His life and love,
so you may rise from the dust
with His strength in your feet
and His mercy glowing in your hands.

I stand and watch the growing gloaming
glowing bright, more brilliant than a fig.
Imagine: somewhere beaches foaming;
elsewhere, pigeons balancing on twigs;
still elsewhere, elephants arising
early, when the sun's still cherry-red--
and last, a spiky fruit surprising
some poor soul by dropping on his head.
The world is split up much like pie,
and you may only have one slice for now,
but that's why I would like to fly,
so I can see it all at once. Look, a cow!

I know the fire hurts you,
when the flames are gnawing
on your flesh, like red-hot demons
clamoring to devour you whole.
It burns your skin and clothes
away, until you're left
completely bare before me.
You're crying for someone
to save you, but
I have not forgotten you.
I know the fire hurts.

O golden child of mine,
keep walking through the flames.
They shall not touch your soul,
but only dance across to polish
and to purify--
then leave their brilliant shadows
pressed upon its surface,
and you will come to me
shining brighter than the fire itself.

You and I have always known,
and we are both aware
that Father brought our spirits close,
and Father knit them there.
So then, together we will grow
with love and grace and prayers--
and of His light our souls will glow
within His sovereign care.

Above the night, hazy stars
are gazing down at me and you.
This wide dark widens my eyes,
holds me still, and consumes my heart.
Do you feel as small as I do?
Perhaps we are not real at all.

If the world would end tonight,
would you be coming home with me?

If the sky was pulled apart
and stars and moon fled
to farthest corners and trembled there,
would you be frightened
to find what glory lay behind?

If you saw a King coming down to us,
would you want to hide, or
would you want to run into his arms?

I'm shaking with the promise of
eternity, and you'll be shaking too.
I hope you know if it'll be fear or joy.

When you stand at Heaven's gates,
will you be looking at your home--
will you be going there with me?

deep greys and blues
snake cold and bitter down
my open throat, tails scraping
where the slender starlight
cut my tongue in two.
grey-blue swirls into my lungs,
poisoning the warm fog inside
until frozen feathers barely tickle
at my heart,
which swells in the chill as if
it'd shatter my bones.

I swallowed valiantly,
silent and wide-eyed,
or perhaps it swallowed me.

dusty white creeps slowly
through my toes and soothes
like honey, though I know cold
could never thaw itself.

Emmalee
flaps very stupidly
and thinks forty-two chromosome
makes you dumber than a garden gnome.

--
This is an absolutely terrible clerihew, but please click that link.

From Death in Winter's cages springs
a bitter twilight weeping--
and freedom once taught you to sing,
but like a dove with tar-tipped wings,
you're silent in your Sleeping,
so Death in Winter's cages brings
a bitter twilight weeping.

A ghost came to your window
very late last night;
I don't know why you let it
give you such a fright.
That ghost was really just the
other half of me.
(The disembodied half, you'll
understand.) And we
together make up one old
person who is dead,
but she has got the "heart," and
I have got the head.
She is more like Granny dear
than I will be again,
because she'd rather talk to you,
and I just want your brain.

just watched BBC
Sherlock. He talks too fast, but
it's still wonderful.

This happened on Thursday night.
--

Haleigh, 9:20pm:
The night grows short and
my patience grows shorter still.
Post, you poet, you!

Me, 9:35pm:
i'll write a poem,
but i have one calc problem
left for me to do.

Haleigh, 10:24pm:
that wasn't a hai
ku. If you'd said "I will," it
would have been one, though.

Me, 10:30pm:
what? Haleigh Swansen
says that word as "pome" instead
of "po-em"? how strange.

Haleigh, 11:02pm:
people who say it
that way say "poe-UM", my dear.
That's not right, either.

Me, 11:10pm:
I stand corrected
on that second syllable,
but there are still two.

Haleigh, 11:16pm:
I just read the link...
OK. I'm the faulty one.
You are free to mock.

He shaped me before I had form;
molded me with great eternal hands;
taught me how to breathe
and my heart how to beat.
He took my little soul up
by the arms and showed me how
to walk; fed me, gave me strength.
He loved me like no other
ever would or could,

and still I ran away. I learned
to worship at another altar. Turned
the mirror into my sky and forgot
he stood behind it. Said
"My Lord," to the things I had done
and looked to them for all my help.
Loved myself and only me.

What a child you are, he said.
The more I call, the more you turn away.
I loved you, and you lusted after
everything I gave to you, though
you deserved nothing. Therefore
my anger burns, and justice
must be made,

but when I roar, take heed:
come trembling back, because I
love you still.

And like a lion he devoured and
poured his wrath until that righteous
burning anger ran completely dry.
Not one bit of it reached me.
I stood and watched, because
another took my place
that I might tremble
and return.

Come child, he said,
and do not fear. What have I
to do with idols? It is I
who answers and looks after you,
and I who has healed you,
and I who will make you grow
strong in my shadow.

Come to me, he said.
I love you freely.

--
A/N: Hosea 11-14

Hello to all the dear readers of this blog!

As you may have noticed, the title has changed. This is because it is no longer the lives of three in poetry; instead, it has become the poetry of one. Ellie and Mia have officially resigned from contributing to this blog. From now on, all new posts will be mine. (Although, if you've been following for a while, you will realize that this isn't a particularly large change in posting schedule.)
Thank you all for following TLOTIP through the years. I hope you will continue to read and enjoy my poetry in the future!

God bless,

Davina