August 12th, 2002

you came running
over the green fields you came running to meet me
you took my heart by surprise
you came dancing
wildflowers and windswept trees, smiling out loud
you took my hand and spun me
you came singing
echoes in the ruins of a majesty at once ancient and undying
you took my breath away
and somewhere
somewhere back in your dark, wet earth

Sitting ‘neath the window;
I sip my pungent tea,
As I think and ponder,
Of all the things
That inspire me.

Like the birds of the air,
Or the fish of the sea,
The mountains, and rivers.
A small creature,
Such as a bee.

So as I contemplate
Over all that I see,
I must acknowledge that
All creation

Plant me near the ocean
so I can stand beside the sea.
Find a barren hillside
and take me there, if it needs a tree.

Let my branches brush the clouds
like a baby's arms that rise
to touch a father's face.

Find me a hole that only I can fill,
and capture the sky
in a star-fishing net.
It's my only limit, you know?

When I stand my full height,
unashamed to be strong,

I started writing poetry during my English class last year. It was actually the very first English class for me, since my mom had never really been strong in that area. I was in the tenth grade, and studying mathematics at the eleventh grade, but because of my weak background in grammar, my mom had enrolled me in a ninth grade class. Even so, I was nervous that first day.

No one can be a poet just because they want to be. To write poetry, just like all the other arts, you have to be meant to--that is, God has to want you to. No one can write poetry--real poetry, mind, that's true and good and at least halfway deserving of the word "beautiful"--without God putting it in them; without Him speaking into their souls every single word.

I feel the itch.
An idea grows.
My mind alive,
my writing flows.

My pen is swift,
words chosen with care.
It is a gift
I wish I could share.

My sympathies to those
who’ve never tasted the desire
to set hand to page
and light words on fire.