A Second Look At The Love Chapter: A Wedding Poem For Jon & Alicia

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.” 1 Corinthians 13:4-8a


Love me unconditionally—
At my worst, at my best,
Everywhere, all the time in between.
Take me for who I am… For who I can become,
Ask me to only be me, never someone else.
Encourage my dreams, share my hopes—
Let me cry on your shoulder when the weight of the world is too much to bear.
When it seems I’m not listening,
Let go of your frustration…look me in the eyes,
Hold my gaze so I know to pay attention.
Laugh at my jokes (even the really bad ones).
When I stay out too late with the guys,
Remember all the times I’ve remembered to call you saying I’m coming home late.
When I leave messes in my office gently remind me to organize it.
On the weekend when I give you a list,
Pretend you’ve been looking forward to mowing the lawn all week,
That there’s nothing you’d rather do than clean out the shed…
When I’m stressed about paying bills—hug me, tell me I provide well for our family.
When I wake restlessly at 2am
Tell me it was just a bad dream; tell me everything will be alright.
After a long day of endless complaints at work
Be the sunshine I come home to that brightens my mood.
Resist giving me ‘that’ look when
I come home with too many shopping bags—
Talk to me; tell me I look beautiful; then help me figure out what to return.
Laugh at my impressions (even the ones you don’t get)
In the middle of the argument forget about my past faux pas’;
Help me find the middle ground where we can meet.
When I don’t get my entire honey-do list completed,
Thank me for what I did get done.
When I wake with morning hair tell me you’ve never seen me prettier.
In the middle of the argument forget about all the disagreements
I’ve lost or been wrong about;
See with me that finding unity on the subject at hand is important.
When I forget to finish my errands for the week, make me laugh;
Let me see it’s not the end of the world.
When I’ve been on the computer too long hold back your sighs,
Say that you want me to spend my time on you.
Shower me with respect…
When I fall be there to pick me up,
When I stumble, catch me.
When I struggle, carry on with me.
At end of the day, in the morning, in the evening,
Every day, all hours…
Love me unconditionally.


Copyright Michelle Post

What Language Barrier?

yes there is

English and yes there is

Russian

but smiles

hugs

laughter

the universal language

of love

and faith

the walls that God breaks down

that seem so tall to us

are to him not even a trifle

yes there are differences

beyond language and yes

there are gaps

in understanding

but

in our similarities

and our Lord Jesus

together

we are one.

© Michelle Post
(Inspired during trip to Khabarovsk, Russia to visit Pastor Roma and the New Transformation Church)

Still Here

Praise the Lord.
I can talk.
Say what is on my mind.
Raise that arm. Make a fist. Good.
Squeeze fingers. Good.
Wiggle toes? Check.
Follow the light…left….good.
Now right….okay, that will get better.
Give it time.
Be patient.
I am alive.
The miracle that is me continues,
Underneath all these wires and leads and IVs….
I am still here. Undiminished.
I am tired. I am sad. I am joyful. I am hopeful.
My strength will return,
And by God’s mercy and grace I will go on.
For it is in my weakness that God is strong.
It is in my brokenness before my Creator that I am whole.
And it is in my Savior Jesus that I live.
Praise the Lord.


© Michelle Post

Note: This was written a couple years ago in the ICU after my dad's worst stoke.  He's doing much better now, praise the Lord.

Second Star to the Right

Who knew, who would have guessed that is could all be true?

That elves were real, ogres exist, fairy godmothers too.

That witches and princes, magic beans and yellow brick roads

Were there to be found on the other side of the rainbow?

I’ve been there you see, quite recently, and I’m telling you true.

Fairy tale lands exist outside of me and you.

Over yonder where the starlight sparkles

It’s back there past that moment in time when you decided to grow up.

Yes, you still imagine things. Suspend your disbelief but

Always as the credits roll, you return to your so-called reality.

That childlike innocence and wide-eyed wonder shone so brightly in our eyes,

I confess I no longer see in your countenance.

You may call me a fool, a child, insane.

But I know the truth you can't take away.

Perhaps one day you’ll ask me to help you find it again.

© Michelle Post

lullaby

swaying in the rocking chair

my eyes begin to droop

as daddy’s soft tenor

lulls me to sleep

i lean my head

against his chest

hear his heartbeat match

the gentle rocking

and as my father sings over me

i know i am safe

that thru the night

he’ll watch over me

in the doorway

he’ll stand and

listen to me breathe

at my side he’ll come

if he hears me crying and

in the morning when the dark has gone

he will come to wake me

© Michelle Post

Questions In The Night

"The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.” Zephaniah 3:17

So sick, so emotional, hormones I think, but then I realize I’m under attack… not the sinful foothold the devil had up to tonight no the Holy Ghost took him out in Jesus’ name rebuked he fled the area of my heart and mind and soul and I prayed so earnestly for the Holy Ghost to take control. The weight of it off my shoulders, my fever at it’s peak, my headache strong and spreading from my tears of pain and joy… more tears come and when did these thoughts of fear enter into play? While I wasn’t watching, celebrating the victory He gave. Fear, so insidious like many sins and temptations, it sneaks in as genuine concern, so one thinks but soon God is not in control and indeed seems not to be there, a lie from the father of falsehoods, for God has not left me but my fear is blinding and my easy targets are under fire once more. Dad. My job. My life. My witness. My walk with the Creator. You know these fears and others of your own I'm sure, you know how this story goes. What if Dad has another stroke? What if I’m just a body at work? What if my life has the wrong purpose? What if my witness sucks? What if I’m faking it–all the smiles, the songs, the prayers, what if my relationship with the Alpha and Omega is a lie on my part? What if Daddy becomes a vegetable, the light in his eyes so bright, lively, understanding, and loving gone from us yet his shell clings on? Maybe worse yet, what if that light still shines so bright and he can’t share it? Can’t speak. Can’t sing. Can’t write. Can’t communicate. What then? How will I explain to my Mom when I quit and leave Indy moving to Kentucky to care for him by my Step-Mom’s side? What if Mom’s hurt by the past once again and this time I cause it? How can I live breaking my Mommy’s heart? What if I can’t do it? What if I chicken out and can’t sit there while he suffers? What if I runaway from the problems of my life once again? What if I never finish my resume? What if I stay and get complacent and never see the promise my life could be? What if I never let go of my money? What if I’m forever in debt? What if I’m doomed to be another stat? A faceless, nameless, nobody who leaves no legacy, no impact on this world I’m in? And slowly I hear the music in my head. Nicole. Her sweet voice singing verses I still haven’t memorized fully but know the gist of and a chorus I have sung to myself in the car. In the shower. Cleaning. At work. “What if you’re wrong? What if there’s more? What if there’s hope you never dreamed of hoping for? What if you jump? Just close your eyes…What if the arms that catch you, catch you by surprise? What if he’s more than enough?” And I begin to wonder again-what if Jesus is more than enough to take care of all these fears and more? Not just mine but yours. And yours. And his. And hers. Anyone’s. The last line echoes in my head as Nicole sings powerfully “What if it’s love?” and Jesus’ precious love for me spills over my soul anew and fresh. His mercies, new every morning, are fresh at midnight too. His love. Oh, His blood that covers me, scrubs away the sin, fear, and doubt so easily so freely when I cry out ‘forgive me Lord!’ And another voice in my head that is mine but not mine says (What sin child, what sin? What fear? Let it go. Take my hand. Here at the foot of the old rugged cross, leave the fear there. There’s a spot just for you. You are lovely. You are beautiful. I see you pure.) I am unworthy God. (No, you are my image child and you cannot help that!) Me? Wretched me? What if I can’t…? (Of course, you won’t be alone. I am here. I feel your fear child. Your pain. Your tears. For all that sorrow take my peace. My love. My comfort. “The city of refuge is open tonight”) He says and that wonderful 4HIM song flies thru my head… (“Come inside, come on inside”) And I try to imagine walking inside the city of refuge. I try to imagine jumping into His arms. I try to imagine falling collapsing into the arms of the one who loves me without end. Without question. For who I am and whom He sees me to someday be. The headache stays but now I can sleep in peace. (“It’s alright, it’s okay, I am right here. Do you still not believe that I am Emmanuel? I will be with you even to the end of the age. I’ll never leave you nor forsake you, my child. I am Emmanuel, I am Emmanuel, I am Emmanuel, I am with you.”)

© Michelle Post

Contains a portion of the song “What If” by Nicole Nordeman © 2005 Birdwing Music / Birdboy Songs (ASCAP).

Contains a portion of the song “City of Refuge” by 4HIM, © 2001 Sony/ATV Acuff Rose Music. Contains a portion of the song "Emmanuel" by 1000 Generations, © 2003 simplistic records.

I Feel Eternity

I feel eternity
rushing over me, under me
caught in this cycle
He has made me to follow the moon
gladly do I crash upon the shore
beat upon the sand
then retreat

I feel eternity

rushing all around me

yet it is I that really moves

rustling the tall summer grass

stirring the autumn leaves

He sends me joyously to every corner

through every crack

I feel eternity

rushing from above to below

pouring down around me

I saturate the ground with my all

whether He sends me soft, sweet, fragrant

or hard, bitter, rough

I am delighted to be His to dispatch

I feel eternity

time itself rushing by me

enduring yet wasting away

I go not yet I am contentedly His

to sit on the mountainside

lie in the river’s deepest bed

to cry out praise when needed

I feel eternity
as I coast from here to there
across the vast expanse He has set me in
I float above till He weighs me down
with many different treasures
He sends me to deliver
happy am I to drift where He tells me

I feel eternity

rushing thru my limbs

as season arrive, seasons depart

when He call me to bear fruit

I do so cheerfully knowing even as I do

I draw closer to death

but always is His promise of renewed life

I feel eternity

as I spin in His heavens

merrily circling, sustaining His design

as He has called me to

I know time, yet no longer note it

seasons, decades, millennia fade together

I wait in breathless anticipation for His return

I am as near eternity

as any can be, not merely

feeling it, but seeing it before me, being it

time, space, they matter little

all He asks of me is shine in His cosmos

and shine for him blissfully I will till I die

I am His creation

© Michelle Post

Homesick

Longing for a home
As yet unreachable
Bound to this earthly form
Struggling and groaning in pain
Decaying and dying
Living under the curse of
An imperfect life
In an infected creation
Craving home
Where tears cease to flow
Where from peace
And love and
Holiness and His presence
I cannot hide
Restlessly hungering
Eagerly yearning
A home invisible
A home indiscernible
A home inconceivable
To human
Eyes and ears and minds and hearts
It is in and though divine energy
Satisfaction will be found
When His likeness is seen
When His face is before me
When I fall into His open loving arms
I will be home


© Michelle Post

Magic

A bell jar filled with twigs and blades of grass

and the hole marked lid—a residence

just waiting for an occupant or two.

As dusk arrived they came out glowing

and lighting up the evening.

They seemed to vainly be trying to replace

the sun or the moon or maybe

the stars, but to us they were pure

magic.

Catching them was a game;

we’d see who could catch the most

or who would catch one first.

We played until our mothers called us in,

and even then we’d stall for a half hour

just to savor the perfect

magic

that made up those summer nites of our youth.

Deep inside we somehow knew this time was fading fast;

enjoying it to the fullest was our duty.

Remember the thrill of seeing the glow in the jar—like

we’d captured a bit of

magic

that no one else had. Yet before we’d go in

that guilty feeling would build up and

overwhelm us so we let the little guys, or little girls, go.

Because we realized that we couldn’t be selfish;

no, everyone should be able to share in the

magic.

© Michelle Post

Inner Loomings

Faith is not always a champion which marches alone. Sometimes faith is accompanied by fear. Faith is not the absence of questioning; it is the presence of action in the midst of those questions. Faith does not provide all the answers; it provides a basis for confidence in the midst of unreasonable circumstances.
--Woodrow Kroll


we are told the faith of a mustard seed is all we need.
a mustard seed? really?
the tiniest seed one will ever see,
that is all we need to move the mountains to the sea...
a question, however, looms in my mind like a guillotine--
do I possess even that mustard seed?
I let my fear be bigger;
it towers over me like a giraffe shadows a blade of grass
I give the fear power,
and with power comes control.
I allow myself to be helpless.
(is that because I think I can no longer be blamed when I am not in control?)
why do I freely surrender my life to fear and doubt and apprehension?
my questions pile up like potato skins,
as if I am on KP duty for breaking the rules.
why don’t I have a husband? is there someone out there for me?
will I ever marry? can I actually be loved like that?
these are my questions; where is my faith?
I want answers—not just confidence.
(perhaps because I do not feel confident).
although,
even I would admit that the circumstances I find myself in are not necessarily,
unreasonable,—
uncomfortable, yes… pathetically lonely, probably…
however, not altogether uncommon…I suppose…
though am I really to take comfort in the idea, the fact,
the knowledge that there are billions of people in the world that feel like this?
how does that help?
what does my faith do to assuage the tears?
what does my faith do to repel the darkness in my heart?
what does my faith do to combat the loneliness in my soul?
it boils down to the bottom line that goes a little something like this;
do I believe God’s promise for me;
do I trust that my Creator has the best in store for me?
am I sure of what I do not, cannot see?
a future of fulfilled promises, of joy, of contentment…
a future. period.
I think I know the answer and I am afraid to acknowledge it.
is my answer “I don’t know” really a no?
and what does that mean for my soul?



© Michelle Post

In Farewell: The note left on the fridge next to the class schedule that wasn’t even noticed for five days

A sampling of things you should have done over the years—

 helped your friend in 4th grade when he got beat up by that sixth grade bully

 paid attention in English comp

 got a job

 asked me to prom 1st

 used more than two words in most of your sentences

 put the toilet seat down

 used your signal

 stopped our friend from driving after that party sophomore year

 stopped for milk at the grocery store

 paid attention in algebra class

 fought the good fight

 kept your mouth shut in pep squad formation

 cleaned the frat house before your mom visited

 paid attention in chemistry lab

 had any ambition

 remembered to turn your signal off

 let go of the past

 smiled at that kid on the subway

 treated your best friend to dinner for his birthday

 paid attention in history class

 waited for the trade paper back of 1st stargate atlantis

 gone to any of your classes

 dreamed

 kept your fridge stocked with actual food

 washed the dishes in your sink more often than every three weeks

 remembered your sister’s birthday

 thought about the future

 been on time to my dinner party

 called to say you would be late to my dinner party

 brought flowers for being late to my dinner party

 brought wine to my dinner party

 spoken like an adult at my dinner party

 stayed for dessert and coffee at my dinner party

 helped clean up after my dinner party

 apologized for ruining my dinner party

 paid attention in sociology class

 paid attention in psychology class

 paid attention to the stars

 paid attention to life

 paid attention to me

and maybe,
just maybe,
I’d have considered………


Copyright Michelle Post

Discover the Magic

discover the magic tome

wander through the fog

of ancient mysteries when

the haunting chapter

of searching for whom

one really is begins

down the road in the journey of one’s travels

between the pages of one’s life

lies the true character waiting to explode

beneath the drama and devices

the truth speaks if only

one will hear

part monster

part hero

part victim

part villain

one has many roles to play

to explore, to amuse,

to imagine and to entertain

the soul and the stranger meet

when one looks

in the mirror and

refuses to blink

Copyright Michelle Post

Unfathomable

Dark eyes consume me;
Their gaze so strong I’m bruised, so intense I burn.
I am tortured as if captured by Uruk-Hai.
I am carved as if He wields Narsil.
But not for all the rings of power,
Would I trade His gaze for another.
I am lost, drowning in the Great Sea,
When He looks at me with His love.


© Michelle Post

Creator Be Praised

Creator be praised
Let all Your creatures and creations
Live to exalt You

The works of Your hand

Your creation

Your design

Your plan

Every glance I take is full of You

All these wonders

They are Yours to

Praise You alone

I feel it in the winds’ fury

I hear it in the mountains’ rumble
I see it in the flowers’ tranquility

In the swirling tornado
The crushing tsunami
The shuddering earthquake
I feel Your power
Unstoppable
Awesome in destructive force

I feel it in the prairies’ stillness

I hear it in the forests’ jubilee

I see it in the rivers’ exhilaration

In the morning sunrise

The fresh fallen snow

The aurora borealis

I see Your beauty

Unmatchable

Breathtaking in scope

I feel it in the mists of twilight

I hear it in the falling leaves

I see it in the budding blossoms

In the babbling creek

The night crickets

The rustling grasses

I hear the music of Your heart

Peaceful

Soothing in quiet comfort

I feel it in the scorching sun

I hear it in the erupting volcano
I see it in the serene night sky

In the spring blooms
The summer heat
The colors of fall
I understand the cycle You have set
Steadfast
Though amidst constant transition

I feel it in the storms’ downpour

I hear it in the oceans’ roar

I see it in the rainbows’ promise

In the light of a full moon

The glow of sunset

The flash of lightning

I experience Your splendor

Radiant

Glorious in majesty

All these wonders

These daily miracles

Surround and remind me

Of Your love

Faithfulness
Sovereignty

Let me drink in the riches

Never to forget

The Creator

© Michelle Post

Almost An Angel

almost an angel
this goddess in disguise
in a pastoral scene of

sweet visions
a cold dark summer
and dreams colored blue
with melancholy

haunted whispers
smiles drunk with deception
dancing with her is like
caressing fire

 
 
Copyright Michelle Post

A Typical Week in the Life of A Writer: Manuscript for the Underemployed

Monday was the terrible day of writer’s

block when no words were

forthcoming despite

ample inspiration in the backyard garden;

even had to write this description on Tuesday.

Tuesday was the catch up day
had pages and pages to write to stay on schedule with the next novel
but then was sidetracked by the word of the day calendar……..pleonastic…….
spent hours trying to convince the dog it was a real
word.

Wednesday was a writer’s dream,

the muse was on fire—

simile after metaphor after hyperbole after paragraph

flew from my fingertips onto the page. well, keyboard that is.

somewhere in the middle of it all, I started missing my pencil.

Thursday. huh. never could get the hang of Thursdays.

Friday was frantic…

attempted to come up with something new

for the rap off at the coffee house.

knew that anything less than spectacular would be

deconstructed to oblivion

by that guy from the times that always sits

at the third table from the left in the second row.

Saturday, took a siesta…
then guilt got the better of me, so wrote up a grocery list.
think it’s Pulitzer Prize material.

Sunday made it all worthwhile

when he picked up my manuscript, read it and smiled.

wrote a haiku about that smile.

it goes:

‘uncertainty is

no more as his lips part,

let the light shine on’

Untitled

a chill runs down my spine
as the words he says creep
across the space between us
stealthily slipping past the
firewall within
infecting my heart with acrid sorrow
blink and he’s gone


Copyright Michelle Post

A Cheap Thrill

Ah, the crisp page smells of new adventures New flights of fancy on which to fly away

Page 52 comes too fast yet 172 takes forever
Lost in the descriptions, dialogue, -----
No longer oneself but this character or that

Pain, joy, discovery, empathy and sympathy both
Dreams, nightmares, specters, visions, fantasies, delusions

One is another; another is self
Together entwined to embark as one

To know is to become known
To prevail is to find satisfaction

To suffer is to begin to understand
To love is to encounter truth

At just the right moment one reads
The End


Copyright Michelle Post

Worth Fighting For

What are we holding onto, Sam? -Frodo Baggins

That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for. –Samwise Gamgee


It truly is
At once our hearts
Mere embers
Ignite with force
A bonfire
Blazing
Burning
Blistering
Heart and mind and body moved
Beyond rhetoric
More than thoughts
Lies battle
Heroic deeds
Victory
The hall of Our Father awaits


Copyright 2009 Michelle Post

I started writing poetry…………

I started writing poetry at 7 and at 13 (seriously), then again at 15 and
started again at 18 and then it stuck for
several semesters, started again
at 22, 29, 36, and 39.
Stay tuned for further updates.

I started writing poetry because I fell in love with the word
sordid and I wrote 50 different poems using that word in
a variety of situations and then I fell out of love with the word and
instead became infatuated with the word paradigm but that didn’t
work out at all because I never did figure out what a paradigm was
other than it wasn’t a pair of dimes.

I started writing poetry to be rebellious.

I started writing poetry because there was
nothing better to do on that cold wet snowy day when
the big blizzard hit and all the
electricity went out. It was fine during the day since
there was plenty of light to write by
but then the sun went away like it always does for the night
and I was afraid to write by candle light
because I’ve got this fear of fire.

I started writing poetry so I could
impress people that were too important to talk to me so I could become too
important to talk to them thus paying all those snobs back for
refusing to let me ever be a part of their up turned noses club.

I started writing poetry because
saying I’m a poet at social gatherings is sexy.

I started writing poetry as a response to a visiting lecturer who
complained about the arrangements I made for him.
I thought a nice rhyming poem would soothe
the savage beast but apparently when that beast is
a self righteous pompous jerk face know it all the only thing
that soothes it is a
good 2 x 4 to the head.

I started writing poetry to deal with my anger issues and
it seems to be working out well so far since it’s
been months since I sent anyone to the hospital.

I started writing poetry because I wanted to get
considered for the local literary journal our high school published
and the senior who was the editor was a
total hottie.

I started writing poetry because I had
things to say and no one would listen.

I started writing poetry because I was mad at the bus driver
when she wouldn’t stop ½ way between the sign and my house,
which was six blocks further up
the street in the direction she was going, so
what would it have hurt? I wrote a scathing, blistering
set of haikus designed to make her feel guilty
but then my best friend got a car
for his sixteenth birthday and we all stopped
taking the bus to school.

I started writing poetry when
my cat ran away. I wrote
about how much I missed him
and wondered if he found a good
replacement home.

I started writing poetry hoping I’d figure out what was wrong with me....
I’ll have to get back to you.

I started writing poetry when I was in detention and was
supposed to do homework but I didn’t have anything left to
do so I composed an ode to the lump on the vice principal’s forehead that
he’d gotten from the book I’d thrown at him during the supposed non violent
protest the students spontaneously threw when the administration
announced that at lunch time only seniors could leave campus starting
next week because the local businesses were complaining
about the loitering all the kids were doing.
Then I wrote a really long verse poem about why I though loitering was such
a stupid crime because it sounds so innocent and
it’s designed for adults with
nothing better to do than harass kids to call the cops and send them off
to juvie when really it’s not the kids fault that there’s nothing to do
in a small town with only one theatre and a single floor mall and the closest
two story mall is two hours away

I started writing poetry when
my parents told me that
my cat was hit by a car in a neighbor’s
driveway and they didn’t think I was old
enough to handle his death but apparently
I was plenty old enough to be lied to.

I started writing poetry so that after I die
people will be able to know what I thought
but how will they know what’s autobiographical
and what’s bull?

I stated writing poetry when the culture’s values declined.

I started writing poetry during my second semester abroad
when I realized I had to preserve
my thoughts and musings living in
a foreign land in something other than
the journal I was required to write for the program that sponsored
the majority of the funding I got for that year
because the questions they had me answer in the journal seemed
so mundane and boring that after a semester I just couldn’t take
the monotony of the writing.

I started writing poetry because someone told me to.

I started writing poetry when I started dating, but
maybe it wasn’t poetry so much as it was a jumbled
collections of sensations and hormones and emotions
and I don’t really think that
anyone outside of the ages fifteen to eighteen will ever
make any sense of the ramblings.

I started writing poetry when I took a stupid class
where the teacher made you do these stupid exercises
that apparently had all these stupidly interesting
motivations and crap behind them, which sounded stupid,
and the then you had to have your stupid peers
read and critique your stupid attempts and
then the teacher had the gall to assign stupid grades to it all.

I started writing poetry because I wanted to.

I started writing poetry looking for something I could be good at
since I’d found out the hard way it wasn’t
softball, ice skating, hand bells, sky diving, announcing sports or
speed dating and one of the losers who tried to pick me up at my table
said he was a poet trying to impress me
and act all sexy but he was so creepy that the poet thing
stuck with me and later I thought if that creep
can be a poet anyone can.

I started writing poetry because I was bored at work and my colleague was a closet poet.

I started writing poetry when I fell in love
with the man I thought I was going to marry
but he couldn’t understand
why my poetry didn’t rhyme and when
I tried to explain that poetry doesn’t always have to rhyme
he adamantly declared that the only good
poetry out there rhymed like Browning and
Dickinson and Tennyson and Frost and Poe
and Shakespeare and Keats and Emerson and
Longfellow and Donne and
Andrew Marvell and William Morris and Lord Byron and
Robert Burns and W. B. Yeats and Emily Bronte
and that’s when I interrupted and countered with
what about famous poems by William Carlos Williams or
e.e. cummings or T. S. Eliot or Rudyard Kipling
that don’t rhyme and then I mentioned lots of Shakespeare’s stuff didn’t
rhyme and then that’s when he interrupted me and
said that he could never be with someone with such a wrong opinion
about poetry…so I dumped him
unless you talk to him and then he’ll say he dumped me but really
I dumped him.

I started writing poetry because it was the in thing.

I started writing poetry because
I can’t spell and in poetry I can say
I did it on purpose and it means something.

I started writing poetry when I saw my first penguin. He was molting so he,
or was it a she, had really funky feathers and I didn’t know before then that
penguins have feathers because they always looked shiny like seals
or dolphins but I guess feathers make sense
since they’re called flightless birds, but why call them birds
if they can’t fly? Isn’t that a bird requirement? It’s like having a feline
species that doesn’t purr or a species of canine that
doesn’t sniff other canine’s butts. Flightless birds are weird.

I started writing poetry using those magnetic poetry kits but the words
began speaking to me so I stopped but all the words wanted to know
was if the tile that said ‘forlic’ was supposed to say ‘frolic’
so I wrote to the magnetic poetry website and found out and when
I gave the words the answer they stopped talking to me which I thought
was pretty rude considering all the trouble I’d gone
to but then I realized I hadn’t gone to that much trouble and
now that the words weren’t talking to me
I could concentrate on making poems.

I started writing poetry when I had insomnia after
a hard day’s work and my brain wouldn’t shut off
which I’ve discovered is largely a woman’s issue as
it’s become painfully obvious that men have
no problem turning their brain off
and I’ve begun to wonder if they ever turn the cranial area on.

I started writing poetry to
find my voice and now I
can’t figure out how to lose it.

I started writing poetry because it sounded easier than writing short stories
which sounded easier than writing novels which sounded easier than writing non-fiction stuff like biographies and how to and self help books full of facts which are so, well, factual and real and I had discovered I don’t really like reality all that much so why read or write about it? Some days I think I make the right decision and some days I wish I’d practiced
my piano more and become
a musician.

I started writing poetry because my little sister started writing it and I didn’t think
hers was any good so she said I’ll bet you think you can do better
and I said of course I can do better I’m older and so I wrote something
and got it published in the school newspaper and then I
won a bunch of contests and lots of college scholarships
and got a degree in English literature with an emphasis on American poetry
and I got published in every poetry magazine available and
then I acquired a bunch of awards and was named the nation’s
youngest poet laureate and when I went to gloat
my sister said oh that,
I got bored with poetry and took up archery instead.

I started writing poetry because I thought
I had something to say but it turns out I
was wrong.

I started writing poetry when my boyfriend was in a band
playing the keyboard and
his friend who played the acoustic guitar needed help composing lyrics
but really it was just a ruse to spend time with me
and since my boyfriend didn’t even care that his buddy was trying to
steal me away I told him to take a long walk off a short pier
and starting dating the drummer instead
because who dates the keyboardist in a high school band anyway?

I started writing poetry because I read a book of poems that
mostly didn’t interest me until I got to these really fabulous poems by
some guy named e.e. cummings and I looked him up and he really
didn’t want the initials in his name capitalized, even though I was sure that
when I had read his name like
that it had been an editing mistake.

I started writing poetry when my heart
was broken for the first time and I
sequestered myself in my room for almost five months doing
nothing but sleeping, going to school, coming home and going to my room
and I can’t even remember eating at all during that time but I guess
I must have eaten at some point because otherwise I would have died and
even though I felt like I wanted to die I wasn’t really suicidal but
my parents were so worried about me they started trying to set me up
and that’s
when I finally came out of my room
and started living again because anything is better
than being fixed up by your parents.


© 2006 M. Post

Month Metaphors

January
Shivers into the
Room as an excited hairless dog
It shakes to stay warm
Trudges thru snow
And licks icicles off
Any edge it can
Its advance is quick;
Broken promises to self
Only a fortnight in
And speedily it
Makes its exit



April
Joyfully
Springs into view
Bouncing here and there
Like a child
On a sugar high
It floats on clouds
Heavy with rain and
Skips on sidewalks like
A morning drizzle
It brings joy and sadness
Remembrances of birth and death
The great circle of life
Then it dances joyfully
Over the horizon of view



November
Snuck in
On a sunny warm day
With a cool little breeze
Then a sudden cold
Evening
It sucked the
Warmth away
Started freezing our little toesies
Until yielding to
Colder weather still
Oy vey.


Copyright 2009 Michelle Post

The Loch Ness Monster of Brown County State Park

Home:
                        Behind the nature center

Warning to all:
                         Please do not enter

Likes:
                      Frogs & Turtles, as friends not dinner

Dislikes:
                     Loud children & Indiana winters

Temperment:
                         Shy & withdrawn, of people he’s scared

Favorite Foods:
                        Chimpunk & Squirrell, no matter how it’s prepared

Ask any naturalist—they’ll tell you it true!
(Did I forget to mention the Loch Ness is blue?)

Copyright 2009 Michelle Post
with Thanks to Becca Christopher for her inspiration

Thank You For Your Service

They flit and flutter here and there
Bound up and down, go everywhere
Yet you hang still, almost sentry like
As they take seeds from you to sustain their life
Gold and gray and yellow,
Blue and red are these fellows
The ladies too can be found
There’s even a cute chipmunk around
Providing shelter in all sizes and shapes
Your relative is pretty fun to make
Together you hang and stand
Providing well for the birds of the land
Donated or made with lots of love
You feeders and houses for those up above.

Copyright 2009 Michelle Post

Just Beautiful

The view goes on and on
Tress as far as the horizon
The little girls stood awestruck
Excitedly tried reading the plaque
Describing the park’s history
Mom helped a little
Mostly stopped the older one from hogging all the words
Others came and went
As equally amazed and impressed as the little girls
Yet
Some children cried and threw tantrums
Some adults talked of other things
Still those girls stood gazing off to the distance
What did they see?
I do not know.
Looking where they stared
My older eyes so accustomed to this world
Struggled to see their childlike wonder
Found at the majestic vista


Copyright 2009 Michelle Post

Prometheus

Fire burn
Fire build

As men gather round you
Coaxing you to start
Modern man has tools many
To make you come to life

Fire build
Fire burn

You lick about the Pringles can
Devour the paper plates and napkins
As the wood breaks down
Gives in to your power

Fire burn
Fire build

Your uses here in the campsite
Myriad; warmth, delightful and protective
Breakfast, lunch and dinner
But best of all you help make smores

Fire build
Fire burn

We think we can control you
Yet you know it’s just an illusion
But you patiently remain enclosed
Let us pretend to master you

Fire burn
Fire build


Copyright 2009 Michelle Post

An Exhilarating Work of Astonishing Insight and Incontrovertible Genius

She wakes up early,
Rouses the kids,
Showers, dresses, gets things together…

Today’s an early day.
Thank God for school breakfasts.

The kids are up though barely in one case,
The eldest prods and moves everyone out the door,
Keys, backpacks, purses, briefcase, permission slips, homework…
She takes off hoping everyone has everything.
Drops them at school and stops for fuel;
Gas for the car, Diet Pepsi for her,
Still carpoolers to pick up for the 45 minute commute.

Work is maddening at times,
Proving herself again at a new job every few years.
Every time the questions, explanations, justifications:
Kids wonder why they have to move,
Mom and Dad want to help more,
Friends who understand, friends who no longer call,
Interviewers who reluctantly turn her away…
Over-qualification haunts her like
An unknown voice in the dark
Taunting her achievements and punishing her for being smart.
Long days are what she knows.
She longs for the weekend, for friends and family—
Support she couldn’t survive without—
Longs for more than another job to pay the bills
Longs to write, to teach, to help
Longs to be home with her kids—
Who always seem to be without her.
Drives home in the dark asking why why why why why why?
Unlocks the side door,
Finds the youngest asleep but the eldest still up writing,
Frustrated with the history paper’s topic and finding it
Too immense, too overwhelming.
The editor within her takes over,
Despite her exhaustion,
Despite needing a moment for herself…
This is why, her heart whispers
As she peeks in and sees the youngest sleeping peacefully.
This is why, her heart says
As she stays up late proofing, editing, assisting.
This is why, her heart exclaims
As the conversation ebbs and flows between the paper’s mechanics
And the philosophical, theological thoughts presented within.
This is why, her heart shouts
These children of hers, so bright and promising, they are her world.
This is why!

Her desires,
Her dreams—
To give them a chance, a prospect, a future better than what they presently know
Her dues paid now give them freedom to fly,
To soar—
To chase their dreams.

Copyright 2009 Michelle Post