At the End of the Day

Over the last year, I have compiled some poetry in my journal. These are the first poems I have ever written; I have always been somewhat scared of poetry. As I re-read them, they are all pretty sappy and pretentious. But I'm not going to edit them. They are what was on my mind at the time. Here they are, including one I wrote today:

3/25
I hope to see the world with you someday
To walk in unknown valleys and wade in streams of grace.
But today we remain here, doing the simple things
That he assigns us.
So while it is still light
Let us go out separate ways and live our day,
That tonight we may rejoin and break bread,
And afterwards, walk on known streets under moonlight,
Dreaming of those unknown streets and far-off lands.

4/17
Inside the tent, the children dance.
It is safe there, and as they move with the music
Their lives are not yet burdened by the worries of life,
Their consciences not yet muddled with doubt.

The tent isn't real life. (Or is it?)
I get the feeling I was made to watch them dace.
To participate myself (but not yet)-
Ever becoming like a child.

When I think about the beginning and the end
The here and now begin to make sense.
I get another feeling--
That one day I will not be so self-conscious.
That I will have no sense of self,
But of someone else.

Can I take your hand?
Will you accept me as I am?
As the music stops, and the band breaks,
As we go our separate ways,
I need to know that you will be here when it starts again.

Not that you will never fail me,
Only that you will try to help me.
Let us join the children,
Dancing in the Father's grace.

6/6
Sunday morning.
The light shines through the trees
Reflecting slant-wise as it falls to the earth in grace.

The trees hold their applause
Waiting for the final morning.
But they have already revealed their secret.

Giving hints and signs,
They help us through the day
And remind us of the redemption that is coming.

The day runs its course, and later,
Through the cedars I see a house, old and sturdy.
Light shines from the windows, and children run to supper.

6/9
For many years I have dreamed
Of a field of grass, green and trimmed.
Hills roll across horizon, dream-like.
I am walking alone,
The sky overcast but not threatening.
It opens up. A rain begins to fall.
A light shower at first, as in April, morning.
For reasons unexplained, or beyond my explanation,
I start to run.
A light jog at first; I am in no hurry, my destination unknown.
But the rain quickens, and so does my pace.
I do not think I am clothed, and I do not think I feel shame.
Drops pound against my face.
The field stretches ever before me,
I do not get closer to the horizon,
I never grow tired,
Thought I sometimes stop,
Not to rest but to lift up my hands.
In my dream, I wish the rain would never stop.

6/24
I am tired of trying to create moments
That i will remember forever,
Of trying to capture everything at once,
Instead of accepting it as it comes.
So this morning,
As the sun eclipses the trees and the morning mist
Separates in the shaded valleys
I am content to let it all happen.
I have no part in it,
(I had no say that first morning)
To be able to listen is all I ask.

12/15

I
like
to say
things like
"At the end of the day"
As i wait for
A day that
will not
end.