Tag Archives: Poetry

Rainbow Desires

As I was looking across some poetry I had filed away, I came across this poem, written about 3 years ago (3 years already?!). I was reminded again at how much things I have written in the past often mean more to me later than when I wrote them. I needed this tonight.

 

Like rainbow colored playdough in childish hands

Are all our deep desires

Sent from the Father of lights, Father of all

Kindler of all dream fires

 

Left on our own, we shape our dreams

And in our desires delight

Not knowing that what we have done is done

Through unskilled blinded sight

 

We mold and shape with fumbling hands desires

What we think our destiny

Till our Father in love reaches down and whispers

“Child, child, give it to me.”

 

But no, I wail, I cannot; it must be mine, mine!

These desires belong to me

My Father’s hands are inexperienced; he cannot know

How I want it all to be!

 

What if my Father drops my dreams?

What I he waits too long?

What if the colors lose their hue?

And life its rainbow song?

 

Through a rain of tears I look down in my hands

At the feeble dreams I’ve made

And wonder who could better- Creator or created?

Bring glory from rainbow shades?

 

“Delight thyself in the Lord and He will give thee the desires of thine heart.”

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I Spy

My world is on my desk, defined partially

By items that pull spaghetti thoughts to encompass

Not quite the whole of my life, but a three-fourth bowl of it:

Two nails leftover from attaching northern Thai instrument to the wooden wall

Of my new room that is perched atop the wobbly outdoor stairs

That are so slippery in the mornings when I creep down in my stocking feet;

Acer Service receipt from my Alpha Switch 12 that died in its sleep

But arose again Lazurus-like under warranty covered repair.

Playdough that helps spaghetti brain concentrate in composition class,

And 3 empty envelopes that were intended for repaying friends for bills

Incurred in the moving into said new room.

Note and a card from two kindred spirits living in the same house,

And hot chocolate from a friend who left the tropics of Thailand for the snows of Minnesota.

Scrap of paper with a half-finished poem about hunger,

Which reminds me of the half-finished coffee with milk on my desk that the ants have found,

Which makes me wonder if ants on a coffee high can sleep at night.

A glass bottle from short lovable friend with contagious laugh who teaches K2 students,

Passport that enables me to go home in a few days (which makes me wonder

If they remembered to trim the hooves of the donkey with the long ears that waits at home),

And “to-do” list of things to do before I go.

Tablet full of college notes from friend that says on the front, “Say ‘yes’ to new adventures,”

The electric bill that needs to be paid by the 30th and I wonder if the new Seven Eleven people

Are as friendly as the ones at our old house.

White phone with the Thai number 9 on the back to represent the late King of Thailand,

Sticky note with new password for gmail, Kindle with leather cover, and 4 pens,

Easy to read version of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” which I used to teach English to little Thai boy with the laughing eyes,

Who liked to use Donald Trump as his subject when making up sentences for practice.

Journal to my future husband who hasn’t shown up yet to read it,

A plaque from a friend who moved to Malaysia that reminds my soul to be still, instead of constantly tracing spaghetti;

A hammer for problems that need hammers, duct tape for something I cannot remember,

Cheap sunglasses from the SanPathong market man on the day we went to see the buffalo and cows,

And Breaking Free, a book I should return to the church library after having it for 3 years;

A Thai Bible that I still stumble through as I read, in the rare times I read it,

A book called “How to Study in College” that hasn’t been read because I am too busy studying,

Article by Toshi Yamamoto at his presentation at Payap, which helped restore my hope for modern Christians,

And a cup from Pong Horse Park that previously held green tea, (and I wonder if they got my message about tomorrow).

A receipt of money withdrawal, a candle that has been lit only once or twice,

And finally a tiny glass ball with dandelion fluff to remind us to follow our dreams. I lift it high.

Watch it spin in the air.

And wonder.

 

 

Picture credit: Pixabay

 

The Language of Silence

There is no voice that touches my heart

As much as no voice at all

The silence of sky on mountain peak

The whisper of snowflakes, winter wind’s call

 

So many times have I stood on a street

Lost in the teeming mobs of man

When the depths of my soul are muffled and mute

Breathless for the silence of a far off land

 

Where silence is the language everyone speaks

Where it rises like mists from mountain sod

Where it cloaks me with peace; while I sit and cry

Because silence for me is the voice of God.

 

-October 29, 2017

photo credit: pixabay

Song of the Outdoors

And I must go down to the river again,

Where the Ninnescah weaves its way

Like a silver band through the lonely land

And I’ll hear what it has to say;

Then we’ll stand on the bridge (my horse and I)

Gaze into the waters below

And listen to the song that is ever so long

That grips me and never lets go.

 

And I must go down to the bottoms again

And find myself once more

In the rolling plains with its sweeping strains

That sing to my inmost core;

Then we’ll ride to the hill (my horse and I)

And listen to the gypsy wind

That plays its cry to notes in the sky

And clings to something within.

 

And I must go down to the creek again

With its secret glens and glades

Where the sunlight hints with dappled glints

Of light beyond the leafy shades;

Then we’ll ride through the prairies (my horse and I)

Through the whispering grass that sings

To the muffled beat of my horse’s feet

The song that within my heart rings.

 

-written by Lori Hershberger, October 2010

 

First published in Echoes of Eternity in 2013, this is one of my favorite poems.  To order a copy of this book, click on the title.

Dusk: Doi Sutthep

Below is a poem set to the same style as Sara Teasdale’s  Sunset: St. Louis  

 

Hushed in the still gray fog of July rains

When humanity teems below in wild chatter

How many times have I seen my eastern mountain

Dream by her city.

 

High and still, shrouded in fathomless mist

That feints and flickers in a fickle ballet

Beneath muted sky she stands silent and strong

In lengthening shadows.

 

And when the light from the western sun breaks through

In soldered bars of gold and bronzed creation

Striking the clouds, my mountain still stands shining

In green and gold glory.

 

But I love my mountain most in rainy haze

When the gray rains come furtive and silent at dusk

And the lights blink on, gleaming through mist as my mountain strong

Dreams by her city.

-July 2017

 

Child That Never Really Was Mine 2

It’s now close to two years that I saw him last. Be was my first student at Wisdom Tree Home, and the one that left the most lasting imprint on my heart. I stumbled across a picture of him yesterday and floods of memories came back. Here is a poem I posted two years ago of him. I felt it would be appropriate to post it again.

*************

I miss you, I miss you, child of my heart

(Child that never really was mine)

Eyes so deep you’d think you’d drown

Drown in those tears of salty brine.

But child, child, I miss those hands

Brown and small that clung to my own

Clung to my hands and held to my heart

But now I hold alone.

************

The last time I saw you, child of mine

You looked so fragile and skinny and small

And I don’t know if I’ll ever again

Walk this way and hear you call

But child, child, I’ll never, forget

The way you hugged me that one last time

Child, I love you, no words can say

(Child that never really was mine).

-June 2015

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Respite

When the silence falls around me

At the ending of a day

Come read to me a simple thing

In a simple way

 

Please do not speak to me

Of promises to keep

Or of the many, many miles

To go before I sleep

 

Tell me not, my friend,

Of battles yet to fight

Of hands to lift, hearts to seek

And torches yet to light

 

Tomorrow I will rise again

In morning’s blood-red glow

Take my weapons in my hand

And go to  meet the foe

 

But oh, I am tired tonight

And the silence to me sings

Let me only rest and listen

To the words it brings.

 

For I am just a little speck

Beneath a raging sky

A sky that covers a billion souls

And comes to crush me where I lie

 

I know, I know of swords to bear

Lands to claim and forts to keep

But, I beg, let me stay a while

In these woods so lovely,

So lovely,

So lovely, dark and deep

-written on Doi Pui, February 2017