galaxies

I would travel the world,

See all I could see,

But this world always seemed 

Too small for me.

I always dreamed 

Of galaxies.

I would journey the stars
In sweet solitude,
A glorious view
Of the beauty imbued
In sky and moon
And altitude.

I would wander the void,
Black and dangerous place,
Only inches away
From endless space,
In search, unafraid,
Of a cosmic embrace.

I would run from a world
Where I never belonged.
Away from what's wrong
To the wonders beyond
That sing my same song,
Undiscovered, unknown.

winter sunrise

Maybe I'm looking at the world
Through rose-colored glasses.
Or maybe that's the sunrise,
Bathing the world in wonderful winter light-
Inspiration and hope.

Sunbeams pierce the bitter cold,
Casting color over barren fields
And empty trees.
Refreshment and renewal
Of a season faded-
Possibility of a day ahead.

Most are not awake to see,
To wonder at
This lovely new perspective-
The weary land made beautiful.
And there's something almost healing,
Maybe divine,
In the winter morning sun.

whole note

Today, the measures of my song are filled
With whole notes,
Those empty little ovals
That allow me neither movement nor rest.

And I find it funny
How something that fills an entire measure
Can be so hollow inside.

Riding on a single line,
I watch others dance across the scale,
Skipping over spaces
And soaring above the staff.

Other notes filled in
With flags flying behind,
Connected to each other so intricately-

While here in my measure,
Nothing ornate-
Just one plain and lonely note.

Slowly and steadily,
Rings out restless
The same tone.

bus window

Buildings full of people
That we pass so quickly by
In a blur of moving colors,
Harsh contrast of busy noise.

Trees rush past the bus window
That I peer intently through,
As I search the changing landscape
For the immutable You.

Strangers fill the bus seats,
On and off at every stop.
Only linger for a moment-
Balance between gain and loss.

Only certain of my loneliness,
As people come and go-
Scenery always changing
As I look through my window.

But always You are with me,
Every journey, every place.
The world I see shows who you are-
Your never-changing grace.

my words

These are my words.
Each one I carefully collect,
Like shells from the ocean.
The waves of my introspection roll
Over each word,
Twisting and turning them into the shape
Of what I want to say.
Spread before me on the ocean floor,
I see all of the different edges
And textures and colors,
And the pictures they can make
When I put them together.
An ocean mosaic of words-
Tumbling sea glass heart.

These are my words.
And sometimes they are hard to find,
Like when the ocean is dark and muddy
And I'm not really sure
What I need to say.
I dip my hand into the water
And blindly search for the beauty
Trapped in the sand.
But I find the sea to be deeper
Than I had imagined-
The memories more powerful
Than the waves
That shape them into words.
And the ocean is silent.

These are my words.
And I would sing them for you
If I could.
When the sun sets over the ocean
In a brilliant display of light,
I would gather all the colors
In my hands
And paint you a picture.
But all I have are my words.
I paint with colors
That you do not understand.
Because you look at the world
Through dry eyes,
And I am underwater.

These are my words.
Incomplete,
Like shattered fragments of glass-
The water's smooth surface
Broken by waves.
And I hope that you will read them,
Not only scanning the surface
For your own reflection,
But turning the seashells over
In your hands
And trying to feel the bumps and ridges
The way I feel them.
Because these are my words,
Drawn from the ocean of my heart.


 *Update* 3/11/15: This poem won a Superior rating in the ACSI Creative Writing Festival!

garden of sound: part two

Everything around me is quiet, and the atmosphere still, but inside I feel the opposite of peace. Sitting on the stage, waiting for the concert to begin, I feel every extreme of nature. My heart pounds like rain in a thunderstorm, yet a bright light washes over me like the sun. The air is filled with anticipation and nervous energy, like lightning about to strike. My palms are sweaty as I grasp my flute, nestled among the other musicians, and yet I feel the chill of winter. The familiar anxiety rolls over me like black clouds roll through the sky, slowly churning into a tornado of all my fears, gaining speed and reaching, reaching towards the ground, towards destruction.

I am sitting in the eye of a hurricane. Chaos surrounds me on every side, yet no one else can see it because all is still. My eyes like anchors are fixed permanently on the conductor as I wait for the approaching waves. The slightest movement of his hand will cause all the world to burst to life with the crash of drums, the tsunami that sends me spinning into a swirling sea.

Waiting and watching, I take a deep breath and swallow my fears. They travel all the way through my body, feeling their way through every corner but finding no way out. Trapped, the noise builds inside until I close my eyes and try to think of a new song. I know that the music can take me to another place.

Tighter, tighter I close my eyes until the noise begins to fade, and my lungs are filled with a sweet fragrance. I look around and find myself in a garden, only faintly aware of the symphony still around me as the stage and audience melt away. I am in a garden of sound, surrounded by life and song. I hear the music of leaves scattering from the treetops and floating on the gentle breeze. The warmth of the sun and the fragrance of the flowers fill my lungs with a sweet melody and my heart is calm.

A million distinct sounds fill the air, and in my dreamlike state I hear each instrument. Each so different, I watch them burst into bloom, filling the world with their colors. The brass is the soil underneath me, a foundation from which flowers can grow. Roots break through the earth with the laughter of the bassoon and oboe, and then soar on the wind with my flute.

Suddenly, the notes I am hearing are coming from my own lips, travelling through my flute and following the movements of my fingers over the keys. I am transported back to the real world, standing upon the stage that haunted me for so long. But this time I do not turn away from anxiety’s millions of watching eyes. Rather, I invite them inside. I continue to play my song, so that they can see my garden too, because I love the flowers, and I think that maybe love is more powerful than fear.

first anniversary

Today is a very special day! It is the birthday of "Winter Notes on Summer Impressions" !!! I created Winter Notes on December 11th, 2013, and a TON has happened since then. So many good things and so many bad things. I wish that I could have captured every memory and feeling and experience in this place, but there are so many words I haven't written. Writing on this blog has given me an awesome creative outlet to work through the hard things and ideas and feelings, and also to discover my love of writing, especially of poetry, so I'm really thankful for it, and anyone who reads it. (even though they might think I'm crazy or really depressing sometimes)

So, in honor of this momentous occasion, I wrote a poem. :) It's short and sweet and it's called "This Year I Wrote a Lot of Things" because I did, and also because I couldn't think of a better title. So yeah.


This year I wrote a lot of things,
I wrote them down in ink.
My favorite pen, each thought dispensed
Spiraling and succinct.

This year I wrote a lot of things,
I wrote them in the air.
My flute would sing, each fingering
Wrote joys and hopes and prayers.

This year I wrote a lot of things,
I wrote them on my skin.
With razorblades my hate displayed
In scar and wound and sin.

This year I wrote a lot of things,
Some things no one has read.
Songs unheard, unspoken hurt,
Words that I never said.

garden of sound: part one

The excitement before a concert.

All is still.

Sound has deceased,

Filling the air with anticipation

And nervous energy.

Waiting,

A million eyes watch intently.
Silently

As the conductor raises his wand.

Then

Bang!

The crash of drums

As the symphony begins.

Musicians follow the conductor's every movement.
Breathing in and breathing out,
Air rushes across each mouthpiece,
Through each twisted tunnel.

Fingers fly across the keys,
Skillful and precise,
Hitting each pitch at the correct time
Just as they had rehearsed.

A great diversity of sounds come together

To create a colorful garden.

The brass lay a foundation.

Thick and rich,

Soil underneath the ground.

The snickers of the oboe and bassoon

Cause the sound to break into laughter,

Break through the earth.

The sparkling trills of a piccolo

Soar above the ground.

Saxophones, flutes, and clarinets

Instruments of the wind.

Walking together in a garden,

Audience and musicians

Are mummified-

Trapped within the layers of sound.

snowfall

The snow falls like a memory,
How it gently lands and melts;
Soaks into my skin persistently
Til my bones a chill have felt.

I remember the days when I would walk,
And brave the bitter cold.
A worn out mixture of snow and salt
Would crunch beneath my soles.

The earth was lifeless, sky was gray
As the clouds then slowly starved.
My fingers like the eye of a hurricane
Felt the numbness in my heart.

Fresh wounds then caused my feet to ache,
As my footsteps left behind-
On a blanket woven of soft snowflakes
A trail of red, red lines.

No one else could see the stain
On such a perfect white.
Memories of the empty gain
I found within a knife.

Inside my boots for me to feel
But for no one else to know.
These are the things I remember still
When I walk in winter snow.