The Author and The Shepherd -- a poem.

You're the Author of my faith
and You've got a plan to perfect it!
You're the designer of my way,
then You guard and You protect it.

You're the Shepherd of Your people,
Your eye is on each one.
You won't let me wander far
before You call me, guide me, overcome.

I may try to plan it out,
I may try to dream it up,
but You O Lord direct my steps,
You ordain the way for us.

You're the Author and the Shepherd,
You outline my life-to-be,
then You take my hand and walk,
never to forsake me.

Continue Your good work--
I love what You've foreseen.
Keep me close on the path with You,
it's far better than I dreamed! 

--Ellen H.

(In honor of my Grandma Avis, who passed away years ago, but whose legacy of sweetly written poems and prayers lives on in my heart.)

Poems On Poetry.

"Distraction"

It's taking me forever
to finish reading this poetry book
because I keep getting distracted
by phrases that creep in,
lines that would start
such clever, thoughtful poems
of my own.


"Domino Effect"

I suppose the goal of my life
-- or one of them anyway --
is to publish a book
of poetry.

I certainly have enough poems by now,
piled up like domino stacks,
quietly waiting to set up a chapbook
or a thin, glossy paperback

which readers could easily carry around
in their purses or backpacks,
pulling it out in a dull moment
in a coffee shop or at home while the baby naps,

or on the bus or waiting at the doctor's office,
to play with for fun, and inspiration perhaps.

I suppose it is the goal of my life
to express creative sentiments to others,
written words whispered into the mind,
sparking a flame that in turn lights another,

a domino effect of delightful enlightenment.

--Ellen H.

Icicles-- a poem.

Such pointless, delightful decorations,

these multi-colored glass icicles

hanging in the front window.

I study them – aglow

with the cold morning sun,
each a variation on a color theme,

purposefully hung at varying lengths –
perfect imperfection –

as real icicles are.

I admire them – as I sit

for the hundredth hour

on my living room couch, breastfeeding:

a rare, glowing positive to being up so early,

never again to sleep in.

I also hung them so passers-by

on our busy, in-town street

would see them too.

Perhaps, decorative winter baubles

make up for the lack of seeing a homey tree
through our front window, as if to say
'We still care about the holidays,'

but saving me the work

of molted pine needles on the carpet,

and wanting it gone on exactly December 26^th.

Besides, these could last us until February for sure –

icicles are in season all winter long,

even if they were originally intended as holiday ornaments...
Maybe they're not so pointless after all?

--Ellen H. 

"International Evening": a poem.

It's a big, big world out there,
I think to myself, and stare,
as I sit in my living room at dusk,
watching a car drive by in a rush
with the radio blaring--
a sign that the schoolkids are out,
out and about, somewhere to go,
and that night magic is inviting,
so exciting, soon to flow.
Meanwhile,
by lamplight I am reading a poetry book,
pausing at times to take a look
at the outdoor activity and approaching evening,
feeling the weight of my baby, on my lap finally sleeping.

Who else is looking out their window,
like, in Rio De Janeiro,
listening to the cars zoom,
and seeing the city lights bloom,
as the sun goes down?
How many other mothers are doing
what I am doing, at just the same time--
a boring, lonely, immobile thing--
bringing camaraderie, secret and sublime?
But only if
their imaginations are also pondering
the same thing as our minds are wandering...
Who really knows, or even cares?
All I know is: it's a big, big world out there.


--Ellen H.

P.S. If you like accessible, contemporary poems, check out one of Billy Collins' collections (former U.S. Poet Laureate): they always inspire some smiles and poetry of my own. :)

An Ode To The Socks with Chicks on Them.

Ode

To the socks that fit my daughters feet

and stay on:

Thank you.

You are white, matching everything,

yet cute, delighting me with baby chicks;

Thick, making up for no shoes,

and snug, without leaving marks on her skin.

In a dull world of no stirrup pants for infants--

where the fashion fad would have had staying power

due to being truly useful--

at least you socks commit to keep feet warm

and toes clean

and moms sane

since I don’t have to endlessly look for a missing twin

escaped from the job

of warding off chilly Autumn.

Wryly writing on,

Ellen H.