Love Letters, person to person

I have a fiance who writes me poems every week or so, lavishes me with words of affirmation (my primary love language), and communicates with courage and intentionality. I love love notes. For example, I found the following from a website and this simple note is wrought with power and passion.

 

====
Sarah,
I think back to our wedding day; most of it is blurry and surreal, but I do remember one thing with utter clarity. I remember hearing you say “I do.” I can see your lips pronounce the words, I can hear your voice settling in my ear, and I can definitely remember the surge of emotion that flooded me (which I handled in an extremely manly fashion).
No two words have ever meant so much to me.
Yours,
– Josh
====

 

More stirring romance and thoughtfulness HERE.

 

Abraham’s Stars are Mine

Abraham’s Stars are Mine

– DR, 2011

The crescent moon a hammock to her dreaming,

awake but sleeping heart,

she climbed into the promises of time

– of moons and stars and sun;

and she rested.

 

 

His promises to her would hold:

ropes of hammock around palm trees of

righteous flourishing: steadfast and faithful.

With authenticity and love she told the sky,

                “Good night.”

And the sky knew she meant it.

 

 

“A Bench,” a poem toward where I have not been

“A Bench,” a poem toward where I have not been

by Dawn Diane Richardson

 

 

chiseled somewhere, 

under covering from rain

a mold first

cement stirred

                        in time

and poured

 

“Delightful!” the Designer beamed. 

 

His hands 

sure

necklace of fingers

on neck of promise

                                         but beautiful

forming

from nothing

a voice

winking            at                hope

                                                           a paraglider in the night sky

                                                                                                        promises his compass

                                                                                                                                              stars his paths

the constellations

taking shape

 

she could only sit

on the bench

placid, but believing

wholeheartedly

in this memorial

 

this bench

a memorial

 

her thoughts’ perch

her dreams’ bookshelf

her heart’s pillow

a concrete bench

soft as baby Moses’

river-splashed skin

 

this bench

for fifteen years

a memorial

to the future

       to things He 

          now celebrates

she does not

              yet see

 

only glimpses

      outlines

prophetic words

       visions

 

She sits

on the bench

of her future’s

memorial

 

and smiles.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

“Totally like whatever, you know?”

 

Totally like whatever, you know? 
By Taylor Mali 
www.taylormali.com

In case you hadn’t noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you’re talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you’re saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)’s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren’t, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences – so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not –
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don’t think I’m uncool just because I’ve noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It’s like what I’ve heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I’m just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally . . .
I mean absolutely . . . You know?
That we’ve just gotten to the point where it’s just, like . . .
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness
is just a clever sort of . . . thing
to disguise the fact that we’ve become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since . . .
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.

 

 

“The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

#


It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know 
if you will risk 
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are 
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you 
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know 
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone 
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming,
 from the book The Invitation
 published by HarperONE, San Francisco,
 1999 All rights reserved

My soul like a sleeping swan

Today I was asking God what I should do to move onward today: having finished ministry school Friday, gradually working on writing my book, eagerly waiting for job(s) to come together, feeling stir-crazy and frustrated. I felt that He said, “Read some poetry.” I thought it was a good idea, but less “practical” than my mind preferred. Nevertheless, I got out a book of poetry. This particular book is Shelley’s Poems and is over one hundred years old. I flipped open to a couple sections and read. In my reading, I floated across this:

“Asia Answers” from Shelley’s “Hymn to Asia”

My soul is an enchanted boat,

Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float

Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;

And thine doth like an angel sit

Beside a helm conducting it,

Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.

It seems to float ever, forever,

Upon that many-winding river,

Between mountains, woods, abysses,

A paradise of wildernesses!

Till, like one in slumber bound,

Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,

Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound.

And so, in my restlessness, I find the mental image of a sleeping swan: the promise of rest for those who dare to believe it is possible to rest while travelling down the river into the great ocean of destiny.  God has lived in Rest since creation, and through Jesus we are invited into it – not merely one day a week, but ongoing rest – the peace that passes understanding sort of rest. Ahhhhh… time to curl up our swan necks and tuck our heads into soft feathers, to travel while at rest. Sweet Jesus, making all things possible as usual.

“Therefore, since the promise of entering his rest still stands, let us be careful that none of you be found to have fallen short of it . . .

Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” (Hebrew 4:1 & 4:16)