Tag Archives: Becky



I mosey the cluttered lanes with poetry.
Alone with lines of prose to comfort me.
I dare not look around my ankles,
At crumbling ground, trod by angels,
Soil sighing beneath cadavers,
Reincarnation won’t reimburse
The lives that fall away.
I’m all that’s left today.

“Keep walking, helping is coming,
Keep singing, laughing, humming.”
One foot in front of the other,
Wait for the sound of the trumpeter,
We shall not sleep, but be changed,
Into air, freely arranged.
In the twinkling of an eye,
I will breathe my final sigh.
Laughter will accompany my days henceforth,
Treading lanes of a pilgrimage north.

But until that day I might never see,
I’m bent on living my life completely.
In abundance, to the full, till it overflows,
Getting back up after the cruel blows
Thrown at me from every side.
The hell on earth which I abide.
My life is a raging battlefield,
But peace is on my shield,
Though I walk through the valley of death,
The air composed of final breaths,
I will walk on through the bodies,
Disregarding these robberies
From the bank of lives.
Death tries, almost deprives
Me of life but is unable.
My life cannot be fatal.

Life waits across the bridge of mortality,
Which I will strut in style and vitality.
I don’t know this bridge’s length,
But I do know my Lover’s strength.
That’s enough to carry me.
Through endless lanes that weary me.
I have more than my poetry,
A Protector close to comfort me.

Peace On Earth



The phrase “peace on earth” means more to me these days. Maybe it’s because I’ve realized it’s not a just a phrase. I’m hitting replay on this song again and again, because it brings me back to a month and a half ago when. my. life. was. perfect. I had three sisters, and all four of us were chilling downstairs. We were playing piano guitar, bongos, and singing, not thinking about waking up the parental units with a house that’s ringing. It’s this song we were playing, among other ones too, and we’d played it perfectly the first time through. The atmosphere felt like heaven, another dimension, of peace, without any strife or tension. That day was complete perfection. Becky told us, “You guys sound like angels. I bet this is what it’s like in heaven.” Except in heaven, it would last 24-7. The good things we have we could keep, but the gap between then and now is deep. Heaven is a long way off for me, at least, as far as I can see. Life could be over without a moment’s notice. The time we have here is just a bonus.


Kitten In A Tree


Tired of drowning in things to be done,

Tired of fighting the battles I’ve [not] won.

While victory lies on the table of contemplation,

And my flaws grow in the soil of frustration,

Am I overcommitted, under acquitted?

Still wrestling pain that I’ve [not] admitted?

Am I working too much, trying to touch,

The glory, the talent of such and such?

Do I need a new fire, a spiritual zeal,

Something to coax my numb senses to feel? 10

Something to bring me down from a tree,

Like the kitten crying, just to be free.

Where are the hands of my Rescuer?

The holes in the hands of my Discover.

I am small enough to fit in His hands,

Large enough to walk with Him on the sands.

Where is He now but a moment away?

A voice away with the sound of “hey”

The voice which knows the length of my day,

Who touches my shoulders and breathes it away. 20

Filling my senses: I’m no longer dead.

When His faithful hand is beneath my head.

Together we recount the ups and downs,

Of a full day, with sights, memories, sounds.

With tears over the unkindness faced,

When I couldn’t cry, but my heart still paced.

Now ocean pieces sting like glass my face,

But cannot stay, for He will yet erase,

And heal their present dwelling place,

Renewing beauty and giving grace. 30

I have a wall of love to run into,

Whenever I have none to hang on to.

For now I will stay in this tree,

With the One who will rescue me.

I am not ready to face them all,

I don’t want to see their faces at all.

They ask for answers, I have none,

They try to make me have some fun,

But forget that I’m not one of them,

That I will never, never be one of them. 40

On a separate note, I was given a gift today,

It was when I heard someone say,

I was not a problem to be fixed,

A wasteland of emotions mixed.

But that life as I knew it was normal,

Problems, pressures, pains were normal.

It was the voice of an angel informal,

A voice pragmatic, sensible, moral.

Which has made me [cry] behind her back,

For the sense and sensibility [I lack.] 50

The encouragement to move on when,

You’ve messed up in front of all of them.

These are the tear which I keep [hidden],

Behind the glass of perfection |forbidden|,

I hear a siren, the glass will -crack-.

But again my Saviour wins it back.

I might be cute, fuzzy, and purring daily,

But I’m wet, shivering, shaking faintly.

Until I’m enclosed within His grasp

Like magic safe within the clasp. 60

Where I release the sounds exiled,

To be within my poetry [silenced.]

Betrayed, portrayed, arrayed,

The words condense on those hands scathed,

The sunlight peeks in through the holes

Of pain, of price for healing souls,

Sometimes I think I’m one of many,

Other times His love says I’m the only,

But I have been healed, am being healed,

And He is my cure thus far concealed. 70

Thou Shalt Never Be Too Serious.

If On A Winter’s Night


Right now, in this moment, you might as well be alive. The bad news still hasn’t really sunken in. You might still come cheerily through the door, bringing me a drink from Starbucks or a box of tea. Your boyfriend might drop you off at the door any moment now. Then I might go sit in your room and talk to you and tell you about my day. Or you might arrive home from French or Accounting class, telling us how hard it’d been even though you eventually got 90s. I’d tell you how disappointed I was I’d gotten an 80 back. We’d laugh, and I’d also tell you about how I reamed out Brett Scott today. You’d tell me I need more tact. I’ve known that for a long while. But today, can I tell you about my day today?

Today I woke up at 7:20, listened to the second half of Sting’s album “If on a Winter’s Night” as I lay in bed peacefully. Then I got up, showered, and ate breakfast while Dad made chili, saying, “Make sure Becky only takes one container of this with her today.” I was only bites into my monastery rye when I went to check my Facebook and emails to see if we were going to the mall or not. With no emails or facebooking from you, I remarked how I didn’t like spontaneity, or last minute plans. I like to know exactly what’s going on, a luxury I certainly wasn’t given today. Sometime in the morning, after Dad left, Heather and I got a funny feeling about the lack of contact. You usually text back. Why? Why didn’t you pick up the home phone of the house you were sitting? Why did you never pick up your cell phone? It gave me a bit of a sick feeling. So twins do what twins do. They snap into crisis mode, think rationally, act quickly. Starbucks was the ONLY location inside the mall without a phone number online, but we eventually got a hold of your manager Paula. She said that you’d left Thursday’s shift early because you weren’t feeling good, and hadn’t called in or showed up for Friday’s shift. Officially: why the fuck did you not call us and tell us you if you weren’t feeling good? Dad told you to! We knew you were fragile after your bout with food poisoning two weekends ago. We could have taken care of you, like we did then. You really could’ve made it. This was unnecessary, and I might punch anyone who tells me this was God’s will. Fuck off.

Heather and I click into crisis mode. We speed walked to your house. Google said it’d take 24 minutes, but we crushed it in 16. Another bit of bad news: no tracks in the snow in front of the house. Jesus. Are you unconscious in there? We pounded on EVERY window. I’m pretty sure the doorbell has a sore throat after all the abuse I put it through. I wasn’t too concerned about if the windows would break or not. If they did I would have punched the shards of glass away and climbed in. We could hear the pounding of windows echo through the house, and Heather and I were forced to conclude that any sleeping human being would’ve woken up. So we waited for the cops and paramedics. The waiting was, of course, punctuated by my restless need to ring the doorbell. My thumb was sore, my fists were also sore from pounding on the door. The cops arrived in spectacular time, which seemed anything but spectacular then. They were angels in black, one of which was a sniper. Minutes later Dad also arrives on the scene. In the aftermath his words to us were, “You two are fucking smart. You handled this perfectly.” Which is true. The paramedics aren’t rushing outside to get anything from the ambulance. Bad sign. My heart’s pounding when Dad says, “that’s not good. She’s dead.” It’s got to be too early to say that, I’m thinking to myself when the cop comes out, and says, “I’m sorry for your loss, she’s passed away. It’s been at least 24 hours since.”

In the following short minutes, as I’m trying to untangle an unruly web of thoughts, I’m hugged by a crying train wreck, who I recognize to be my mother. Seven months changes a person a lot, and you tend to notice it more when you meet them and they’re undergoing significant turmoil. Meanwhile, I’m in crisis mode, so I hug her and treat for shock. How does a person panic themselves into a watery mess? This is one of those things I just don’t understand. I believe I showed great constancy today. I had a weird day today, Becky, which is why today is a day I want to walk into your room, sit on your bed, and talk to you about my day. It wasn’t a completely bad day. It wasn’t a completely good day. It was just a weird day.

When I got back home, I emptied my backpack of things which I’d thrown together in a hurry. I put the thermometer back in the first aid kit. The honey back in the cupboard. Spoon back in the drawer. First aid manual back under my bed. The transit map back in your drawer. Your health records back on your desk. I still felt the need to put it back exactly where you had it. I’d rushed to a scene, armed to fix it, but I wasn’t allowed.

As if. As if on a winter’s night you slipped away. Slipped the surly bonds of earth. To touch the Face of God. As if.