Maple

The bottom of the maple tree 

suited my purposes, so I 

dug down with my bare hands 

until I uncovered the roots. 

I took the tin box filled to the

brim with you, and stuck it 

between those mighty veins. 

The dried blushing roses, 

the letters and the poems, 

and even your marbled heart

arranged between the tissues

that dried all the tears you 

gave me, buried in the ground. 

And there my love can grow, 

warped in the roots of that big 

maple tree, rather than inside of 

a heart that can no longer 

sustain life. The only evidence 

left behind is the black dirt 

on my hands from covering 

it up. 

You no longer deserve

the cries of my heart. 

Myocardium

Signals shot,
silenced by frayed
wires, connected to
your ventricles,
and haphazardly
stuck to mine. I
need a boost.

Not simply a jolt,
but an awakening,
to be enlivened again,
so you switch to
the defibrillator,
in the hopes that
I won't give up entirely.

I think we could
avoid all of this
frantic first aid,
if you would just
choose me.
Keeping me half-alive
is torturous.

5

And when I listen close
I hear old words of an
old heart that's lived for
100 years or more,
waiting to speak to
me, of all people,
as if I have some aged
wisdom to reply with.
Phrases that bounce
off of the dusty corners
of the room that is your
soul, crying out to me
with a sweetness I've
never heard until now.
And because my lips
are weak and lame,
I simply smile as wide
as my cheeks will allow
to echo your sentiments
and to tell you of my
growing desire to
belong to you.
Please know, that my
eyes are trying to tell you
all the things I have
no words to say, and
I hope you can understand,
because I desperately
desperately
desperately
need you to hear me
out.

Leaves

Drunk on tea leaves
straight from Dublin,
and my eyes see
everything much clearer,
with more warmth,
and more colour
than when I am seemingly sober.
I see visions of you,
your strong hands and
your good heart,
overflowing and
filling the space between us
until I am swept up
in the tenderness of your love,
the strength of your voice,
your honest faith,
and your oversized devotion.
And it's only when I notice
that you're fading from my view
that I reach for the kettle,
grab the sugar bowl,
and make another cup of tea.

Almost

Another night and I am
cold
writhing between sheets, paper
thin
wondering, if somewhere you are
just
as cold
as me.

Your hands, grip the edge of the
bed
and your eyes refuse to
shut
and you're hoping I'm still awake--
just
as restless
as you.

I only know the warmth of your
heart,
and the sound of your strong
voice
though I've yet to hear it, I am
just
as impatient
as you.

You sleep knowing that
soon
you'll be led in my
direction,
and you'll be
just
as thankful
as me.

Aubade

I hold hands with the willow branches
and twirl and twirl and twirl
as my green dress flutters and spins
around me like a carousel
and I sing sweet songs that I wrote for you
and pray that you'll faintly hear them
from wherever you are,
from whatever chair you occupy,
and come out of doors to find me.
My heart is alarmed with the rush
of what it feels like to love you
and all I can do to quell
the endless stirring of my affections
is to pronounce it to all who'll hear.
And I deeply know,
that you will discover me here,
frolicking among the willows,
and grin from ear to ear.
You will tell me how you've waited
to hear the soft melody I've sung,
so that you may finally find the one
for whom you've longed.

No longer will I hold hands
with the limp willow branches.

Scissors

And the final knot
is twisting in my chest
unravelling everything left
that keeps me tethered to you
until I can only see a few things:
your face red and pained,
your hands nervous and spotted,
feet, pointing toward me, then away,
and your eyes, searching mine.
I assure you, dear friend,
that there is nothing hidden
in these brown irises
for you to resurrect.
What has died has remained so.
I walk away whispering endless prayers
to a God who sees every single
frayed thread in this rope,
and I ask for him to ease the process
as this last tangle gives,
but he offers no promises.
Instead he reminds me
of what I hold in my shaky hands:
a pair of silver scissors.

I open them up,
and press down,
with all the strength I have left.

Seven Sisters

Seven sisters
sitting in the center
of my rust-ridden heart,
shining like the light
I only long to be.
I have so much love
pulsing through the blue-red arteries
but it leaks through the holes
of this decrepit little heart.
I hope you see my intentions,
as I try with all my might
to muster up enough emotional stamina
and show you I care
at least a little bit.
I've got stars,
in the middle of my chest,
they've just forgotten what it's like
to paint the night sky.

I've hidden them away,
along with everything else.

Cinders

I wonder if the rain knows

about all my saddest days 

before it paints the ground 

with water that evades

the leftover embers 

that burn in the pit of my heart? 

Those coals are only kept alive 

by the frayed ends of a love 

I've yet to lay aside; 

never perfectly mended 

and never sound asleep.

Every time you walk by 

I resurrect memories of days 

that were better than these;

we smiled like children 

and promised more than we ought

in the sun-kissed snow 

and in the confines of silver trees. 

Now this chilly rain escapes my grasp

while a fire hazard brews 

in the depths of my chest. 

I just need a puddle 

big enough to swim in. 

Birdcage

Open up your chest 

to show me there's something

still beating in there. 

Behind your birdcage 

made of bones, 

has your lovebird 

died or flown free?

Did you clip it's wings, 

and stop it 

from singing? 

Because when we speak 

there's no words 

and when we run, 

there's no speed;

just silent glances, 

just stagnant motions, 

that mean nothing.

Your hands are cold, 

your eyes are empty, 

and your smile 

is dull. 

Where is your heart? 

Orange

She dreamt of him in hughes of colour that only seem to make sense when her eyes were closed. When she woke up, it was like he was swept away by the sunlight. She could try to hold on to him all she wanted, but she knew it was no use. He was familiar and warm, but unplaceable.

She filed him in the back of her mind and remained in mediocrity. She worked like everyone else, rode the bus like everyone else, and lived her life like everyone else. People passed in and out of her life constantly; nothing was ever the same way twice. She'd met plenty of men. Plenty decent, good-hearted, worthy men. But there was always something wrong. Something always felt wrong. She hadn't meant him yet. The one that would feel like an old friend, yet a new stranger. The one that would finally make sense in the daylight. He would no longer be a fragmented dream.

There was something about the way he was with her, when she was dreaming, that made her believe that she would meet him in the real world. Something about his words, and his movements mesmerized her. She could tell that he loved her. Unreachable and unknown as he may be, she knew that much.

And even if he wasn't real, even if they would never meet, she held hope in her heart that the feeling was real. She had hope that one day, she would feel the way she felt when she was dreaming. She could have the confidence to believe that someone, somewhere would be as familiar as the dreams she dreamt every night.

She believed it, with all of her might.

Green Button

I make up reasons
to dial his number,
to say that I'm sorry,
or just to say goodbye,
so I can justify
this stupid decision
to myself once I've hung up
and thought it through.
I'll claim good intentions,
when really,
I just wanted to feel
close, wanted, and loved again.
I have no good intentions,
just selfish wishes
to rewind the time
for a few minutes.
Truth is,
I don't want to go back,
I don't want to restart,
I just want to feel that way
one more time.
And there's nothing in the world
that can make that okay,
and nothing I can tell myself
to ease my conscience.
So before I pick up the phone
and press that Green button
I think of what I'm doing
and who I'm doing it to.

I put the phone on the cradle,
and step away.

Keys

Dear You,

Often I worry, that this old house
is too big for you to find me in,
and that you'll give up
for an easier venture,
rather than pursuing after me.

And sometimes I worry
that the windows of my history
that still remain open
will cause too much of a draft
for you to be happy here.

Will my love letters,
and my loyal devotion
be enough for a man
who will see all my brokenness,
and who know my every fear?

Will the rooms be big enough
for you to feel at home,
inside this old house of a heart,
that I've invited you into,
not to visit, but to live?

Will you see my haunting memories
as heavy bags to carry,
or beautiful stories
of victories much bigger than myself,
that you are privileged to share?

Oh I must believe,
that you will find me,
and find me lovely.
And I will find you worthy
of a set of keys

to this heart.

Love, Me.

Flying Conditions

The eye already knew
what the heart was leaning towards, 
and when that desire was beheld, 
the mind could hardly conceive it. 
There had to be secrecy involved, 
because if the mouth found out, 
the tongue would become traitorous, 
and give everything away. 
This inkling, this heart-stir, 
could go one of two ways: 
it could fall like a helpless robin from the nest
or fly away into the warm summer sun
but only in its proper season. 
So the eye is sure to be careful, 
while the heart guards itself, 
and the mind simply decides, 
to keep it's mouth shut
until the spring rain and summer heat
make for the most amiable flying conditions.

Shine

No,
no longer do I subscribe
to the late night television guide
where I feed my mind
lie upon lie
only to get through another night
only to get by
without trusting in a Father's light
so bright
in my small, yet wide eyes
and I will call it like I see it.
A fear I hide
away like a small, silent cry
that I'd cry and cry
as every sense of security walked out of my life
and into the hands of a crafted lie
that I am nothing in His sight
but rejected.
And I will claim my right
in my Christ who abides
and never hides,
this love and knowledge of me, infinite
like an ocean tide
that sweeps aside
every father's sin, and father's lie
until I remove my eyes
from an image of pride
and see a Father who has never tried
to do anything but set me apart.
No,
no longer do I subscribe
to a late night television guide
filled with such a temporary guise,
a ruse disguised
as a love that just hides.
Real love doesn't hide,
it shines.

Hollywood and Harlequin

This poem is from an old poetry book I had at the beginning of high school. It shows a very different style than what I write in now, which I find very interesting! Let me know what you think of the 14/15 year old Lena's poetry! 


Hopeless romantic idiocies rage and release,
And automatic responses seem so complex,
and when the things you love slip away,
what does love become?
Harlequin fiction tied with a bow?
Desire and circumstance, bundled? --I'll pass.
Love conquers all?
Then why does it fail more times than not?
When Cinderella thinks she can have her prince,
Failure is inevitable, but no one sees.
When greed pushes away all good intent,
who is there to forgive and forget?
When did love become plastic? drastic? fantastic?
What ever happened to truth?
When you can love someone through obligation,
what becomes of your definition of love?
When love is supposed to be unconditional,
what happens when it's unrequited instead?
How much am I paying for this so-called luxury?
When the price of real love became to high,
we decided to stop paying.
Lust and emptiness walk hand in hand,
down death row they lead.
In this world of one-night-stands,
hooking up, rather than commitment,
and obligated love that is supposed to complete,
what can I trust?

It's the question of the century.

62 .4 .8

We love
like we have to,
rather than chose to,
with obligation
lacing our seemingly
good intentions.
And we love
like we know
what it means to love,
like we penned
the term and definition
ourselves.
We love
with greedy hearts
that look selfless,
and we wander,
looking for gain,
rather than for good.
And we love
by what we say
and what we do
and feel it
in what we hear
and what we get.
We love
as if we know
what it means,
and as if it's enough,
but we forget that love,
is not a word or a feeling.

He's the Creator of Heaven and Earth.

I Wish These Words Were Mine Sometimes...

O LORD,
No day of my life has passed that has not proved me guilty in thy sight.
Prayers have been uttered from a prayerless heart;
Praise has been often praiseless sound;
My best services are filthy rags.
Blessed Jesus, let me find a covert in thy appeasing wounds.
Though my sins rise to heaven thy merits soar above them;
Though unrighteousness weighs me down to hell,
              thy righteousness exalts me to thy throne.
All things in me call for my rejection,
All thing in thee plead my acceptance.
I appeal from the throne of perfect justice
              to thy throne of boundless grace.
Grant me to hear thy voice assuring me:
              that by thy stripes I am healed,
              that thou wast bruised for my iniquities,
              that thou hast been made sin for me
              that I might be righteous in thee,
              that my grievous sins, my manifold sins, are all forgiven,
                     buried in the ocean of they concealing blood.
I am guilty, but pardoned,
        lost, but saved,
        wandering, but found,
        sinning, but cleansed.
Give me perpetual broken-heartedness,
Keep me always clinging to thy cross,
Flood me every moment with descending grace,
Open to me the springs of divine knowledge,
          sparkling like crystal,
          flowing clear and unsullied
               through my wilderness of life.

-- "The Broken Heart",  The Valley of Vision, Puritan Prayers

Night

Black grass, smoldering eyes, 
Dancing in the fields, inhibitions in the stars, 
Far away and distant, free and careless, 
More alive with each breath than ever before. 

The stars make their ladles and their belts, 
And through my fingers they seem so close, 
Yet as the planes cut the sky, 
Suddenly, the world is small. 

Claustrophobia takes captive my heart, 
And I feel like I'm bursting at the seams,
Contentment in the simple sky, 
The world seems safe in this lone moment. 

Night has taken over my heart, 
And I would stay forever here, 
Because never have I seen such beauty, 
And never, have I felt so loved.

My My

My my, what we have here
is a no-good, no-win, mess.
And I'm grasping at straws
tripping over what was, what wasn't,
and frankly, what will never be.
We have so much to rehash
relive, remember, regret,
and so much to leave behind.

I just can't see what the end will look like.
Can you?