A poem

In the not too distant past I have read Wild at Heart by John Eldredge and Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge. I am now reading The Way of the Wild Heart by John Eldredge. I intend to read most of his/their books. My loyal readers know that I have been doing a self-directed study of femininity and masculinity for a couple of years now. These books are a part of that.

The poem below was inspired by these works. Captivating maintains that the central question of a woman's heart is "Am I beautiful?" The idea is that while the man is the rough, warrior side of the image of God, that the woman is the beauty side of God. We are meant to engage others in God through our beauty. Since I know how difficult this particular issue is in my own heart and mind, I tend to believe that the beauty premise is true. While the natural inclination will be for the reader to assume that this poem is written about a man, the fact of the matter is, it's written about my relationship with God. There are things in my other relationships that point me back to Him and to the way He sees me, and it is true that I am more capable of seeing His hand at work in my life, when my other relationships are working properly. Here it is:


The Warrior and the Beauty

In dreams the Warrior came to me.
He’d whisper in my ear;
His strength was big, his heart was strong,
His power drew me near.

I wondered who I was to him
And why he ever came,
For I was nothing special then
No one to take a name.

But in my mind, my Warrior stood
So handsome sleek and strong,
And in my heart, he softly wooed
And brought to me a song.

The Beauty that I longed to be
He recognized before.
He loved in me the things I sought,
Though having them in store.

And as I learned my Warrior’s love
The Beauty in me grew
Until I learned that it was I,
And it was then I knew

That what my Warrior saw in me
Had been there all along,
And what his strength inspired in me
Was my own Beauty’s song.

So now the Warrior, with his queen,
The Beauty, measures free
The love they share; for from now on,
His Beauty will be me.

My Secret

I have a secret.
Don’t tell anyone.
An angel walks among us.
She doesn’t know she’s an angel, though.
I know.

She thinks she’s just a woman, just a mom, just a friend.
She’s not. She’s so much more.
You see, moms are there when you need them.
Friends offer care and concern.
She offers her heart and soul.

She drives for hours, just to be nearby.
She loses herself in providing love and tenderness, a listening ear.
She loves unconditionally—not just sometimes, but always.
She gives herself to people who never cared, never expecting anything but honesty in return.

Her disappointment would be the worst form of punishment, because she deserves so much.
But she is never disappointed.
Even when you fail her, she continues to love and give.
She never sees the failure.
She never sees the mis-step or the broken promise.
All she sees is the face of someone she loves.

An angel walks among us.
She is my mother.

Disclaimer

I intensely dislike free-form poetry. I'm of the belief that poetry should have a meter, and that it should rhyme. Unfortunately, the words don't always come the way you'd like for them to come, and with what you're left is something in-between poetry and prose. For the above, I apologize.

The poem

The poem in the previous post just started coming to me, and I felt as though I needed to set it down on paper. It's the age-old question-- should I let anyone close to me after being hurt? or, as Minnie Driver put it in Grosse Pointe Blank, "Should a once-broken-hearted girl give a guy a second chance? First caller, you're on the air."

Any thoughts?

The Risk

This heart that beats but barely,
Like the broken wing of a bird…
It lifts no weight to be carried;
Too bruised by the tone of a word

Yet another may heal what is broken
And may touch the wound without pain.
But too close he must come without knowing;
He may break what is broken again.

When he puts forth his hand to touch me,
Do I trust in the look in his eyes?
For if guised his intent is malicious,
To let him too close is not wise.

But who can tell from a distance
Whether demon or doctor is he?
Should it quietly bear the inflicted,
Or with the healer, be “we”?