Before and After

I think I can honestly say without hesitation, pause, or doubt that I didn't always want to be a writer.  I can't imagine my young self thinking, "I want to write for the rest of my life," because then, writing was schoolwork.  I used to cry over little assignments and whine about the work.  But somehow, I made it through that rough spot and conquered the feeling of disgust towards that foul writing!

I looked back through my folders of old school assignments that I kept to look back on, and I found one that I really liked.  I was nine years old at the time, still in that stage of, 'I don't like writing.' This is a poem about what Blue is.  I wish that I could share my little childish drawings, because, though I am a bit biased, I think they are rather cute.  However, I will do my best to share it with you as accurately as it is written, right down to my spelling, punctuation, and grammar rules.

Blue

Looks like a flower in a meadow,

Smells like a fresh blue berrie pie, 

It tastes like cotton candy

it sounds like a baby boys coo

and it feels like my Jamies so new

I'm older now, and I love to write, for it is the music to my soul and it fuels me.  One of my first blog posts was a poem about what I thought Blue was, and I think that I may have improved slightly:

What is Blue?

Written by Janelle Spiers 

Inspired by Mary O'Neill

Blue is a sapphire

Concealed well in a stone

A treasure forgotten

All alone.

Blue is a breaking heart’s moan.

Blue is cold,

A biting wind, sharp and cold.

Blue is a song

Blue is a car,

A lake, a clear sky,

A dying star.

The sound of blue is 

“Dong! Dong! Dong!”

A death knell rings

A mourning song.

Blue is bliss –

A gentle day,

Without a care

Happy and gay.

Blue are berries

And a pair of jeans,

The banner of rich kings and queens

Blue is a feeling 

Bitter and sweet

So melancholy

You feel defeat.

Blue is eye color

And watching the news

Blue is a risk

Win or lose.

Blue is lost

Beauty to be found

A peacock plume

Lying on the ground.

Think of what picnics

And rainbows can’t do

Bright parties, rolling waves

If they couldn’t glow bright with

Blue…

I wanted to reflect on the change I have seen in myself and I found it amusing and pleasing.  It's like a before and after picture: Before I wanted to write and did it because I had no choice on the matter, and After when I desire to write without stopping, and feel sad when I have to stop, because I have no choice on the matter.  What kinds of things did you dislike when you were little and now love them so much, and have you any proof to look back on?

Always Something Stronger

Though there is trial in the world, pain, loss, and heartache, there is something sweeter, something stronger, and something more sincere than the hardest fall or the longest night.  There is love...

One of my absolute favorites by Andrew Peterson, the singer of many songs and the author of many stories that I have lived and love: After the Last Tear Falls.  No matter what goes on in life and how many hardships have to be fought, there is still the overwhelming power of love that surpasses all understanding.  And that's really neatly written here by Mr. Peterson. 

After the Last Tear Falls ~ Love and Thunder

Andrew Peterson

After the last tear falls
After the last secret's told
After the last bullet tears through flesh and bone
After the last child starves
And the last girl walks the boulevard
After the last year that's just too hard

There is love
Love, love, love
There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

After the last disgrace
After the last lie to save some face
After the last brutal jab from a poison tongue
After the last dirty politician
After the last meal down at the mission
After the last lonely night in prison

There is love
Love, love, love
There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

And in the end, the end is
Oceans and oceans
Of love and love again
We'll see how the tears that have fallen
Were caught in the palms
Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
And we'll look back on these tears as old tales

'Cause after the last plan fails
After the last siren wails
After the last young husband sails off to join the war
After the last "this marriage is over"
After the last young girl's innocence is stolen
After the last years of silence that won't let a heart open

There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

And in the end, the end is
Oceans and oceans
Of love and love again
We'll see how the tears that have fallen
Were caught in the palms
Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
And we'll look back on these tears as old tales

'Cause after the last tear falls
There is love

Happy Birthday, Robert Louis Stevenson

Today, November 13th, was the day Robert Louis Stevenson was born back in 1850.  He is mostly remembered for his novels like Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but I chose a few of his poems to share with you.  They are a nice, less familiar side of Stevenson that I thought should be remembered.  He would have been 164 years old today!

Bed In Summer

In winter I get up at night
  And dress by yellow candle-light.
  In summer quite the other way,
  I have to go to bed by day.

  I have to go to bed and see
  The birds still hopping on the tree,
  Or hear the grown-up people's feet
  Still going past me in the street.

  And does it not seem hard to you,
  When all the sky is clear and blue,
  And I should like so much to play,
  To have to go to bed by day?

In The Highlands

In  the highlands, in the country places,
Where the old plain men have rosy faces,
    And the young fair maidens
        Quiet eyes;
Where essential silence chills and blesses,       
And for ever in the hill-recesses
    Her more lovely music
        Broods and dies—

O to mount again where erst I haunted;
Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,       
    And the low green meadows
        Bright with sward;
And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come, and planets glinted,
    Lo, the valley hollow       
        Lamp-bestarr’d!

O to dream, O to awake and wander
There, and with delight to take and render,
    Through the trance of silence,
        Quiet breath!       
Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,
Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;
    Only winds and rivers,
        Life and death.

Autumn Fires

In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!

Requiem

Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me;
"Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill."