objet trouvé

my mission statement

I think I wrote this after reading a Stephen Covey book, The 7 Habits Of Highly Successful People.  It was, and is, a mission statement I wrote for myself. I dug up a poetry notebook I had and I'm posting some things from it. I'm going to post the mission statement in the way I wrote it, which in true e.e. cummings style, is all in lowercase. I haven't read it in a long time, but I thought it'd be a good reminder for me, something to get me thinking. So, follow along:

Sanctuary

On a four-lane highway a little after dusk:
Driving down the steep hill just before the crucifix,
A wounded deer, jerking motions after the first hit.

In the middle of conversation while taking mom to bingo:
A sharp move to the left to avoid the hunter's game;
Thank God, no other car was in that lane.
Shaken, I drove on.

Seconds before:
The deer was nailed,
Unintentional--
An older man driving a stationwagon
Already pulled over by the time I go past the church.

Going up that hill on the return trip home:
The deer had been sedated, lifeless as it lay in the bed of a pick-up truck.
No flowers, no grave, no name--
Sanguine tears soak the pavement;
A sight unseen by anyone now.

But every day new prey
With hardened stares
Await the blender of steel-belted radials
To pound it into the earth little by little--
Like a human's ashes but without the dignity.

A cat in the turn lane as I approach my street:
The best I can do is avoid its scattered remains
As it dies beyond death.

revised August 19, 1997

Naked Carnal Tender Unity

I don't want to be alone tonight.
I have an apartment devoid of emotion,
a lifetime behind me, and still in sight--
no carnal unity, no one to offer my devotion.

I have an apartment devoid of emotion;
No touch penetrates me.
No carnal unity, no one to offer my devotion,
A photograph is just an illusion to see.

No touch penetrates me;
My body ages exponentially.
A photograph is just an illusion to me,
And my mind allows my heart to deceive.

My body ages exponentially,
a lifetime behind me, and still in sight,
And my mind allows my heart to deceive;
I don't want to be alone tonight.

I Hardly Know

I hardly know where to begin
Even when there's no need to bend the truth I tell a lie
What's the difference between immortality and sin
Mere words cannot describe

Even when there's no need to bend the truth I tell a lie
Unable to aubibly phrase I demonstrate
Mere words cannot describe
I carry a picket sign in my own parade

Unable to aubibly phrase I demonstrate
A scribble, a brushstroke, filming my demise
I carry a picket sign in my own parade
An inexplicable illegible misunderstood portrait of myself I fight

A scribble, a brushstroke, filming my demise
What's the difference between immortality and sin
An inexplicabable illegible misunderstood portrait of myself I fight
I hardly know where to begin

separated but not divorced: rough draft

separated but not divorced
his wife and he made the split
now full of bitterness and remorse
neither has healed the rift

his wife and he made the split
his father, he once revered
neither has healed the rift
sailing waters neither can steer

his father, he once revered
their work--once full of ambition
sailing waters neither can steer
drowning in submission

their work--once full of ambition
full of bitterness and remorse
drowning in submission
separated but not divorced

A Heartsong For Mattie

Mattie Stepanek passed away today at age 13. From what he said on Oprah a couple of years ago:

Mattie has been writing poetry since he was three years old. "I write to express my thoughts and feelings," he explains. You hear the word "heartsongs" a lot in his work. "Your heartsong is your inner beauty," says Mattie. "It's the song in your heart that wants you to help make yourself a better person, and to help other people do the same. Everybody has one."

Heartsong
From the book Journey Through Heartsongs by Mattie J.T. Stepanek

I have a song, deep in my heart,
And only I can hear it.
If I close my eyes and sit very still
It is so easy to listen to my song.
When my eyes are open and
I am so busy and moving and busy,
If I take time and listen very hard,
I can still hear my Heartsong.
It makes me feel happy.
Happier than ever.
Happier than everywhere
And everything and everyone
In the whole wide world
Happy like thinking about Going to Heaven when I die.
My Heartsong sounds like this:

I love you! I love you!
How happy you can be!
How happy you can make
The whole world be!

And sometimes it's other
Tunes and words, too,
But it always sings the
Same special feeling to me.
It makes me think of
Jamie, and Katie and Stevie,
And other wonderful things.
This is my special song.
But do you know what?
All people have a special song
Inside their hearts!
Everyone in the show wide world
Has a special Heartsong.
If you believe in magical, musical hearts,
And if you believe you can be happy,
Then you, too, will hear your song.

March 1996
© Matthew Joseph Thaddeus Stepanek

Rest in peace...

Poetry In Motion, Part I

I got inspired to write last night while driving home from work, but the thoughts are in fragments.

Fortunately I had the manila folder and a pen nearby, though as you can tell, I wrote this with no light and as I was driving. With time, maybe the fragments will become whole.

Carryover Poetry From The Old Place

Here's some carryover poetry from the old site I had. I just want to get the poetry I have categorized, so if I stumble upon more, I'll add them as I stumble. By the way, I haven't made any revisions to these since I wrote them, though I did at one time get them critiqued. It's not that they may not deserve some changes; it's from my own laziness in pondering any potential changes.

December 7, 2001

Fraud: With apologies to Stephanie, your Dec. 1 blog inspired me to write a poem this afternoon. I hope you don't mind that I used some of your phrases to shape it:

Fraud

I am a fraud clinging to labels that no longer suit me
I am the joke waiting to be the life of the party
I am the question without the answer I need
I am someone else's trash that's been discarded

I am the joke waiting to be the life of the party
I am a nameless face in a mass of more important people than myself
I am someone else's trash that's been discarded
I am the poker hand no one wishes to be dealt

I am a nameless face in a mass of more important people than myself
In all the world, why would anyone choose me?
I am the poker hand no one wishes to be dealt
Even if at my best someone could love me, these days I'm at my worst, can't you see?

In all the world, why would anyone choose me?
I am the question without the answer I need
Even if at my best someone could still love me, these days I'm at my worst, can't you see?
I am the fraud clinging to labels that no longer suit me.

November 21, 2001 (though I wrote these much before then)

birds fill the branches
forming nests for precious young
the trees don't argue

shimmering moonlight
in the creek, above the trees
holding each other

Pray (Parts 1 & 2)

I wrote a poem. It's hardly finished, but in it's own way, it's almost a continuation of a poem I wrote a few years ago called Pray (call it Part 1 if you want). I'll post that one after this. I actually started coming up with the words for Part 2 after a recent sermon that my pastor gave. So, without further ado:

I don't know what I'm doing
I don't know what I'm saying
Buried hurt I'm excavating
I need You Lord, that's why I'm praying.

Fear Lord, why have I been afraid?
I pray that I'm not too late.
Thank You Lord, for the soul you've saved.
I hear You Lord, that's why I'm praying.

In Your will, in Your way, in Your time, in Your care,
Where I have been absent, You have been there.
Where I have strayed in sin
You have healed me from within
Through Your wisdom, Your strength, Your grace,
I feel Your love Lord, how could it be replaced?
Without it, I'd not exist; there'd be no trace
I cry out to you Lord, for mercy; that's why I'm praying.

Pray (by the way, I do know this was in the Dec. 13, 2003 entry that I had, but I want to get my poetry in categories on my new weblog site, so that's why I'm repeating it. Feel free to skip it if you've already seen these.):

The title of this entry is also the title of a poem I wrote over three days in 1995 that I dug out of a box in my closet. I have lots of these poems--love poems (or lack of love-poems), and poems I wrote for a poetry class at community college. I'm going to leave this one as is. I might change a few words here and there, but the essence of it still stands, obviously. I just wish I had lived up to the words then instead of falling by the wayside for quite awhile. I'm back for good, though.

When I do a barefoot dance
to the song of life
When I fall into a trance
and reflect upon my strife
When I awaken
from the nightmares and the shame
I no longer feel forsaken
for I have called Your name

Whether I read or write or think or say
during all those times You hear me pray
I know as long as I keep my bond
You will always listen and respond
For everything I do, I'm just someone who prays
You will lead me not into temptation
You will lead me not astray

When I act like a prodigal child
to my friends and family
When I don't embrace substance only to admire style
when I run from reality
When I am shaken
by the horrors and the hate
I can no longer be mistaken
for You have felt the pain

Whatever I see or hear or sing or do
I will always be in love with You
I know as long as I will try
You will hold me and be my guide
For everything I do, I'm just someone who prays
You guide me through the dark
You guide me with Your light of day

When I hear children's voices
through laughter and through cries
When I fear my many choices
not knowing what is wise
When I take my lonely stance
looking up to heaven at night
I always say to You, I can't
and I soar unchartered heights

Wherever I crawl or walk or run or drive
with You I will always be alive
I know as long as I believe
You will always fill all my needs
For everything I do, I'm just someone who prays
You will lead me to salvation
You will lead me with Your grace

With You, Jesus, I am never alone
In You, I have found home.

Note: I couldn't quite keep the structure of the poem in the way I had written it out by hand. I had indented every other line, and in some, had a double indentation (the 2nd, 4th and 6th stanzas).