Ninilchik (Winter)

A timid bit of white light

Crawls across the gray horizon

Shivers, then climbs, then finds

The fight too hard, and slides instead

Beside the icy earth 

As drowsy humans fight

The urge to hibernate

And rise to stoke the fires

That coax aglow the embers of their souls:

Light, and warmth, and hope

Fed branch by branch
And home by home.

(this poem is a companion to this one I wrote a while ago, describing my Alaskan town in spring).  

Choice

We shudder

(and we should)

to hear a tale of

mindless violence

inflicted on an innocent

who should be safe

within his parents' selfless arms

And yet

when met with

less-than-pleasant fact

of tiny humans, full-formed,

torn in bits

from their own mothers’ souls,

we shrug, untouched, and smugly smile,

“choice.” 

God Provides

This one throws it way back, to when I was about 12 years old. I discovered it while rummaging through my childhood, which remains packed away in two blue plastic totes in my parents' attic. The note on the poem says I wrote it for my pastor's wife, Miss Debbie, when her dad was going through a health scare. While I definitely still believe the message of the poem, I like to think my style has grown a bit from the didactic, sing-songy tone of this piece.


Sometimes in this old, weary land
We just can't seem to understand
Things that happen day by day,
Things that just don't go our way.

When someone we love gets very ill,
It is very hard to trust God still.
But we must remember, when pain abides,
An important fact; our God still provides.

He provides strength in every test
And gives us perfect peace and rest.
He helps us in our hardest place;
Shows us his mercy and his grace.

And so, whatever you go through,
Remember, Christian, he's with you.
He'll guide you through that stormy way,
Bring you to live with him some day.

And I know that until then
He will always help you when
You humbly call upon his name,
Since he forever is the same.

From the Splendor of God's Heaven

Higher Ground Baptist Bible Camp played an incalculable role in my spiritual growth as a teenager and college student. My two years as a camper and my eight years on staff shaped my theology and my attitudes in huge ways. Higher Ground's teen leadership camp, known as "The Stretcher Program," emphasizes servant leadership based on Christ's example as communicated by Paul in Philippians chapter two: "Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus..." After participating as a Stretcher one year, I wanted to express in writing the core concepts I had learned. This poem was the result.

From the splendor of God's heaven,
From the rainbow circled throne:
From unceasing praise of angels,
Admiration purely shown.

From sweet meaningful communion
With a Father deeply loved,
From perfection, unmarred beauty,
Jesus came to ransom us.


To deep poverty continual,
To a shameful, lowly birth
To a dirty stable manger,
Endless painful toils of earth:

To the mocking scorn of sinners,
Pilate's unjust judgment hall:
To that cross on Calv'ry's hillside,
Most accursed death of all.


Let this mind be in me, Father,
Which was also in my Lord:
Not vain pride in my position,
Selfish thought for man's reward.

But a mind of humble giving,
Caring not for earthly fame:
Living selflessly, your servant
For the glory of your Name.


And his Name is high exalted
Far above all other names
All will bow, each tongue confess him:
Christ the Lord forever reigns.

Lord of the Broken

Lord of the broken, Jesus, I thank you

For knowing my weakness and feeling my pain

You weep with my heartaches; you gather my sorrows

From the fragments you make a mosaic of grace

Lord of the nightfall, Sovereign, I thank you

For being the light even when I can’t see

You’ve already conquered the powers of darkness

You illumine your truth through my frailty and need

Lord of redemption, Savior, I thank you

That nothing I do can diminish your love

In spite of my failures, you’re building your kingdom

You’re restoring your image, your glory in us

My heart is not hidden from you;

You know me better than I even do.

Into my weakness your strong voice has spoken:

You bring beauty from chaos:

You’re Lord of the broken. 

Legalist

You’re free, he said, and snapped the shackles on.

You see, he said, your debt is paid; your sin is gone.

And now, there’s only one thing you must do:

Endure these chains, and thus maintain his love for you.

Our master is a kindly one, he said

His employ isn’t something you can earn; it’s just a gift instead.

But his affection, that’s a different thing:

It’s only for the few who keep the rules for following.

Sure, he already suffered for your gain;

Willingly laid down his life, imbibed your pain.

But gratitude demands you languish, too

And thus allay the payment he so freely made for you.

You’re not his servant, really, but his son  

Accepted irrevocably; it cannot be undone  

But still he’ll snub you if you slip or fail

By messing up the way you sing or how you wear your hair.

Of course, his yoke is easy, and his burden light

Just trust him with your all; he’ll make your days be sunny, bright

But, God forbid you stumble on the way;

Cause then he’ll turn his face and make you pay.

No matter that he bids you rest in grace!

It doesn’t really mean to rest: it means pick up the pace

Create a testimony that will brightly glow

To hide the weak, dependent soul his loving light would show.

Yes, gaze on him, but watch yourself – beware

Of losing sight of regulation in the beauty of his care.

His liberation merits strictest gratitude, most cautious song;

After all, you’re free, he said, and snapped the shackles on. 

Psalm 8

This one's from seven years ago today: a long, rambling, reflections-on-a-Psalm-rewritten-as-a-poem inspired by a sermon on the title passage, Psalm 8. It was intended as a song, with three eight-line verses and an eight-line chorus. I'm bad at titles, so even after all this time, this poem doesn't really have one. Suggestions are always welcome. And hopefully, my writing style has become more concise with time.

Psalm 8

He spoke the worlds into existence,
Hung the stars up with his hand;
Painted heaven with his fingers,
Shaped the galaxies with his command.

He formed the earth and moved upon it,
Made all living things we see -
Sheep and cattle, birds and fishes,
Feeb'lest grass and tallest mighty tree.

Though I was made to know my Maker,
Sin forbade my drawing near.
God of power soon would judge me:
Guilt and shame o'erwhelmed my heart with fear.

And yet, this mighty God, Creator
Chose to take a servant's dress:
Came to earth; in love and mercy,
Clothed me in his perfect righteousness.

His Word upholds what he created;
Countless mighty stars still flame,
Seasons come and go, enabled
By sustaining power of his Name.

How can I fail to trust my Father?
He who owns eternity
Gives me ought but what love chooses.
Mercy's hands of strength are holding me.

Oh Lord our Lord, your Name is mighty -
Excellent in all the earth.
What is man that you would love me,
Visit me, and bring to me new birth?

All glory, honor, highest praises
Ever more we give to you
God, Creator, Lord Almighty
Faithful, righteous, merciful and true.

3 AM

His little wrist rests
against my finger

Wide blue eyes no longer cry, but hide, tired,
beneath gold-auburn lashes

As eager lips slurp nourishment
cleft chin pressed against my breast

Precious baby boy!
his mother's joy, his father's pride

Daddy's eyes and mama's hair -
two souls mingled, manifested in his little life.

The wild world waits to be explored:
ideas, places, so much more for him to know -

For me to help him learn
to help him grow, strong and bold, wise and kind

But, for now, he sighs, and falls asleep
well-fed, content, secure

Sure of all he needs right now:
wrapped up in lavish love.

Arrogance?

When God made humans, he made them as a reflection of himself. He wove worth into every aspect of their personhood. Thus, each individual possesses a unique ability to glorify the Creator by evidencing his image in his or her life.

This is what sets humans apart from animals. It is the foundation for human law and culture. It is the argument against cruelty and for politeness, for mutual respect, for helping others. It's why we create things that go beyond merely supporting survival: things that are enjoyable for their own sake: things like delicious food, pretty clothes, expressive music. It is why racism is not ok, why euthanasia is not ok, why abortion is not ok. 

And it is why disparaging oneself is not ok.

For some reason, many Christians believe that speaking negatively of themselves is a virtue. I was raised to believe that. I remember as a child mocking a song which included the lyrics “I’m somebody: I’m created in the image of God, and I’m somebody… I am loved, and I’m his child, I’m important to him.” To my warped sensibilities, this song was the height of arrogance. Who am I to say that I am important?

But God says that I am important. God says I am made in his image, and valuable - so valuable, he sent his Son to redeem me from my feelings of worthlessness. For me to deny this, and to insist on degrading myself by continually referring to myself as a “horrific wretch” - for me to joke that if God really knew what I was going to be like, he would never have saved me - for me to say "oh, I am actually not very good at that" when someone asks me about a real ability that I have been given - for me to do these things is for me to mock my Creator. It is to disagree with his very words, and to focus on myself instead of on what he declares is true.

Three and a half years ago, with these thoughts in mind, I wrote this poem. 

Arrogance?

Arrogance?

To recognize inherent beauty

implanted in a soul

crafted in the image of the Sovereign?

To nod acknowledgement: 

I am

capable

gifted

enabled for a purpose

of glory to my Maker?

Arrogance?

To exude confidence:

I am

treasure

worthwhile

unique

modeled specifically

by a flawless intentional

Hand?

Do I believe

in what 

His Word declares

I am?

Sin-riddled, 

yes, but ransomed. 

Image of God distorted

yet being restored

continually.

If so, 

as such

I dare not bury

Truth 

beneath a guise of lowliness.

To deny is to despise

reality:

He loves me

for the value

He has woven through my soul. 

Acknowledgment of inner beauty - 

Arrogance? 

Or true humility. 

(c) 2011 Janice Brown. All Rights Reserved. 

On Writing - (or, not)

I've been creating poetry for several years now, and I have shared a lot of my pieces with the general public. A few have been published in print, recorded as songs, or both. However, many many more have never managed to climb out of my drafts box and into the completed folder. Of course, there are many factors that contribute to this, but the hugest one is the feeling that finishing a piece isn't worth the effort: someone else has already written on that topic, after all, and why should I expend energy on something that won't be perfect or entirely original, anyways? This line of reasoning forgets that there is value in the creative process, and that writing is as much about examining and organizing my own thoughts as it is about sharing them with others. 

I started this blog as incentive to myself to choose to write more consistently - to make the time to work through the drafts file and make more of my creations share-ready. One month and only one post in, I wrote this short free-verse as an expression of my ongoing internal fight to write. 

(Sidenote: this goes so far beyond just my interaction with my writing. It's about how I think: about how I interact with the world around me. It's about choosing to notice the beauty that is always a part of the ordinary, and recognizing that emotions are worthwhile, even if they seem awfully inconvenient sometimes.)

Pragdealist

Two sides fight inside my soul

A poet, one – the other,

Charming, simple cynic

Rational, restricted realist

Wrestles daily

Dreamer, visions raw and restless

Callous, cryptic, calculated

Strives to strangle

Perceptive, reflexive, empathetic

Entrenched in aspirations of excellence,

Perfectionism, effective,

Quenches senses yearning for expression.

Ninilchik (Spring)

With the recent arrival of spring in my far-north corner of the globe, my infant son and his heavy-duty stroller have been taking to the many narrow, sprawling gravel roads around our house, enjoying the brisk warmish air and the pensive sunshine. As I walk, I can't help but notice the houses we pass. Many are abandoned, and all are in some form of disrepair. Broken down trucks, boats, and all-terrain vehicles clutter the yards. This is a dying town: once a dream destination, the demise of the fishing industry and decline of tourism have left it struggling for survival. People who moved here in pursuit of the elusive "Alaskan dream" have discovered disappointment instead. Goals have tarnished; dreams have dimmed. It's depressing. So I wrote a poem about it. 

I tread the dust of rusty trails

Slow roads

Weave through woods and willows

Spruce and sprigs

And swamps

The cold sun circles, never sets

While wind, wild, tireless

Bites, fights the warmth of rushing blood            

Chills, and stills

Even strongest hearts

There, and here, houses stand

Or sprawl?

Lazy, half-done,

Slouching back into the ground

Unsound, haphazard, drunk

Broken down cars surround,

Crowd each house

And old RVs,

Skeletons of parked dreams,

Clutter lonely yards.

(c) 2015 Janice Kaye