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).  

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