Poems of Notebooks past, poem 5 Tuesday, Jul 7 2009

I wrote this when I was 14, in 8th grade. The title is Porch Swing.

The dogwood blooms have fallen off
Spring flowers passed away
The late sunset signifies
The end to the hot day
While crickets sing
Fireflies dance
And the sunset fades away
Porch swing creaks
And I can almost hear my grandma singing
Amazing Grace
How sweet the sound
In my imagination
Barefoot in the grass
Avoiding the broken glass
Of the abandoned house
Once theirs
And the porch swing creaks
My grandfather speaks
To me
No one else can hear him
And I only see
Those trees
From the porch swing
All that’s left are memories
Where two people used to be
And all that’s left to see
Is an old farmhouse
And a silent swing.

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The Honeymoon (by Rebecca Chasteen) Tuesday, May 26 2009

For today’s prompt, I want you to pick an event; make that event the title of your poem; and then write a poem

The Honeymoon

I wonder if they knew
I wasn’t even old enough
to drink?
Of course not
but that’s another story…
and we emptied
that bottle of Biltmore wine
anyways

I loved
the hundred year old wood of the porch
we rested all our future on
the rockers
watching as the French Broad River
would slowly take the day downstream
we sat with boiled peanut shells
at our feet

I hated the way, one night,
you watched the Braves
while I was sitting there
in new lingerie

But you probably
didn’t appreciate
my ex boyfriend
calling
(even if it was to say
congratulations)

Hiking Chimney Rock,
the open air train,
Biltmore Estate
and that blackened salmon at the little tin-rooftop place…

The look on your face…

But the best thing
was the way
we had that week-
oblivious

River wide and moving,
smooth through mountains and valleys,
always forward,
all the days before us-
ours.

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2009/04/25/AprilPADChallengeDay25.aspx

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It Was (by Rebecca Chasteen) Sunday, May 24 2009

For today’s prompt, I want you to write a travel-related poem.

It Was

It was caravans and walkie talkies
(because who had cellphones?)
It was lugging enough
beach towels, chairs, rafts, coolers, umbrellas, and sunscreen
for 15 people
to spend the whole day
Surfside

It was watching the rain add to the ocean,
lick the salt from our skin.
It was staggering inside for lunch and air condition.
It was covering sunburn
with foundation for a night out,
my first bikini,
and telling boys I was 16
3 years too soon.

It was trail mix and

searching for shells

to add to mom’s collection.

It was, one year
one house for us all
and the words:
Never Again.

It was Garden City Pier and
“Achy Breaky Heart”
moving the feet of family and strangers to
mix to the music on the wooden planks
between the dark water and the dark sky
(we weren’t quite grounded and weren’t quite high),

and the stars
that followed us
from the farm
shone their approval.

It was
the absolute truth
of my childhood and adolescence-
we
were everything
we needed,

we were
laughter,
and sadness,
and comfort;
we were
strength
and stories
and safety…

and “surfing” on a
scratchy red and yellow raft
while our dads held us,
gave us
fruit stripe gum
so we wouldn’t swallow saltwater
when the waves crashed in our faces.

And
in the face of,
in the wake of,
in the mean time,
all the world was taking away
precious things
and throwing us
the weight of mountains,
the dark of caverns

we were loading up,
leaving out at 5am
determined to
enjoy this

this
sandcastle
this 3 slide water park
this
MTV for a week
this
beer on the beach
this
foam at our feet
the moonlight,
these separate nights,
just card games
just balconies
just fish camps
just being…

just hold on
we’re still days from home.

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2009/04/24/AprilPADChallengeDay24.aspx

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Debtor (by Rebecca Chasteen) Sunday, May 24 2009

(1/31 to 5/25 2001)

O My God,
You overwhelm me.
This is more that I’ll ever deserve.
What a heavenly gift!
I could never earn such joy.

You are consistently
the sunlight that
warms and fills me
after savage storms destroy me
and leave me
ransacked,
cold
and incomplete.

I’ve allowed so many
clouds
to devour
your complete essence;
I began to believe in darkness
as reality.
Then there is no happiness,
there is no free-
only chains of pain and yesterdays,
bad dreams and restlessness that won’t go away.

But the darkness lies.
And it’s hidden the truth from these bloodshot eyes.

I’ve come to understand this:
You are my only peace,
true motivation,
chance at beauty,
and inspiration.

And even as I flounder and fall,
vainly cry out and call,
run everywhere but home,
and wonder why I’m so alone,
You never move from me.

Even as I move from myself,
even after I’ve ignored You,
You never refuse to help.

I’m constantly
rediscovering
Your Divinity.
And I’ll gladly be
forever
a debtor.
For I’m full to the top,
And my cup runneth over.

“You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.” Psalm 23:5

This is probably my favorite of the older poems from this time period. It was the completion of a section of a journey; it was the mountain I’d been climbing for so long with so many tears and words and months.

The beginning stanza always makes me uncomfortable, it’s so unabashedly praise-full. It’s no small feat to be in that place. I’m not really a “Praise Jesus!” with her hands in the hair kind of girl. That’s just not my style. But there are times that I am a face toward the sky, palms facing up or resting on my heart, silent tears down my face kind of “O My God” and that’s what this is.

This is resting at the top of that mountain, love and peace and purpose shaking my soul. This is the understanding of “us”, God and me. The love, the relationship. God is still the “sunlight that warms and fills me after savage storms destroy me”. God is still my freedom. God is still my beauty, motivation, inspiration. God is still my perfect parent- covering me, understanding me, guiding, waiting, pulling, forgiving. I say nothing of love here specifically, but this is love: grace, warmth, presence, patience, light; arms that never close. That is my God, as God has always been, and always will be.

It is this love, the acceptance of this love that changes people. Nothing will change you like accepting this kind of love. From there, anything is truly possible. Full to the top with this kind of thing makes a person brave with belief. Makes a person willing to take part in daily miracles because they can now see how many opportunities there are.

And the misconception here, the reason I think so many times we aren’t accepting this love, is because we feel we can’t earn it. But the reason we can’t earn it is not because we don’t deserve it, it’s because it’s not up for the earning. It is there, always, from the beginning. It is there for the taking, as soon as we allow ourselves to take it. The idea that we are not worthy is not of love. It’s not of God. Nothing about God supports that line of thinking. Don’t believe that. Don’t believe anyone, any thing that makes you think you need to be anything other than what you are to have love. Those are lies. And we all know the master of lies. Don’t buy his crap. He’ll sell you anything that will keep you down. Satan is a loser. His darkness is an already defeated lie. Don’t waste time on it. Just take love. Open, free, encompassing, love. Take it. Break and break and break until there’s room for it. And keep breaking if you have to. I know I do.

Everything else will come. Just take love.

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Confessions for Change (by Rebecca Chasteen) Sunday, May 24 2009

(7/29/00)

I rarely give God the time he deserves.
And this week,
as I spent hours a day with Him,
I realized
that I’ve been
running in spiritual circles
for way too long.

I’ve been trying and trying
to do things all by myself.
Acting like I’m strong enough to do it alone,
refusing to ask for help.

And I’ve been angry ’cause no one is changing,
when I can’t even change myself.

My lack of self control
has squelched so much of my potential.
And despite the faith I claim,
fear washes over me like rain.

I’ve seen how the pride
that I’ve used to hide
all my insecurities with
is just another net that’s got me tangled.

I lie to myself more than I do to anyone else,
living in denial of the reality three-fourths of the time.
Trying to pretend that I’m better than I am,
and ignoring situations that I don’t want to deal with.

And the brokenness
that I try so hard to have healed
is a spiritual gift
I’ve been blessed with.

Acknowledging the truth is so hard,
and changing is even harder.

I hate being out of control,
it makes me feel weak,
but when I’m following Christ,
there’s no way else to be.

There is no royal road to anything, but all things in succession.
So I’m gonna drop my nets,
take slow, careful steps
and follow without asking questions.

This was written at camp, following a sermon about dropping our nets, as Jesus asked the disciples to do when they followed him. They dropped their livelihood (fishing) and walked with him. It’s amazing how in 9 years, some of that poem (and sermon) still rings so true for me. The part that strikes me is “And the brokenness I try so hard to have healed is a spiritual gift I’ve been blessed with.” I struggle with that still. I know broken is open and open is where I want to be, but I really do break, so often, not just for me, for others, for everything. Sometimes I cry for the whole entire world, all the sadness and anger and hurt and fear and injustice. Sometimes I just break for my own life. But I know I am better broken, I feel more alive broken than I do when I’m walking around patched up. That’s just not who I am. I am broken, willingly open this way, to all the things that will come through, and all the things that will do to me, and all the things I will do because of this. I am who I am because I’m broken open.

“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” Psalm 51:77

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I’m Still Really Sorry (by Rebecca Chasteen) Saturday, May 23 2009

For today’s prompt, I want you to write a poem of regret.

I’m Still Really Sorry

It is the most lingering
regret:
not a boy,
not a yes
or no-
misplaced,
not a credit card-
overused,
not even
angry words at my father
the day before my wedding,
or overzealous
Jesus-talk
with friend
on the phone one night

No,
it’s that
8 year old
rallying her little
lunch bunch crew
to leave out one girl-
to reject every
effort she made at friendship
that whole year.
And to decide too late
to apologize,
to include,
because Stephanie Odom
had already moved.

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2009/04/23/AprilPADChallengeDay23.aspx

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Haiku (by Rebecca Chasteen) Thursday, May 21 2009

Prompt for the day: write a haiku

Here it is, the world
with certain entirety
in my bed, soft-warm

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2009/04/21/AprilPADChallengeDay21.aspx

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When I Woke (when I lived at home) by Rebecca Chasteen Monday, May 11 2009

For today’s prompt, I want you write a poem about a memory. The memory can be good or bad. The memory can be a blend of several memories. I suppose it could even be a memory that you’re not sure you remember correctly. Take your time finding a good one (or good ones).

When I Woke (when I lived at home)

I remember
beautiful light of the sun
(crystal in the clouds)
through my window

Easy warm
on my bed
on my patchwork quilt
my great grandmother made

I’d lay,
I’d look,
never seeing the dirty sill
or the little squares of the screen

Only
the hills,
the horizon,
the promise
of beauty
that days hold
that light holds

I grew old
and young again
in every day’s span
from that bed
that window

That morning light
breathing sun into my skin
and exhaling it out again…

I keep telling myself:
every ray of bright
is that light
every easy warm
is that sun.

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2009/04/09/AprilPADChallengeDay9.aspx

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Fridays Then, Fridays Now (by Rebecca Chasteen) Sunday, May 10 2009

For today’s prompt, I want you to write a poem about Friday. Do you like Fridays? Despise Fridays? Of course, you can also write about something that happened on a Friday–or write an ode to Fridays. Or, as you know, I’m all for seeing you attack this from an angle I haven’t thought of yet.

Fridays Then, Fridays Now

Fridays were
G movies
with mom and Rachel,
air popped popcorn
with melted butter
soggying up
a few
best pieces
that we would scramble our little hands
to get

Fridays were
sitcoms,
and sleepovers,
too much shock tart candy,
Mad Libs,
and making Ouija boards
out of Lisa Frank desk sets

Fridays were
getting mom to drop me off
at the dollar movies
and pick me up 30 minutes after the movie ended
so I could hang out
flirting, acting grown and cool
(until I crawled into the blue
and wood-paneled station wagon)

Fridays were
football games,
boyfriends,
and scrawling their names
beside ours
with hearts
then inevitably marking them through
to make room for the new

Fridays were
dates
ice cream sundaes
parked cars
a dozen little beginnings,
just as many endings

Fridays were
loud,
blurry,
expensive
indulgences
with friends that
also didn’t go away
for college

One Friday
was the wedding rehearsal

Fridays were
falling asleep (mom-to-be)
watching MTV
while Jason worked 3rd.
Or I would stare into
internet worlds
with an old classmate’s
music page filling the silence
with something I never could manage to hold

Fridays are
G movies
with my husband and Natalie
we do pizza
that leaves soggy marks on paper plates
and has me scrambling
to wipe little hands
before they grab my arm-
or my couch.

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2009/04/10/AprilPADChallengeDay10.aspx

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Communion (some people call it prayer) by Rebecca Chasteen Saturday, May 9 2009

For today’s prompt, I want you to write a poem about either a specific routine or routines in general.

Communion (some people call it prayer)

This is the routine:

head to knees
then
head in hands

heart like sand
through my fingers,
to your feet

it is only you and me
I am letting go
of all the things I keep holding on

of all the thoughts
I know I need
the ones you can offer me

some kind of
transcendent peace
some kind of supernatural free

something that takes me
from broken, to open, to okay
to the rest of the day

This
is the
routine.

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2009/04/08/AprilPADChallengeDay8.aspx

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