Friendship

What is friendship?

Something confusing,

complicated 

at first sight,

but upon

further inspection

you find

Friendship is simple, yet much more.

What is friendship?

Playing together,

crying 

over bruises together,

But as you grow older

it becomes

more than that,

sweet, kind, 

loving,

Cherishing the other.

What is friendship?

That lovely thing that enables two,

Two to be

in harmony

like siblings knowing

 the other

Helping herself 

to the other's

snacks,

possessions, rooms,

things, accomplishments,

as if it were hers

What is friendship?

That thing when two
will laugh

and chat
for hours

about nothing

never caring,

For they are friends.

What is friendship?

It is love.

-Perfect example of what I said the other day about all my poems being different.

My friend told me to write a poem about friendship because she was appalled by my lack of posting. So here it is. Well, you've already read, I'm presuming.

This is probably my quickest poem ever. I started it less than an hour ago, at 1:55 (posting time wrong). Then at about 2:10 I was startled by having most of it finished. Since then I've just added a few words and the 4th stanza. And separated a few lines. It's amazing the world of difference it makes when you just separate those lines and change/delete some words. As soon as I did the last thing to make it to how you see it now, I though,"Yes! It's done!" I didn't know why, but it was. You can just tell. 

This is good.

I just made myself a goal. 2 poems/week, how that will work out, I'm not sure. And then the random writing assignments.

Thank you, Architect A!

Nativity Poem

Nativity, Nativity, such a sweet word,

Bringing to mind the great joy of Christmas that comes to all the world.

In the weeks leading up to that joyfilled morn,

My family watches candles slowly burn

down, and violet, anticipating,

anticipating that day, 

that day when Christ comes down to us,

in a form as ours.

I remind myself as I wake,

That God sent His only Son to me

Because of His great unending love for me

In the freezing cold,

Where the wise men gave him gold,

(So I have been told,)

And I He shall never forsake.

On that Christmas morn I find myself desiring one gift solely,

That gift of God's Son to me,

In all my sin and loneliness,

Only to have 

him die on a tree

for me, for me!

-Mommy got an email about a Joy to the World! Prayer Contest*- well, contest. The challenge was to create a piece of artwork, essay (not really an essay, but a short paragraph; it was only allowed to be 50-100 words), or poem portraying family traditions, how you felt about Christmas, how you remind yourself of Christmas everyday, etc. I, obviously, wrote a poem. The entries have to be submitted by Friday via mail, so I wrote this yesterday, with some editing/additions earlier today.

At first I was so lost as to what to do. I started wondering,"How on earth did I write "The House" [coming soon] 2 years ago?" Well, I'll tell you how. Sitting in front of the computer for half an hour trying to come up with something. And then the words just start coming to you. Slowly, but they come. Sometimes they're just ideas that get translated to words in several seconds.

Now, I know what you're thinking, I know there isn't really a set meter, line length, or even really regular rhyming. But sometimes, and you can really only understand this if you are a poet (I'm not claiming to be up there with Edgar Allen Poe or something, just someone who writes poetry occasionally), something feels right about whatever it is, like I felt like I should add another 'old' rhyming in the 3rd stanza. It just felt right. And I had an incredible urge to do something about it until I wrote that 6th line. And it's hard to explain, and it might not make sense if you don't write poetry. I realized that while Silly Sally was looking at it and said something about "Change this to this. It'd sound better", and I was offended and she didn't seem to understand that that was the way it was supposed to be. I just realized it's like what Michelangelo said once,"In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me...I only have to hew away the rough walls that imprison it." The poem is already there, and even though I don't "see it", necessarily, when I start, changing something that's supposed to be there is like lopping off the nose of a statue, if that makes any sense.

I guess my point is, all poetry is different. I can see that looking at all the crazily different poems I've written.

*name of contest

P.S. And no, it doesn't have a name. Yet.