haiku//january

In college, my roommate, an incredible poet, decided one January to write one haiku per day in her journal. A haiku is a form of poetry that consists of stanzas of three lines: the first line containing 5 syllables, the second 7, and the third 5. This project resulted in some absolutely beautiful writing and a really special way of documenting the events of her year, and the movement of her heart. My acting professor always said that “great artists steal,” so here I am, stealing her idea. At the beginning of a year where I am actively committing to my writing, I wanted to do that too! (Also, I really just love writing haikus.) I’ll be posting at the start of each month a gathering of the haikus from the past month, with minor edits and simply as they come from my journal. So without further ado, from the notebook, my first installment of haikus.

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one (of revelation 22)

bright morning star, in 
this wild, endless night 
let me hear your song. 

you, God, who promised
healing from your leaves, swing wide
your gates and ask us 

who are thirsty, come, 
dip our filthy hands into 
the glassy river

and rest, assured, whole,
now asleep under your shade,
you, God, holy tree.

the breeze opens those 
gates and we drink the water
of life without price 

two (of john 14)

and if I go, I 
will come again, even as
your questions spill out

how and where and show 
us yourself, even as my
spirit slips inside 

three (for pastor greg)

the feeling when the 
show’s all done and all that’s 
left to do is turn

around and switch off 
the lights. What happens now, what’s 
next? What shall I do?

the question of who-
I-am now that I-am-not 
hovers there, breathing. 

six (epiphany, about the riots)

and into this mess 
You came, with a whisper, with
love undeserving 

seven (one)

the longer I live
the heavier my heart feels
Come Lord Jesus, Come. 

(two)

telling the passing 
of the years by the stamped dates
of the tuning on 

the piano keys
black and white, marching forward
lower and lower 

until the next thing 
to do is close the lid
of your heart, tightly 

and give it away
again, that gift of music 
and time’s haunting song 

eight

never until now 
have I understood what he 
means when he writes of

wicked men, evil 
ones who set traps alongside
your pathway of peace

nine (retirement)

brother next to me 
reading merchant of venice
as if tonight was 

not a wildly 
significant night; childhood
chapter ever closed

with gentleness, grace,
the what-is and could-have-beens
filling the hushed air. 

ten

finality stares
us in the face, while our dear
maker clasps our hand 

whispers come and see, 
you’ll know what is good and right, 
and all in good time 

fifteen

Today I saw a 
photo of a room I so
wanted to be in 

how do I do that, 
one of those glowing women, 
creative, content 

sixteen

friendship is a balm
or a heartbreak; words daggers
or a cup of tea. 

seventeen (to all the boys I’ve loved before, and since)

like the flickering
glow of a candle, like the 
freezing winter rain

like the way your eyes 
sparkle, the memory of
you held in my bones 

eighteen

like soup simmering 
on a warm stove, so my life 
waits, softling bubbling 

nineteen (after Mary Oliver)

and then kristin said, 
“which books did you like in school? 
I bet I can guess.” 

thou god seest me 
by the ordinary well 
in this quiet life 

sometimes I need to 
only stand exactly where 
I am to be blessed. 

twenty-one

i am like a tree, 
dying to, despite the wind,
live in the tension

of rooting down, and 
growing up, ordinary
and wild, all at once 

twenty-two

just once in my life 
I want to speak my mind
and know it’s enough 

just once, sometime, I 
want to say what I mean to 
say, and rest in it. 

twenty-six

the calendar stamped 
with notes of atrocities, 
the screenshots blatant—

incriminating 
evidence of the line stretched
both forward and back 

“eden is open,
opening now,” she sings
how can it, how will

I sing the Lord’s song 
when my people have this blood
on our grace-less hands

father, forgive them—
forgive us, because I have 
to include myself 

O God, forgive but
don’t forget because we’ve got
to change our story. 

thirty (“you ditched the birthday party”)

somehow my little
brother has the courage to 
pursue what he wants

while I, soaking wet,
stand under my umbrella, 
holding my meager

words in my outstretched
hand, trying to figure out
what to do with them