Poems About Hidden Things

Poetry is a bit like acting (of which I'm mourning the loss): they're each an indirect way to share the depths of the soul. They are both art forms that feel extremely personal to the giver, but which are vague enough to allow for the safety of mystery. In acting and in poetry, you get me without totally getting me.

With that said, here are the depths of my soul disguised in two poems written this month. Maybe they'll reach across the divide and connect to some deeply personal part of you that is a mystery to me. 

2.10.22

New things
    growing silently, invisibly,
    hidden away in me, 
    even from my own view.

The Maker, making new things,
    weaving true things,
    fresh as dew upon
    the grass hiding this grave,
    the grave of the rotting, sparkly 
    old me that he's buried
    mercifully.

Taking small steps, taking new steps, 
    knowing less, leaning more
    on the giant of a Father
    who crafted stars and 
    black holes and June bugs
    and mountains and
    melodies and silence

    and me.

Who am I?

    Only he knows.
    And he grows me
    from the soil 
    where I'm buried.
    And he stirs up songs
        I can't yet sing
    And he's telling a story
        I can't quite tell—
        not yet.

Because it's his song, this new song
    and it's his plot
    unfolding before my eyes
    as I unfold before his eyes in
    a play untold before our lives
    were found in His.

A new thing,
    a true thing,
    stirring inside me
    like a pot that's at a simmer
    starting somewhere in the inner
    caverns of this soul of mine
    that's still a mystery to me.

Statues topple.
Faces crack.
Idols tumble to the ground,
    displaying what they lack.

I stand on rock.
It holds me upright,
    like a statue that's alive.
    Noble, dignified, but real.
    Singing a song that he's known
        all along.

I hear a note, 
    I follow him.
    Try out my voice,
    though the melody is dim.

I will be quiet with you.
I will enjoy the cocoon.
I will be thankful for your safety,
    for your healing,
    for stability.

But if you want this statue to
    dance, you move me, Lord.

If not, I'll enjoy the peace and 
    the contentment of the "ordinary."

Morning / Mourning

Next step
Board gives
Foot falls
Heart falls.

Arm reaches
Dream recedes
Body falls
Into sadness.

Trust lost
Gaze shifts
Heart questions.
New directions.

Good directions
Something’s found
And still
Something’s lost.

Sad
Sad
Sad
Sad

Mad
Mad
Mad
SAD.

Hidden inside
Underground lake
Lies beneath
Happy layers.

Can’t pretend
All’s okay.
New structure
Crushes old

Crushes me.
Being remade.
It’s good
But surgery

Is hard.