Poems
Not Today
I’m Mediocre…and It’s All Right
What if being a world leader is not my goal?
What if a messenger of peace was just words to me?
What if I don’t want to strive father, reach higher, try
harder, accomplish more, work longer, stretching, pushing, grasping?
What if I just need to be me?
What if I desire only to hold my hands to the fire and not
be a flame?
What if?
What if I wake up and I’m me all day long?
And tomorrow too, or eternity through.
What if?
Ohhh…
What if…
My Stripes
My Stripes
My back felt the blades.
I smiled anyway.
My ears heard the cuts.
My ears heard the cuts.
I lifted my chin.
Your sulfuric disdain wafted up my nose.
I closed my eyes and prayed.
Never let them see your pain.
Go ahead.
Make excuses, lay the blame, turn your backs, Sisters.
I’m the same.
Saved, sanctified, and sealed.
You…cease.
In the brilliance of Sacrifice.©PeggyTrotter
Growing
How have I grown without a Mother’s love?
In the breeze, the white pine trees,
Sticky sap, dirty on my hands.
In the crispy leaves and the smell of fire in my nose.
On the rooftop looking out on the corn-stalk stubble.
In the snow, sweating in mighty effort.
In the sunshine, pony nibbling from my hand.
In the green, green pumpkin patch.
In my quiet room rocking, reflecting, needing, searching.
On the porch swing, sunburnt, watching for cars.
On the railroad tracks, looking for a path.
In the fluorescent pool, all new, full of hope and born
again.
In the dorm room, praying, studying hard.
Does it stop? I think not.
I continue to grow in my Father’s hand.
Peace Soak
Shhh, be still in the quiet.
Shhh, be still in the quiet.
Can you hear the peace, soaking your skin?
Shhh, speak not of it. It is fleeting, hard to grab.
Recline. Absorb the healing. Soon war will begin again.
Ever slashing. Taking prisoners, killing hope. Bodies askew.
But for now, Shhh, think not of it.
For this will pass too soon. Shhh.
Shorts
The Fast Lane
the more i get behind the faster i hurry. i cut things from my schedule in a pitiful effort to keep up with all my obligations and afford myself some space and time. i liken it to being on a merry-go-round that i'm not allowed to get off of. and the sadistic carnie running the ride continues to speed up the dizzying ride while i beg to get off NOW! i scream for it to slow to no avail. the colors spin one into another until life dissolves into a blur. even more disheartening, i discover myself becoming anesthetized to the speed, to the confusion. it establishes as status quo. this is the way life is. and while i'm clutching the pole near the colorful carousel horse, mouth eschewed in a permanent silent whinny (echoing my cry?) i feel the anger and bitterness of my current situation. i'm in the fast lane and i want to pull over.
task after task, commitment after commitment, hour falls into another, and i find myself visiting my mother, the narcissist who never hugged, never assured me of unconditional love, never really knew me as a person. where she lives now, hardly any who resides there are aware of the merry-go-round. as a matter of fact, rides don't exist there at all. i walk quickly down the hall, littered with wheelchairs. i don't want to be here for a plethora of reasons, but the most glaring is the loss of my free time on the weekend carousel horse. but these oblivious people are in no hurry, and have no concept of my schedule. when the wheelchairs span the width of the hallway like semi truck driers slowing traffic on the interstate, i'm forced to stop and wait.
they look at me with vacant eyes, no clue of my predicament. i realize i'm in the place i've craved. where the merry-go-round doesn't exist. no dizzying speeds. no blur life whirling past. one precious white ghost of a lady reaches out to me, her eyes in anguish. "help, help," she hollers. another woman looks at my sandaled feet, toenails polished and tells me to put my shoes on.
WELCOME. TO. THE. SLOW. LANE.
i smile and agree i should put on shoes and give a sympathetic glance to the one needing perpetual help. i cut around when a small lane opens. on the bed i find my mother, wet in her own urine, but cheerful nonetheless, which is more than i could ask for. after a quick clean up, we go out for lunch. i contemplate God's way of showing me that everything isn't perfect. life spins too fast, but i'm alive, hold a job, and am terribly blessed. i support my mom under her doughy arm and thankfulness balloons my soul. i can return kindness for evil to a person who must live where she cannot experience the carnival. and though she seldom told me, i wrap my arms around her and tell her i love her and will be back soon.
and with my heart full, i punch in the code that lets me leave the land of no color and breathe in the fresh air outside. i whisper a prayer for my mother and others like her. then i clutch the metal carousel pole to my face and gaze around. the colors are so beautiful. like a kaleidoscope. a dear family member gets on the horse next to mine, and i lean over to stroke his face with love. thank you, God, for a world full of color and speed. and life. ©PeggyTrotter
Shorts
The Fast Lane
the more i get behind the faster i hurry. i cut things from my schedule in a pitiful effort to keep up with all my obligations and afford myself some space and time. i liken it to being on a merry-go-round that i'm not allowed to get off of. and the sadistic carnie running the ride continues to speed up the dizzying ride while i beg to get off NOW! i scream for it to slow to no avail. the colors spin one into another until life dissolves into a blur. even more disheartening, i discover myself becoming anesthetized to the speed, to the confusion. it establishes as status quo. this is the way life is. and while i'm clutching the pole near the colorful carousel horse, mouth eschewed in a permanent silent whinny (echoing my cry?) i feel the anger and bitterness of my current situation. i'm in the fast lane and i want to pull over.
task after task, commitment after commitment, hour falls into another, and i find myself visiting my mother, the narcissist who never hugged, never assured me of unconditional love, never really knew me as a person. where she lives now, hardly any who resides there are aware of the merry-go-round. as a matter of fact, rides don't exist there at all. i walk quickly down the hall, littered with wheelchairs. i don't want to be here for a plethora of reasons, but the most glaring is the loss of my free time on the weekend carousel horse. but these oblivious people are in no hurry, and have no concept of my schedule. when the wheelchairs span the width of the hallway like semi truck driers slowing traffic on the interstate, i'm forced to stop and wait.
they look at me with vacant eyes, no clue of my predicament. i realize i'm in the place i've craved. where the merry-go-round doesn't exist. no dizzying speeds. no blur life whirling past. one precious white ghost of a lady reaches out to me, her eyes in anguish. "help, help," she hollers. another woman looks at my sandaled feet, toenails polished and tells me to put my shoes on.
WELCOME. TO. THE. SLOW. LANE.
i smile and agree i should put on shoes and give a sympathetic glance to the one needing perpetual help. i cut around when a small lane opens. on the bed i find my mother, wet in her own urine, but cheerful nonetheless, which is more than i could ask for. after a quick clean up, we go out for lunch. i contemplate God's way of showing me that everything isn't perfect. life spins too fast, but i'm alive, hold a job, and am terribly blessed. i support my mom under her doughy arm and thankfulness balloons my soul. i can return kindness for evil to a person who must live where she cannot experience the carnival. and though she seldom told me, i wrap my arms around her and tell her i love her and will be back soon.
and with my heart full, i punch in the code that lets me leave the land of no color and breathe in the fresh air outside. i whisper a prayer for my mother and others like her. then i clutch the metal carousel pole to my face and gaze around. the colors are so beautiful. like a kaleidoscope. a dear family member gets on the horse next to mine, and i lean over to stroke his face with love. thank you, God, for a world full of color and speed. and life. ©PeggyTrotter
Well, Mr. Frost, I was wondering about this road business. You see, I've gone a good piece down
the first section, and I must say I have enjoyed the scenery very much! But my neck hurts. And I've discovered why. I keep looking back. This way that I've taken some years ago is quite worn and I know each nook and cranny. At first I stumbled over the smallest rocks, and then I began to find my way quite easily. But as I look around I can see that it's a bit dry. The grass could use a good shower.
Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of something to the left through the trees. I sometimes struggle through the dense foliage to peek at the other path. For some reason, it seems more lush and vibrant. I look long down one way, and then turn my head to gaze in the other direction. It's never enough, though. It always leaves me thirsty for more. A couple of times I've dared to reach my leg in through the fence only to draw it back again knowing I wasn't ready to walk on such a path. Yet, way leads to way, and I'd feared that I couldn't return. Worse than that I feared I wouldn't remember to return.
But wait. I've realized something, Mr. Frost. You were the one who wrote of the roads, yet you were not the one who created them. I think I might have been speaking to you in error. I have thoroughly enjoyed our short conversation, but I believe I must go over your head. Creator God constructed the matter of the roads, the dust, the rocks, the leaves, the trees. I, myself, am made by God from a handful of chemicals. And He made it all from nothing. Just . . .nothing.
He knows my thoughts, my deeds. He can predict my choices, knows my preferences, my dislikes. He knows my every step upon this road. He even knows the number of hairs on my head at any given moment. And He knows my dreams, for He gave them to me. And He IS hope.
And that, Mr. Frost, has made all the difference.
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