Ok. Don’t laugh. Promise? I’m a male nurse, and I write poetry…

Sometimes, I wonder if my love for hunting and butchering and my other farm pursuits are just to compensate for some of my, well, other pursuits.

And I don’t really share my poetry, because, well, because of the aforementioned nurse-poet combo, and because of the fact that there are several activities that make me feel extra vulnerable. Poetry, dancing, singing… I once flat out refused to join in karaoke at youth group (and I was the youth pastor…). There are probable others, but those are the ones that jump out at me and make me feel uncomfortable.

So, anything remotely artistic or expressive makes me feel really vulnerable. But writing has been part of my life since junior high and has gotten me through some times. And part of what this blog is about (I am realizing) is overcoming the fear of my own voice (I will once again reference my Enneagram number: 9). So, I’m going to start tossing in a poem here and there and we’ll see how it goes. I’m pretty sure I wrote this in one of my university classes, which is where roughly 90% of them happened. It is called, Unbound.



Unbound

So gentle was the breeze that day,
When autumn’s end came round
That the rustling of the long green leaves
Seemed silent from the ground
Yet on the wind was borne a leaf
Whose stem had been unbound
And landed there, ‘midst toil and snare
Upon a dirty mound

Upon a dirty mound it lay
Remaining day and night
And felt the earth and stood its ground
Through rainfall fierce and sunshine bright
And as the storm clouds came and went
The leaf sank out of sight
And lay within that dirty mound
Out of the radiant light

Out of the radiant light it died
In winter’s frozen soil
The hardened nature of the earth
The seed’s life, quickly spoiled
Captured by the dirty mound
its journey now seemed foiled
And as its rays so weakly fell
The sun seemed so disloyal

So brilliant was the sun that day
When winter’s end came ’round
And one small stem could now be seen
As it reached out of the ground
In springtime’s warmth the captive seed
had broken through, unbound
It grew up there, ‘midst toil and snare
Upon that dirty mound

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