Posted in Love, Poetry, Writing

The In-Between

On the margin of day
When the sun slides sleepily
Off the page,
I sit awake, hold my pillow,
And sigh.
Where daylight dwindles and
Tree-shadows grow long,
So do my thoughts.
They yawn and stretch and
Thoughts that got lost amidst the
Busy clutter of a long day’s work
Now saunter back,
Sit cross-legged on the couch
Of my mind, and
Settle in with me for my last
Cup of vanilla-caramel decaf.
Thus begins the in-between.
At least for tonight.
But it’s a place that knows me well.
Half-asleep thoughts
Never cease to glaze, like my
Eyes that beg for sleep,
But find none.
It’s always the same thoughts,
Always the same culprits –
And work,
And money,
And kids,
And tomorrow’s Instaquote.
And Happy-Birthday-dear-so-and-so,
And grocery lists,
And one last sip of decaf,
And then –
It always begins and ends with
And one tear slips, unbidden
Down my tired face, and
Then another and another and
Before long it’s 2am and
I’m re-living scenes that
Don’t matter much now,
But mean everything.
Now it’s 2:48am, now 3:11, and
I’m stuck
Sunset and shadow,
Daybreak and heartache,
Tired eyes and my
5:45am alarm, which creeps
Ever closer.
And I stop and address the night:
“Why am I always stuck in this
But no one answers.
Not even me.
And I hesitate for a moment
Before I have a fleeting thought that
I’ll post this tonight
For no one to read and
Tuck myself in and dream.
And tomorrow (or is it today?)
I’ll be so busy
I don’t have time to think of
In between.

Posted in Poetry, Word, Writing

This Poet’s Angst

I don’t have words tonight,
Not adequate words, anyway.

I have cautioned words.
Quiet words.
Words that peek out of my heart,
Look around to make sure no one is reading, then
Tip-toe quickly onto the page.

Words that don’t chassé, rather,
That glide forth, slow,
Measured and unbidden
Like a silent tear that escapes,
Unnoticed by everyone but you
In a moment everyone else is
Overjoyed, yet your mind is
Recalling a tender moment, of
Long ago when you first met
The one who you had no idea
At the time would be so important to you,
But made all the difference.

The one whom, when they first held you
You knew they were the one
Your heart never again wanted
To live without.

And yet here you are,
Living without…

Oh, vile words,
Betrayers of my heart,
Get back to your chores.
Back to your duties of describing
Happier times.

Back before a rainy night and
An old wooden bridge and the
Way my heart carved
Initials into it’s memory.

This is the beauty and the
Weight of a poet’s heart:
To feel all or nothing at all,
And to describe it either way.
To vividly recall
Moments best left in the past.

One day new memories will
Undoubtedly replace the old.
Until then,
This poet’s angst is having loved
And lost and sighs at being solidly in possession of a
Poetic heart that won’t ever forget.

Posted in Poetry

Redemption – A Reverse Poem

No longer
Whole, and
What once was fractured is now
Scattered, but
Love left me
I was picking up the pieces from when
You walked out the door
I thought my life was over when you
Said you loved someone else
I found my life wasn’t over when you left
My life was just beginning.

This is a reverse poem, so now read it backwards, line by line.

Posted in Love, Poetry, waiting, Writing

I’m not the only one thinking this…

Not all words are meant for publication.

Words like these that come at the urging of melatonin and a cup of chamomile tea usually find their way into my journal, but not onto my blog screen.

Maybe these will. Who knows.

Who knows how to navigate this long, strange corridor of a queen bed for one?

What’s the remedy for how to adequately express the words in my head, aloud, when no one will hear them and laugh or sigh or contribute some of their own?

My journal won’t do. It doesn’t speak or express or feel.

Neither the screen.

Nor the silence around me.

What do you do with a giving, unconditional love no one will receive?

How many years should I keep reaching out in the dark, hoping to find a hand to hold, but none is there?

Perhaps these sleep-aid induced ramblings should file themselves away like good soldiers – single-file – left, right, left – back into my mind.

But for all my questions and inquiries, I know for sure that prayers pass through tissue and brain matter, past heart muscle and wall spackle, and reach the ever ready ears and mind and heart of God.

And I know one day I’ll reach my hand out and find one to receive mine. And I know it won’t be long. And I know without a doubt it will have been worth the wait. And I know the waiting will have prepared me for one who is also praying and hoping and reaching out in the dark for the amazing love stored neatly in the storehouses of my heart.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who ever has these thoughts.

I just know I can’t be the only one…

Posted in Poetry, Word, Writing

Love at First Write

I was asked today during a phone interview how long I’ve been writing. I said that I’ve been writing since I was ordering womb-service.

Seriously though, I’ve always loved writing. Before age 10 I would make up skits complete with scripts and perform them with my sister. (James Moorer would have been so proud). I would write poetry and hallmark-worthy cards for people. I have always loved pretty, witty, descriptive, influential words.

When I was 12 I wrote a letter using perfect formal letter format to ask my parents for a raise in allowance. I stated how I’d worked tirelessly and faithfully doing my chores and asked for $0.50 more an hour. I completed it with a perfect closure.

Yes, of course I got the raise.

But mostly I would sit in the bicep of the climbing tree beside the house and describe the birds and the breeze and the salt-scented air that preceded a coming storm.

Shocking, then, that I stopped writing creatively for 5 years recently. I just did. I wrote extensively through my English literature degree and stopped writing when I was working on my Master’s. Ironically my Master’s is in Technical Writing.

Early in 2018 I read a blog by a new friend, and then I ordered and read their book. And something in me just clicked back on. All the years of dormant words sprang back to life in me.

I’m not sure what your thing is. What is it that makes you tick? What throws your best smile on your face? What is it that needs to spring back to life in you?

Writing? Speaking? Acting? Drawing? Mentoring? Dancing?

Please think about this today and put it into action. If we all began to operate in our talents, the world would be a better place.

What is it for you?

For me, it was love at first write.

Posted in Poetry

Beauty. Growth. Enjoyment.

I am buried deep in the darkness of the earth. The ground and all the creatures in it are my home.

Rain water washes in and around and beneath me causing me to spit and choke. I am lonely, bitter, and afraid.

The rain has bloated and swollen me. I feel pain. I feel like I’m bursting out of my skin. I feel the discomfort of being pushed and prodded. I cry and moan and scream out for someone, anyone, to help me. I close my eyes, and wish for death.

And then there is light. I feel growth and birth and warmth. The Gardener applauds my arrival. I am the first. Slowly to be joined by others just like me who have made this long strange journey upward.

I felt at first as if I were moving downward in the earth. I had no sense of direction. I wonder how I found myself in this beautiful place.

Suddenly I have friends all around me laughing and rejoicing that they too have found that they weren’t dying at all – but living.

As if that weren’t enough, I find strength and care and protection from the Gardener who thought enough of me to put me in the ground and water me until I became something of beauty; something to be admired; something that He made just to be enjoyed. It was for His pleasure I was created.

Stretching my hands towards Heaven in praise, I give thanks for this day.

As a child outstretches their hands towards a loving parent, I too, reach for you who love me.

You admire me daily and remind me that I am a beautiful sight to behold. That I am precious and worth the effort it took to plant andwater and wait.
Sometimes you prune me, and it hurts. You cut branches off of me that are killing me, and carefully watch to see that I am not tormented by pests. It pains, it stinks, and it is unpleasant. It is for your pleasure.

I long one day to feel at my base the strong cut that means you are bringing me into your house to be admired: I long to die so that you might be satisfied with my beauty and fullness and fragrance. To be taken up with you into your house forever where I can bring glory and honor to you forever and ever…Amen.

Melissa Fairchild (c) 2006
Excerpt from:

Daybreak In My Soul

Posted in Poetry

Vulnerable. Poetic.

I am a writer. More precisely, I am a poet.

I always have been.

11-year-old me would stay up well past lights-out hiding under a blanket with a flashlight, paper, and pen to write. My friends were all reading Tiger Beat Magazine, the Babysitter’s Club series and anything by Judy Blume. I was reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. I read Psalms and Proverbs. I loved Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge, and my favorite poem (still) – She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.

I even have a whole poetry book I self-published in 2006. It is absolute smut, but the rhyme schemes, the dactyls, the couplets, the iambs, and the enjambments are spot on.

Every rhyme scheme I studied, I tried. Except Haiku. That’s just silly.

But the poetry you see me post nowadays is few and far between. It is far less in volume than what I actually write.

Today I asked myself – why is this?

Why don’t I share?

Here’s why: because writing (especially poetic writing) is me at my most vulnerable. It is raw and an exact picture of what is happening in my heart. I’m afraid if you really saw my heart you might reject me.

I wrote the pieces for my book at the end of a year of death, divorce, and losing everything except my kids. And I mean everything.

The reason the poetry in my book is mostly smut is that I wrote angry and afraid and embarrassed and ashamed and vulnerable.

There’s that word again – vulnerable.

I just got to thinking about this today and about how I hide myself away, but hiding a talent is like hiding my little light under a bushel – NO! I’m gonna let it shine – even if the 3 of you are the only ones who ever read it. I’m tired of pretending and hiding my great big heart.

Posted in Poetry

Night Before Christmas, Texas Style

‘T’were the night a’fore Christmas, when throughout the ranch,
Not an oak tree was stirring, not even a branch;
Our workboots were set by the fireplace with care,
In hopes that Ole Santy Claus soon would appear;
The kiddos were bunked-in all snug in their beds,
While pictures of candy-canes two-stepped in their heads;
This momma was half-asleep with a youngun’ on her lap,
Watching Weatherscan and thinking 65 degrees was a cold-snap,

When out from the driveway there came such a noise,
I put the baby down and jumped up outta my lazy-boy.
Away to the winda I ran in a hurry,
Jerked open the miniblinds to see what was the worry.

The moon on the tops of the dried-leaves below
Let me know this was Texas and there wouldn’t be snow,
When, what to my dumb-fuzzled eyes should appear,
But a red Chevy truck, and eight Longhorns diguised as reindeer,

With a little ole driver, so rowdy and quick,
I knew in a second it was surely St. Nick.
More rapid than the Eagles–his reindeer they came,
And he hooped, and he hollared, and shouted their names:

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now flash away! Flash away! Flash away all!”

As quickly as a cheapskate on Black Friday drives,
And runs to door-busters – soon as she arrives,
So up to the roof-top the Longhorns they flew,
With the truckbed full of toys, and Ole Santy Claus too.

And then, in a twinklin’, I heard on the roof
The dancin’ and prancin’ of each little hoof.
As I pulled in my hand, and was spinnin’ around,
Down the chimney Ole Santy Claus came with a bound.

He was dressed all in denim, from his head to his foot,
And his boots were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bushel of toys he had in a Wal-Mart sack,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were all rosy like a plump Sonic cherry!
His sweet little mouth was drawn up in a grin,
And he had a goatee surrounding his chin;
The end of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And a sign that said “No Smoking” caused him quite some grief;
He had broad shoulders and an unsightly beer-belly,
That shook when he laughed like a jar full of jelly.

He was tall and quite stocky, a peculiar sized elf,
And I smirked when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a grin ear-to-ear,
Soon allowed me to know I had nothin’ to fear;

He was too quiet for my likin’, but went straight to his work,
He filled our Justin workboots; then turned with a smirk,
And brushing the soot off the front of his clothes,
With a tip of his Stetson, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his Chevy, to his boys hollared git-up,
And away they all flew in his red Chevy truck.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

“Night Before Christmas, Texas Style”
Melissa Fairchild (c) 2007 (revised 2018)
You may share, but please give credit.

Posted in Poetry, Word

King David and Stuttering Metrical Dactyls (just read)

I imagine King David,
writing instrument in hand,
scroll on one knee,
writing furiously –
trying to beat the dusk.
This is when poets live –
as the world falls asleep,
poetic minds wake –
Imagery marches down the page.
Poetic hearts beat iambic pentameter,
Thoughts come faster
than hands can write…
da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM
da-DUM da-DUM
Until adjectives lie breathing, exhausted on the page.
Until anxieties fade,
Anger subsides,
And all remaining questions
get asked of God.
It is only then,
When stuttering metrical dactyls
Screech to a comma
That life begins.
Or begins again.
This is where I find King David:
Enjambing justice and right against
Poetic praise.
“When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought me joy…”
“…the Lord has become my fortress, and my God the rock in whom I take refuge.”
Sometimes words bring trouble.
Sometimes they sort it through.
The Psalmist shoulders the gift and the burden.

(Somehow I got all this from reading Psalm 94.)

Posted in Anxiety, Depression, Teenager, Love, Poetry

Oh, Turn Your…

When I was alone or felt I was alone as a child, I couldn’t stand it. The minute the door shut and the lights went out I felt like the walls came alive and a living, retching monster might come forth at any given moment and find in me a tasty snack.

Often when I would find myself in this anxiety-inducing darkness, I would hear something from the living room that eased my fears and allowed me to rest. I would hear music.

You see, as far back as I can remember, my mom has been a pianist at church. I grew up with her practicing hymns on the piano. When she’s not actually playing, my mind still recalls stanzas of God’s promises and choruses reminding me of His goodness, His faithfulness, His love. It lives inside of me.

Age 11 often found me sitting outside, usually nestled in the ample bicep of the Oak tree by the back porch, writing. I was usually writing poetry. Writing has always been my solace. It started as a fortress against the monsters in the walls. Like the music mom played, writing in verse and rhyme is a majestic theme my mind uses to relax and feel safe.

In 2017, when I walked the halls of the hospital where my daughter was receiving therapy for her own anxieties, I found myself alone and in a place where, it seemed, a monster was pacing me; it wanted to find me – panicked, cowering, alone.

Instead, my earbuds provided a conduit for those hymns (and few new ones) to invade my heart and flood me with peace in an otherwise terrifying place.

When the soundtrack of your life is God’s love and faith is your refrain, the darkness and the monsters must flee.

Last week Lauren Daigle came out with a new version of one of the old hymns mom used to play on the piano. It is my favorite. My heart just cannot stop singing it. Now when I hear it, it’s my daughter Stephanie’s voice I hear in my heart – she has the most angelic voice I’ve ever heard.

The song? Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus

I’m not solely writing to tell you where I go to find my solace.

I’m writing to ask you – “Where do you find yours?”
I’m also asking you to reflect on my favorite song.

This world is far too full of darkness and, despite being so connected, entirely too lonely.

Won’t you turn your eyes?