I will not rest in my own strength –
I cannot, for it would break me.
Too frail am I to trust myself –
A faith misplaced it would be.

If my own sword won’t win the land,
God, shall I even lift it?
If providence is from Your hand,
then how may I participate?

How sweet is the light of Your face –
Your love how strange to see
that inside each love I’ve ever craved
it was Yours that called to me.

It was not by their sword that they won the land,
nor did their arm bring them victory;
it was your right hand, your arm,
and the light of your face, for you loved them.”
~ Psalm 44:3

Written December 2014, Emma Dumitra.
Image from parentmap.com


“Many Waters”


On the edge of my universe,
the rim of the glass,
still wet where you drank
of my dreams.

Come out where there are
oceans and many waters
that flow, alive
and waiting
to swallow your tears,
make them beautiful.

I’ll be one of many,
forgotten by my own
in the thrown waters,
sloshing through the earth’s
many veins.

And will I rise with the mists? –
the torn shreds of cotton fog that hold
the secrets of the world? –
that hide the trees and wake the sun,
then fade?

Come out – but I’m still inside the glass,
and I’ll trace the road with
rubbed fingers, bleeding water
because I was made to be here for
just a while longer,
to drain the glass
before I brave the many seas.

Written August 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from http://www.imgkid.com.

[Such Complicated Things the People Are]

Such complicated things the people are,
such silly notions we about them hold;
as if their only value’s found in gold,
as if by an equation we could chart
or map the minds of men on gilded things,
and trap them in a rhyme or on a wall,
as if, if they had roots could not have wings
or had a wealth of wealth and still not all.
Such complicated things the people are;
and we – disseminated by ourselves.
We know so little, yet have gone to far
to leave the sheaves of knowledge on our shelves.
Presumptuous are we. Is it just I
who cedes to myst’ries underneath the sky?

Written March 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from forumbiodiversity.com.

“The Second-Most Beautiful Things in Life”


I played a song today
on an instrument I didn’t know how to
and everything –
the music sheets and piano keys,
the floorboards
and the humming fridge –
gave ear and listened
to me.

It was so quiet
in that space – that sound
was silence as I played,
and the music sheets
were street signs – not canes.

It was there that I decided
that the most beautiful things in life
cannot be made
by words;
cannot be remade or caught
by a thousand eager
novelists and poets chasing
them with eager pens,
though they try.

And so it is that I
can only write
about the second-most beautiful
things in life,
for the very act of writing
or remembering
denotes the song,
dethrones the king,
turns the most into
the second-most thing.

Truly, a writer
advertises life,
so leave this dusty page
and live
with the scribbled sheets
your street signs – not canes.

Walk with abandon
the roads you do not know how to
and everything –
the doubts and questions,
these things you must yet learn
are beautiful things,
and the very floorboards –
will give ear and listen
to that funny tune we know
as life:
the most beautiful thing.

Written August 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from kichiwall.com. 

“The Unpoem”


I am not a poem.
Oh no.
Most certainly not.

Why would I be
a poem – pray –
if I could be
a song?

Why would I be
a poem – tell –
if poems can
go wrong?

I am not a poem.
Oh no.
Most certainly not.

Who likes poems –
pray tell –
save the poet?

I’d much rather be
a paragraph
which scientists discuss.

Or – perchance –
a book of law
(or just a clause
if I must).

But a poem?
Useless jumble
of words.
And all the poets cheat

The one who wrote me –
periodically – takes
a paragraph and breaks
it into
and calls it

I don’t want to be a poem.
They say it’s an art
full of meaning
and rhyme
and syllable counts,
but really?

Look at me.

They say the readers –
and critics – read
the poem over
and over again,
but do they?

They say that the poem
reveals souls
and secrets,
that it somehow
breaches prose.
But does it?

I don’t want to be a poem.
There is no glory
in broken words,
is there?

What can broken words do –
pray tell –
that whole ones cannot?

Pray tell.

Written February 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from www.disabilityartsonline.org.uk.

[Goodbye is in Spring Flowers]

Goodbye is in spring flowers
that say hello.
They nod, haphazard,
their faces aglow.

They sway with the current
of time and of wind,
of the movement in hallways;
their light not rescind.

Their faces and traces
not caught by the air.
Their fragrant motion
so quiet, so fair.

The slow transformation
from spring into summer
bids flowers goodbye,
yet their glow
we remember.

But they bloom
again and again,
and history
recites itself over time
even as we write it,
and often
despite it.

Written Spring 2012, Emma Dumitra.
Image from http://www.discoverdesign.ca.

“Never Was”


…days fade into the shadow of the past,
and there is no one to remember them.

The world spins faster when its people take no time,
no time to pause and exist — in the movement,
lest the movement is all they become…

It is only I sometimes — only in the present,
as if the rest of the fray — never was.

Written January 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image “Spinning Earth” from footage.shutterstock.com.