“Vacation”

nats

We do ordinary things
in extraordinary places
so that we can come home
and do extraordinary things
in ordinary places.

08/22/16 – Emma Dumitra.
Photo credit: Nat Nahirney.

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“Five Months Later”

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Five months later, and you’re still dead
As if it were still funny, still fresh, still new
Five months later, and the demons have spread
As if I let my guard down, as if it were still true

Five months later, and the well-wishing has stopped
Already, as if your death is passé
Five months later, and the world has gone on
But we’re trapped in the hold of that day

Five months – and the careless things people say
Only multiply: “you’re so lucky, to have a home,
A place to stay” – when home has died
And we saw it ripped from her body with our own eyes

09/29/16 – Emma Dumitra.

“The Cardboard Box”

Cardboard-box-007
I could contain
my entire world
therein.

It’s been
a constant companion
from childhood when

this time machine
propelled
our every game.

And I recall
each move
we made,

each move we
made in life that took
us far and wide

across continents,
from castles
to little grey townhouses,

from gated homes
to a sprawling llama farm.
This I recall…

that my first crib –
a cardboard box – that
all my life

a fascination I have had
with these four sides
of the story –

or five. It is
as much a home
as I have ever had.

Written January 2014, Emma Dumitra.
Image from http://www.theguardian.com.

“Ode to the Longest”

Colours fade from the walls
till I’m a refugee in my own world.
Never gonna be the same;
never gonna be the same.

My fingerprints invisible now
till all I have is nothing at all.
Won’t be coming back again;
won’t be coming back.

Just like that
four years fall off the walls
and end in cardboard boxes,
and end in garbage bags.

This is the ode
to the longest place I ever called home.
This is the ode
to one of many tents
of a wanderer’s wandering soul.
The ode to the past
and the future
and change.

The ode to the constant
that never does fade.
The ode to my sorrows,
the blank walls and boxes,
the ode to the trash full of memories.

This is the ode to my fear
of never finding home.
This is the ode to my hope:
that home, one day, will come.

This is the ode to my memories
and those that are yet to be.
This is the ode to the part of life,
the part of me,
that can’t be held in boxes,
that can’t be held in chains,
that can’t be stopped from hoping
even if my heart breaks again.

This is the ode to tomorrow
which rests inside Your hands.
The ode to the longest place on earth
I ever called home.
And the ode to the home I have yet to find
that I have never known.

Written January 2012, Emma Dumitra.

“By Faith”

(from bible-daily.org)

How to write a poem, one might ask?

“By faith, by faith,”
so trills the lark.

And how to find ways to express the heart?

“By faith, by faith,”
so trills the lark.

“The spider spins her web
by faith to catch a fly.
The lion prowls his home
by faith to feed, not die.”

By faith, by faith – is faith the driving gale?
Do creatures choose to trust or must they bow?
And what of those whom God has blessed with care
to choose between the high road and the low?

“Ah, choice, dear choice,”
the lark whispers to me.

“Dear choice is often friend, yet enemy.
For ’tis the blessèd curse upon mankind;
the wise can guide
and the birds can fly,
yet the gift of choice is not theirs,
nor mine.

The sun’s path is set
and the moon knows its dance.
Every creature feeds on instinct,
but not so mankind.
For the human needs dreams
and choices
and paths to find.
By faith you can seek yours,
or else stay behind.”

By faith, by faith!
What if I lose my way?

“How can you be lost
if you don’t know where you’re going
in the first place?”

By faith, by faith!
What if it is too hard?

“No burden can break you
if your faith rests in God.”

By faith, by faith!
Can you show me the way?

“Can the spider chase the fly?
Can the lion tempt his prey?
No, the spider is patient
and the lion, he waits.

And the bird sings a song
it learned at heaven’s gates.
But the bird is not God
and the wise are not His angels.”

Then the lark’s voice falls to whisper:
“Yet, the people God made His children,
and there’s the mystery.
By faith – that’s all it takes –
you can be a part of future’s history.”

By faith?

The last lone question rises,
trying to defy
all these out-of-control
and headless guises
that every bird does sing
and everything reflects.

And the lark replies:
“By faith!”

Written July 2011, Emma Dumitra.