Writer's Block

I am complimented by my own brain to realize I have stumbled over writer’s block for the past two months. Surely this must mean that I am a “writer”? Well the truth is, most writers probably don’t take that as a sign that they get a vacation but instead find motivational literary tools to inspire a new thought. At my age, “new” thoughts don’t jump out of my head as often as they used to, but I find myself looking back too often. In doing so today, I decided to look back as far as I had ever copied off any of my poems into Braille, find a few midway to now, and then find a few of the latest ones written. Will it jump start my writer’s block or make it worse, I don’t know. Let’s see what happens.

THANK YOU DEAR GOD, 1957

Today I saw a brand new flower, it’s petals not yet showing.

Round it grew protective leaves with heaven-kissed dew drops glowing.

Today I saw a butterfly with wings of sparkling gold;

I thought of all God’s miracles as I watched them unfold.

Today I heard a lovely song with lyrics that made me pause

And realize that in God’s ways Of life there are no flaws.

Today I held my boyfriend’s hand; and walked though in a trance;

We watched the moon rise over the hill, cause God gave us romance.

God gives us beauty, hope and love as through our lives we trod;

And yet we do not stop each day

To say “Thank you, dear God.”

DREAMS, 1963

When old folks speak of youthful days with memories in their eyes,

What makes their voices light and gay;

What makes their counsel wise?

Is it not dreams they knew when young,

Dreams that lived on and on?

 Dreams much brighter than the days

That grew with every dawn?

Dreams that must have brought with them

Much time, much stress, much work;

The path seemed long but hope went on

And did not let them shirk.

They say in voice unanimous to build and hold young dreams,

For life is like a storybook, And shorter than it seems.

Is this not proof that youthfulness,

So happy, rich and pure

Possesses in its treasure house, the key to life secure.

This key can open doors of steel,

Or strongest medal lest,

Composed of substances that are weak and cannot pass the test.

Pick up this key of youth today

 And make its presence lasting.

Don’t blindly wander through a life of pain

And hopeless grasping.

Let your key be made of love to open up the doors

And live a life your dreams has built that can be only yours.

A PSALM FROM TODAY, April 1978

Nothing touches my thoughts like the presence of your name!

The butterfly whispers your praises with its wings!

The dolphin stands in the footprints you left on the water!

Boulders roll like marbles at the touch of your finger!

I pray to imitate the stars

Whose wills are but to go as you direct.

Life’s galaxies nudge me and my orbit slips;

Yet you lift up fallen stars.

If your miracles shone from the heavens

We would see the diseases you healed,

The people you fed,

And forgiveness… The light of the sun!

FIRST IN LINE

Dedicated to Linda Goodson,

My sweet spiritual School Friend

Written in 1980

Her voice still speaks in my head.

I enjoyed wearing emerald green so she called me Scarlet O.

I called her “Friend.”

“Multiple sclerosis,” she said;

“Please let me tell you.”

“No,” I said … because I knew she was going to die.

She wrote a poem called “Last in line.”

“You remind me of Elizabeth Barrett,”  I told her.

“Then where’s my Robert Browning,” she said.

Surely she knew that boy she was dating was too young and immature for her.

He must know … she’s going to die.

“You won’t let anybody love you,” she said to me …”

But listen to me, there really is God!”

By the time I found him I wanted her to know,

 But she was already there.

HARMONY

By

MYRA DEBRUHL

2001

Early Childhood

Music—A heavenward ladder for me;

I knew Jesus loved me before I was three.

Hank Williams sang about seeing the light;

Mammaw  said that was totally right.

School days

My voice teacher said country people can’t sing;

They bellow and slide and make twangs with their strings.

That I should experience Handle’s Messiah;

My soul did grow wings and flew higher and higher!

Adulthood

Sometimes minor chords played in my spirit;

I turned up the volume so Jesus could hear it.

Transparent overheads now are the rages

And genderized hymns on hers or his pages.

Nearing Sixty

I drop from the ladder and fall to my knees;

I sing with a choir ages one, two and three.

Innocent voices, surely the sweetest;

Like Handle and Hank writing music for Jesus.

LOOKING BACK, 2014

Sometimes you think you know the song by heart;

Then you stop and listen to someone besides yourself singing.

It’s like hearing the words for the first time.

No need to enunciate clearly or breathe at the right spaces; it’s already there,

Like the sound of a forgotten memory.

Sometimes you think the memory is just a re-run from older times.

Then you realize it’s the same song, just different meaning.

You no longer have to try to remember the moments; they are already there,

Like the heart’s metronome timing out the heartbeats.

The last time your heart breaks is not the same as the first.

It’s more like a dream you forgot to open.

The memories are silent words that live there

Singing through the melody of your life.

WHERE DO YOU GO, 2014

When your mind wanders through paths and finds no flowers, where do you go?

When one baby step feels like climbing a tower, where do you go?

How can you pick up the words that you said,

The unkind things that live in your head,

That keep you from peaceful sleep in your bed;

Where do you go.

When every hour is just seconds counting, where do you go?

When the little things to do in one day seem like mountains, where do you go?

And all the words you can’t replace

Are only thoughts to take up space

That cannot find a hiding place,

Where do you go?

Go to a place like a little child where everything was real.

Ask God to come and meet you there, and then believe He will.

Even if your place was sad, He doesn’t mind the rain,

He will stay through all the time until you smile again.

When your mind dances through woods of raindrops, where do you go?

When you reach the summit of towers of rocks,    where do you go?

When people don’t understand who you are,

How did you ever come so far,

You look like an ant but you shine like a star,

Where do you go?

When the colors of flowers light up your life, where do you go?

When the simplest of words play the  song in the night, where do you go?

When people tell you that you are naive,

Just because you do believe

That every day should be  Christmas eve,

Where do you go?

Go to that place like a little child where Jesus shines His light,

Sing a simple song of praise that burns throughout the night.

Be a troubadour of life that all will want to know

How can they be just like you; show them where to go.

Goodness, no funny poems here? I think I just broke through the writer’s block.