Do you remember the times spent in hunger, 

the soul-spots that nothing could fill? 

I made breakfast with my youngest brother;

he laughed when the eggs took a spill. 

Do you remember the era of long nights

that churned out despair like a mill? 

We used the old tales for starlight;

the bright moon was spun on a quill.

But surely you think of the grey times, 

the dark, fruitless days with no sun? 

I recall filling teacups with sunshine, 

my dishpans as battlefields won.

Habakkuk 3:17-19

whose weapons of Defence 

are long, sharp, curling Horns, 

and Common-sense. 

To these he adds a Name

so short and strong, 

that even Hardy Boers pronounce it wrong. 

The Pious people of Pretoria say, 

"Come, let us hunt the - " 

Then no more is heard 

but sounds of Strong Men struggling with a word. 

Meanwhile, the distant Gnu with grateful eyes 

observes his opportunity, and flies.

MORAL: 

Child, if you have a rummy kind of name, 

Remember to be thankful for the same. 

-from Hilaire Belloc's "Cautionary Verses for children and mature adults"

because shampooing carpets is almost as rewarding

as trying to say "gnu." 

I do love my little life. 

 I will be a year older, and wiser, though I daresay not prettier, tomorrow. 

All in a day. 

How do birthdays manage it? 

Annually, too!

At any rate, in keeping with predictable things, here is Chesterton. 'Tisn't the whole poem 

- which I highly recommend - 

-and which isn't that long - 

- but these are my favourite lines.

(And furthermore, because tomorrow is my birthday, I am going to stay up and read  

The Man Who Was Thursday. 

Until it is late. 

Very late, very possibly.

In spite of all the studying I must do tomorrow.) 

These stanzas put me in mind of several dear friends (the whole poem of many others), but Jenny especially. 

Good night.

O go you onward; where you are
Shall honour and laughter be,
Past purpled forest and pearled foam,
God’s winged pavilion free to roam,
Your face, that is a wandering home,
A flying home for me.

Ride through the silent earthquake lands,
Wide as a waste is wide,
Across these days like deserts, when
Pride and a little scratching pen
Have dried and split the hearts of men,
Heart of the heroes, ride.

-from the Dedication of 'The Ballad of the White Horse'

 by G.K. Chesterton (whom did you expect?)

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost---how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wife's tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

there's thunder in the sunset's rays:
bluster, blunder, slate-and-fire,
spinning, giddy, grey-sky days
punctuated by the steeple-spire - 

autumn leaves. 

The Lord is my shepherd,

so why do I feel wanting? 

Why is life so daunting 

if he's by my side? 

The Lord is my shepherd, 

so why is sin still taunting? 

Why is guilt still haunting 

me? God knows I've tried. 

 I've seen the greener pastures;

I've drunk from the calmer waters. 

The problem isn't the color or motion 

it's that I'm always there, where I've

needed these legs broken again and again,

still I forget the comfort of your discipline and 

run from your rod and run from your staff 

with sheepish dismay, though you've loved me through my past,

my future, and

even this indefinite present... 

If the Lord fills my table, 

then why does life feel hollow? 

Is it so hard to swallow 

that faith gives sight, not the sun? 

But my God is good and mercy. 

In hard pursuit he follows. 

Though I flee, sick and shallow, 

there's nothing I could outrun 

(much less eternity)

Now I'm in the greenest pastures, 

drinking from those quiet waters. 

The problem isn't the blades or the molecules, 

it's that I'm still here, 

I'll always be here, where I 

need you to break this heart, again and again,

lest I forget the ways that brokenness mends and 

flee your rod and run from your staff 

with sheepish dismay, though they make beautiful my past,

my future, and

this unyieldable present... 

A leaky cistern is all I can give: 

break it down and make it your sieve. 

Crush the servant who hates to forgive - 

kill me, I'll live, God, kill me; I'll live. 

This broken cistern's all that I give; 

smash this heart and make it your sieve. 

Tear down this will that hates to forgive - 

kill me, I'll live, God; 

slay me or I'll never live. 

Even though I walk through the shadow of death,

even though I walk: not an if but a when. 

Even though I walk through the shadow of death, 

in your house forever: not an if but a when. 

Nota Bene: I am not a technical poet. As in most things, I tend to emote before I know what I'm doing. Ergo, critiques of that specific a nature will probably take me a few weeks to decipher, though I appreciate any input.