At Some Point (A poem) This is an old old poem, from 2008.

At Some Point

(May 15, 2008)

Anxious, chaotic thoughts
My fears unexplained by logic or even a specific memory.
I am caught in the tangle of what happened long ago.
This story is about what didn’t happen.

Undetected was your love.
Like a puzzle missing pieces,
a puzzle that can’t
be finished.

Suffering the affliction of neglect.
Anguish is something difficult to define.
It hurts.
It brings toxic thoughts.

Why am I unclear? Do you love me?
Why is it that, continuously, it seems I return,
To anxious, chaotic thoughts.
Confusing, violent, soul-crushing dreams.

Undetected was your love.
Like a puzzle missing pieces,
a puzzle that can’t
be finished.

Again and again, year after year,
no matter how hard I work
Always back to this again,
Do you love me? Why am I unsure?

Boundaries crossed, again and again,
you take me places a child should never go.
And then, you push me away (that’s what it feels like) but it is
More like indifference.

Boundaries crossed, and you share
From your life things I was never meant to know.
Perhaps that is the only way to be your child;
The only open place in your heart.

I must go there, within my own discomfort.
Must I allow you to take me down those twisted paths
That only led to mortification.
Boundaries crossed. I am uneasy.

Distressed.
Nervous.
Unsettled.
Why that’s how I felt growing up!

Undetected was your love.
Like a puzzle missing pieces,
a puzzle that can’t
be finished.

No longer a child, when will I
let you go?
An anxious, chaotic life is no longer for me.
At some point, I must walk away

And find within
what I need to survive.
Acceptance of who I am,
lovable, genuine, predictable.

Moody, insecure, doubtful.
Pulled in two directions,
it is time to Become.
At some point, I must grow up.

Daily, I choose.
I choose the path I will journey down.
Will I walk the path of anxious, chaotic thoughts?
Or will I walk away?

Open Window [a poem]

These are the days I walk with leaden feet.
I am heavy with the memory of you.
And I wonder.  Am I free?
These were your last days in April.
For me, each feels more than twenty-four hours long.
In the cold nights of April I lay awake remembering
losing you.
I hear the car wheels spin and splash in the icy rain.
I am over thinking the past, again.
And again, heavily blanketed by my disgust
and a sadness I cannot explain.
A sadness I do not understand.
We knew you were dying, though you would not acknowledge it.
Your thoughts once sharp, were flat and strange to me.
Your words once so clear and resolute were fading from us.
Your eyes became vacant, as your smile was fleeting and confused.
I knew we were losing you.
We lost you long before the rainy nights of April came. 
But you wouldn’t let us say goodbye.
I woke on Easter morning feeling the weight of memory and the sounds of the night.
I lay as still as I could, not wanting the day to come.
I sensed the rain was gone.
I heard the bird’s joyous song.  The sun appears.
As I lay there thinking, I knew suddenly with the morning
that freedom comes in looking back and then,
in looking forward out the open window.
Freedom comes.
Yes, I am free
as I allow hope and expectation into my heart.
Freedom is found in the cool morning breeze
of resurrection.

———————

If You Had One Talent More [a poem]

in the interview, she said:

If you could buy any one talent what would it be?

She asked guilelessly, unknowingly.

Did she know she was asking me:

What is your prison? What deprives you of freedom? To what fear do you fall prey?

Please, oh please would you take away the endless, maddening worry over words.
The words I love as I endlessly twist and turn

them.  Allowing the words to loll about on my tongue.

I cannot get them out loud.  Not well enough.

And it makes me boil with fury. Powerless because in my brain it is all

so clear. On paper every word concise and even brilliant, a time or two.

But out loud I am a clown.

If I could buy any talent in the world I ask

would you give me the ability to actually say what I think?
The persuasive magic of breaking down walls of misunderstanding?
Of bringing people together toward an idea, a prayer, a prophetic word, an affirmation that needs saying.

Oh the words, the intent, the message in my heart I just want it out.  Out of my head.

In the interview, I spoke of comfort speaking publicly, but it is so much more.

It

comes

down

to the

w o r d s

CrowdingInMyHead.

Please, oh please
take away the endless, maddening worry over w o r d s turning

me into a clown.

My Gospel

c. 1632
Image via Wikipedia

Certain

that I don’t deserve this gift that you gave me.
Though I haven’t e a r n e d  a n y t h i n g.

Knowing

that I am broken.  This heart inside of me is corrupt.

Aware

that my flesh is stronger than my will.

Flawed

I live with a certainty that I will choose the things that dishonor you.

You came to die.
You came to love.

You alone are God.  And I am your beloved child.

Of course

it is no longer about me.  I must ask

How can I die?
Who must I love?

January 17, 2011


“The Christian gospel is that I am so flawed that Jesus had to die for me, yet I am so loved and valued that Jesus was glad to die for me. This leads to deep humility and deep confidence at the same time. It undermines both swaggering and sniveling. I cannot feel superior to anyone, and yet I have nothing to prove to anyone. I do not think more of myself nor less of myself. Instead, I think of myself less.” — Tim Keller, The Reason For God

A Ten and a One

[draft work in progress]

A Ten and a One

It was eleven dollars.  Two lives

Sentenced

To end over a ten and a one.

Two lives.  Life sentences

For their misdemeanor crime.

Do we believe that this has nothing to do with the color of their skin? 

Now, color them

White.  And the story would have been much different.  Pay up

The fine and do your time

In a county jail, perhaps a year,

If you’re White.

But it was

Two Black girls in Mississippi.

And they were poor, but perhaps that doesn’t need to be said.

They were.

Two lives.  Life sentences

For their misdemeanor crime.

Do we believe that this has nothing to do with the color of their skin?

They are freed

From those life sentences.  Yet, the sisters,

Gladys and Jamie

Scott did their time.  Sixteen years

In prison for petty theft.

Since 1994.  Two lifetimes.

Lost.

Over.

Eleven dollars.  The price of a movie

But Justice Was Served!

Or was it?

Charges were suspended, yes they’re free.  Hold on,

There’s one little condition.  Never matter

She was already going to save her sister’s life.

Dignity, they have to take that away too. 

Generosity, stolen

by the glaring limelight of the time.

“I was going to give it to her anyway (even) if I had to give it to her in prison. Didn’t nobody

had to release me, because if they would have let me give it to her when her kidney first failed,

I would have gave it to her without a shadow of a doubt. I love my sister.”

Where is their justice? 

Two lives.  Life sentences

For their misdemeanor crime.

Do we believe that this has nothing to do with the color of their skin?

Good people what was their crime? 

To be poor and black in Mississippi

and steal

A ten and a One?

——————————————————-

Life in Prison: No one, offenders included, expects prison to be a pleasant place. But there is a considerable incongruity between the physical or mental maturity of young prisoners and the kind of experiences and people prison forces them to confront.

The vast majority of youth serving life without parole have had violent experiences in prison. Many child offenders get into fights with other inmates in order to defend themselves from physical violence, including rape.

Human Rights Watch received more than 300 letters from child offenders currently serving life without parole sentences, here are five examples.

I Thirst [a poem]

I THIRST

by M.H. Hanson (originally posted December 7, 2010, updated December 7, 2011)

I do not know where the
words come from. They are like
water that gushes from a spigot.
I don’t question their existence.  Only quickly place the
bucket of my heart underneath praying my confession.

Come.

And as I try to catch  it I Hope that the drops will fall where they should.

In or outside the cup of my heart, dependent on a fate I do not control.

I have a thirst that lives within me, always with me.

And I must live with it every day.  And with my commitment to be authentic.
This is an adventure that began with my cavernous need.
If it is true that God suffers with us in our grief, then I am grateful for the  comfort of his companionship.
Even for this longing, a thirst that lives ever within.

Always thirsty. I don’t question the
Water’s existence.  Only quickly place the
Bucket of my heart underneath praying.

Come.

a crooked road to home (a poem)

a crooked road

by Melody Harrison Hanson
December 31, 2009

Mama, I never thought being an adult child would be so hard.

being an adult child, of an adult who – is – a – child.

Reader. If you’re confused,
welcome.  It is a crooked road, full of twists I cannot define.  I cannot see to the other side.
I cannot look back, because I would slip on the path of unshed tears.

Mama, I get nothing from you.  Nothing for weeks. Before that, nothing

for as long as I can remember.

And I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. I’m trying to figure out what you want?  Do you want anything

[ from me?]

You never reach out.  You never check in.

Should I just assume you’re fine. You don’t want or need anything from me?

Reader. If you’re confused,
welcome.  It is a crooked road, full of twists I cannot define.  I cannot see to the other side.
I cannot look back, because I would slip on the path of unshed tears.

Mama, you can act like I’m not here.

Invisible.

Someone else’s child.

And [I think] I could live with that

if you didn’t act like you DON’T act

like that.  If you didn’t pretend

you are you.

If you didn’t pretent

You are the Mother.

Reader. If you’re confused,
welcome.  It is a crooked road, full of twists I cannot define.  I cannot see to the other side.
I cannot look back, because I would slip on the path of unshed tears.

And why, I think ,can I not be the adult?

Why can’t I make the calls, do the diligent thing? Why,

because I am somehow a little girl

waiting and hoping, for mama to Come Home.

I have a lot of poems about my feelings about parents… You can read them by going here:  https://logicandimagination.wordpress.com/tag/my-poetry/

Mel

Advent Lament: My Endless and Voluminous Need

Some have said Advent is an opportunity to walk into the dark night of the soul, as Nouwen called it. This works for me.  As I sat in church yesterday I felt unsettled and angry.  Stirred by the challenges of my life I felt a heightened awareness of my need — my endless and voluminous need.

For some weeks I have had a growing sense of discomfort.  This happens to me from time to time, though years can pass in between.  It is a strange unwelcome melancholy that affects me emotionally, spiritually, and physically.  In can bring a new level of understanding, a softening, an unfolding of my heart.

But in what I have come to know as predictable, my inner self resists.  I find myself becoming angry, distrusting, and irritated.  I do not know why I respond this way, only that it has come enough times in my life that I recognize it.  It may take me a while, days or weeks to finally see it for what it is, but then as I face it, the unsettling of my soul, I understand why nothing seems right, no one pleases me, and everything is causing a level of increasing frustration.

Especially expectations of Christmas, stated and unspoken.  I am overly aware of money or lack of it, kitsch or classy decorations, who is spending or not, and how special I can make things for my children and family.  This focus on material becomes enormous, crowding out what’s going on inside me.

My every sense is magnified. My heart tells me it is impossible to resolve all the conflict in my heart.

For the first time in a while I responded by writing a lament to God.  Restricted by the scenario at church of time and space, everyone jotting down on a small piece of paper their gratitude, praise or a lament, I resisted at first.  Then, I quickly wrote from my heart:

Tell me what you want me to do.  Speak.

Hearing God speak is one of my greatest places of doubt as a believer.  Oh, God does speak to me and when he does I am always totally blown away by its clarity.  But still I live mostly in the in between riddled with unfaithful doubt.

As a voracious reader, the world of blogging has opened up to me an instantaneous flood of information and I’ve gorged on it of late.  As is my nature, I tend to go to the extremes.  I have found hundreds of insightful people and blogs.  I wish I could read them all daily but my world around me would fall to pieces in disarray if I did.

Early this morning I read a summary of a presentation by the Rev. Dr. Christopher Beeley, professor at Yale Divinity School.  It put into words this cycling of despair, response, growth in a way I have not been able to understand or summarize myself. Don’t you love it when that happens?  Beeley presented:

“a three-step process of faith formation offered by John Newton and developed from a reflection of Newton’s on the parable of the sower. The first step is “Desire.” A person might feel “elation” and “joy” or “relief.” The sense of desire propels one into church with a sudden surge of awareness of God’s grace and love. This first phase is like the Hebrews freed from Egypt, it brings with it a sense of elation. While the sense of desire and God’s love persist they also change with time leading to the second phase.”

“The second phase is “Conflict.” This is the “dark night of the soul” phase where one wrestles with God, with faith,and often faces challenges that were not experienced in the first phase of Desire. If Desire is marked by elation like that of the Hebrew freed from slavery, this phase is marked by a sense of being lost, the Hebrews wandering in the desert for 40 years. This is a time of growing more dependent on God and deepening our trust as we travel through one challenge after another.”

“The second phase leads to the third phase. Newton is careful to spell out that one is not necessarily a better believer or person in one phase or the other, rather one’s sense of dependence on God increases through each phase. To me this phase sounds a bit like what the Buddhists call “Detachment.” This phase is marked by a shift in emotions where one becomes less emotionally engaged in the challenges and more able to view them with some distance, having put one’s trust in God.”

“…These phases, A, B, and C were not linear but perhaps a spiral that repeats over and over through life.” (emphasis mine).  Grace in the Blade by John Newton, three phases beginning on page 171.

As I sit fully within the Conflict stage, naming it helped me immensely.  I can say that my spiritual path has wound around and around in that spiral my entire life.  It wasn’t until I read these thoughts of Newton that I understood what was happening.

Much of my spiritual journey has involved doubt, restlessness and pain.  As I listen to those believer’s whose ‘faith’ seems to be pure saccharine goodness, I’ve felt constantly in revolt!  That has not been my experience!

My spiritual experiences have been marked by questions and confusion as I wrestle with the strange truth of this radical person Jesus and the rest of scripture and reconcile them with real life; Christians whose lives are tinged with hypocrisy, the weakness of my own dark heart, and a life riddled with iniquity.

As I learn to cry out as I did yesterday, I am certain that He will respond.  Advent for me will be a time of listening, and so I wait.  I wait for him to speak and tell me what to do.  I wait for Him to speak.

Addict

Being an addict catches me by surprise.  Today,

seemingly innocent things — a drink, a smoke, a purchase, food, even exercise can become

urgent

need.

In the time that it takes to feel a flash of happiness, sadness or regret;

less than 60 seconds of my life

and I remember,

I am an addict.  How could I have forgotten?

Today I must ask what brought this on?

For tomorrow I must fill the need

with OTHER.

As for yesterday, I can only look back and remember

I am an addict, but I am stronger than my need.

And as for this moment — I know I am an addict;

I am. I was. I always will be, always will be

an addict.

ADDICT written april 9, 2009 by melody harrison hanson

Those that have no background in addiction look at the word ADDICT and the word alcoholic as kind of wicked and weak.  Face it, our culture doesn’t understand.  But if you’ve been there, if you live there, if you love someone who does or has you know exactly what I mean.  And I thank you for understanding.

I am Underground

1/12/09

I guess I’ll make my poetry public again.

12/18, 2008

My poetry has gone underground for a while.  I have said some things, and written some things, that have hurt people I love.  I don’t want to be culpable, but I am.  So it’s put away in a “drawer” for a season.

But here’s one called Hum, by Ann Lauterbach.

The days are beautiful

The days are beautiful.

I know what days are.

The other is weather.

I know what weather is.

The days are beautiful.

Things are incidental.

Someone is weeping.

I weep for the incidental.

The days are beautiful.

Where is tomorrow?

Everyone will weep.

Tomorrow was yesterday.

The days are beautiful.

Tomorrow was yesterday.

Today is weather.

The sound of the weather

Is everyone weeping.

Everyone is incidental.

Everyone weeps.

The tears of today

Will put out tomorrow.

The rain is ashes.

The days are beautiful.

The rain falls down.

The sound is falling.

The sky is a cloud.

The days are beautiful.

The sky is dust.

The weather is yesterday.

The weather is yesterday.

The sound is weeping.

What is this dust?

The weather is nothing.

The days are beautiful.

The towers are yesterday.

The towers are incidental.

What are these ashes?

Here is the hate

That does not travel.

Here is the robe

That smells of the night

Here are the words

Retired to their books

Here are the stones

Loosed from their settings

Here is the bridge

Over the water

Here is the place

Where the sun came up

Here is a season

Dry in the fireplace.

Here are the ashes.

The days are beautiful.

Ann Lauterbach is the author of five collections of poetry: If in Time: Selected Poems 1975-2000 (Penguin, 2001), On a Stair (1997), And for Example (1994), Clamor (1991), Before Recollection (1987), and Many Times, but Then
(1979). She has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation,the Ingram Merrill Foundation, and the John D. and Catherine C.
MacArthur Foundation. Since 1991 she has taught at Bard College, where she is David and Ruth Schwab III Professor of Language and Literature
and co-directs the Writing Division of the M.F.A. program.

Fragmented

It is not good to get in this mood.

I am dangerous.
I hurt others. I hurt myself.
I have no words, a heart full of gravel.
I will retreat,  for now.
I will search out the truth.
I have been called needy. Manipulative.
It is too much to face.
For now I will retreat. Reseal my heart, so that
I cannot hurt or be hurt.
I know this is fragmented truth, but for now
it is all I have.

11-26-2008

Life Long Yearning

dead
Image by M e l o d y via Flickr

The galactic hole in my heart

makes me tired of holding all the pieces together.

Tired of doubting.

Tired of needing.  Wishing.  Hurting.

Crying out in all the ways that speak of your neglect.

All my life, Daddy, learning

that I am incomplete.

So I gorge on all the things that don’t fill.

Wishing for love that never came.

All my life, yearning for the hurt to stop.

That I would not billow in space without

an anchor.

I want more. I need more.

I wish.  I hurt

and long

and cry

for love and finally, I find it at the Cross.

At peace I lay down my life long yearning.

I am home.

updated March 2, 2010

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