Archive for December, 2012

Yesterday I made the startling discovery that only one page of my poetry book remains to be filled.  This is exciting and also sorta disappointing…like when you finish reading a really grand book and then it ends…and you again have to face the reality that those characters you related to so strongly did not exist after all (or my recent discovery of reading a fantastic autobiography of a lovely woman I felt so akin to in the way we think….who ended up committing suicide).  Wow…long rabbit trail.  All that to say…tonight I reviewed my poetry from the last five years, and MAN discovered some killer gems of little Tanya’s angst.

2008: “Hide from the world, wear a clever disguise, don’t look at the rain pouring down from the skies, forget what you walk on, the splintering glass, and hide far away waiting for the storm to pass”

2009: “And now your arms are not the same, an almost unseen danger,

Of someone who I thought I knew, turned out to be a stranger”

2010: “You are callous and dead, and you’re stuck in my head,

Telling me not to trust, but I know that’s unjust”

2011: “So if you fell for her before, don’t even both to ask for a chance with me, unless you’ve changed…because for you I’m much too strange”

2012: “The pain that sweeps over, I wasn’t prepared, like a fish out of water, my lungs fill with air”

Lovely, huh? *please sense heavy sarcasm*  It’s been brilliantly beautiful though to see the hope (or should I say Hope) emerge in my poetry.  He was always in there, but He became the focus more and more as I grew and matured.

So here’s a rare bit of vulnerability.  Enjoy this little bit of scribbles from my book written in September.


Tired of a deconstructing broken mangled mess

Fighting off my anger and the urge to be depressed

Strength is found in weaknesses and every need supplied

but the urge to run still lingers, yes, the urge to run and hide.

The Potter shapes, the Potter molds, the clay cries out in rage

And somehow, thinking I know best, my Master I engage.

How silly all my threats must sound; feeble, emotion bound

my little fist up to the sky, my shrill small shrieks resound.

Unworthy vessel longs to be used for an easier task

And I can’t help the matter but to turn to Him and ask,

“When will this painful shaping end?

When will I be made new?

When will my sanctification be made complete through You?

When will I rest from turmoil?

When will rebuilding start?

Sometimes I think I can’t handle more reshaping of my heart.”

But yet the clay, the vessel, me, I bow my head in shame

I recant all my weakened words and grasp onto Your name.

My Identity, my only Source, my Trust, You understand

So deconstruct, break, shape, remold

My heart is in Your hands.



Sorry if poetry’s not your thing, but as Frost said,

“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”

Serve Him.




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