What poetry is to me, a subtle yet enriched piece of art in which I can not refuse to write. A rhythmic beat to which everyone can relate. Everyone picks out diffrent meanings, and values, diffrent themes and diffrent morals. I love poetry because it is so diverse. It is one of the only ways I can express my thoughts and emotions. Poetry is a calming, creative piece. Writing it is like bread to butter. My thoughts spill from pencil to paper.

inspired by my heavenly father

Light, this time of year, seems shadowy like the expiring flame of a coal. Forests once again take on that ominous light they retained perpetually during King Arthur’s days. Leaves, as if touched by King Midas, turn red and gold. In solitary walks autumn affects one with a sense of loss and excitement. Falling in ruby showers from the trees, leaves embody more perfectly than anything the charming dreariness of this time of year. Yet seldom does one ask oneself whether leaves feel pain in this parting.

Come on in,
throw in the die,
grab a drink and join
in the throng.
On this wet August night
the living room’s full of light,
and my heart
sings aloud,
I belong.

Come on in,
don’t be afraid.
We’re loud but we just like
to have fun.
This cacophony of sound
means my family’s around,
and in the end
it matters not
who has won.

Today, I took a rather difficult step in my life. I removed the Grand Champions from my closet, and listed them on eBay.

November 20, 2004

Look to the west,
And hear my voice
Upon the crashing waves.
I promise you
I have found peace.
By your grace I have been saved.
Please understand
How hard it was
To leave you on the shore,
And for letting me
Set sail that day
I love you all the more.

No mortal fear
Can harm me here,
No darkness lives behind my eyes.
Free at last
From injury past,
Out of despair and doubt, I rise.

I feel the sun catch the tops of the trees before I see it. Turning, I see through my window the oaks aflame with the last of the dying light. For a moment I am still, dazzled with the flash of gold. Then I rise, abandoning my study without a second thought. In some deep corner of my heart I know I will not be able to live with myself if I don’t go to the hilltop.

This is my life,
this is my world.
The hot summer sun.
the wind’s bitter cold.
The triumphs,
the tears,
the complaints no one hears.
The sweat and the blood,
the sore muscles, the mud.
The children’s smiles,
the weight of their trust.
The circles, the patience,
the praises, the dust.
The first canters,
the thrills,
and the traumatic first spills.
The lame ponies, broken reins,
the glory, the pain.
The long hours, low pay –
and the brilliant red sunset

Wrote this just before the World Series! Go Red Sox!

I think we probably all get these people, whether we know them or meet them somewhere, who just don’t understand the mind-set of homeschooling.
They ask, “Don’t you ever want to go to school?”
And you say, “No.”
And they say, “Well, how can you know—you’ve never gone.” (In my case, anyway, I haven’t.)
Usually, then, I make some inadequate weak excuse, and they sort of win out with their “you can’t know.”
But now, since I’ve always been able to write better than I can speak on the spur-of-the-moment, I say: